_Boy._ 'Twill be very unfit he should die sir, upon no occasion, and in a Comedy too. _Cit._ Take you no care for that Sir boy, is not his part at an end, think you, when he's dead? come away _Ralph_. _Enter_ Ralph, _with a forked arrow through his head_. _Ralph._ When I was mortal, this my costive corps Did lap up Figs and Raisons in the _Strand_, Where sitting I espi'd a lovely Dame, Whose Master wrought with Lingell and with All, And underground he vampied many a Boot, Straight did her love prick forth me, tender sprig: To follow feats of Arms in warlike wise, Through _Waltham_ Desart; where I did perform Many atchievements, and did lay on ground Huge _Barbaroso_, that insulting Giant, And all his Captives soon set at liberty. Then honor prickt me from my native soil, Into _Moldavia_, where I gain'd the love Of _Pompiana_ his beloved Daughter: But yet prov'd constant to the black thumm'd Maid _Susan_, and scorn'd _Pompianaes_ love: Yet liberal I was, and gave her pins, And money for her Fathers Officers, I then returned home, and thrust my self In action, and by all [men] chosen was [Lord of the] _May_, where I did flourish it, With Scarfs and Rings, and Poesie in my hand: Af[t]er this action I preferred was, And chosen City-Captain at _Mile-end_, With Hat and Feather, and with leading staff, And train'd my men, and brought them all off clear Save one man that beraid him with the noise. But all these things I _Ralph_ did undertake, Only for my beloved _Susan's_ sake. Then coming home, and sitting in my shop With Apron blew, Death came unto my stall To cheapen _Aquavitæ_; but e'r I Could take the bottle down, and fill a taste, [Death] caught a pound of Pepper in his hand, And sprinkled all my Face and Body o'r, And in an instant vanished away. _Cit._ 'Tis a pretty fiction i'faith. _Ralph._ Then took I up my Bow and Shaft in hand, And walkt in[to] _Moor-fields_, to cool my self, But there grim cruel death met me again, And shot this forked Arrow through my head, And now I faint, therefore be warn'd by me, My fellows every one, of forked heads. Farewel all you good boys in merry _London_, Ne'r shall we more upon _Shrove-Tuesday_ meet, And pluck down houses of iniquity. My pain increaseth: I shall never more Hold open, whilst another pumps both legs, Nor daub a Sattin Gown with rotten Eggs: Set up a stake, Oh never more I shall, I die, flie, flie my soul to Grocers Hall. oh, oh, oh, _&c._ _Wife._ Well said _Ralph_, do your obeysance to the Gentlemen, and go your ways well said _Ralph_. [_Exit_ Ralph. _Old Mer._ Methinks all we, thus kindly and unexpectedly reconciled, should not part without a Song. _Merch._ A good motion. _Old Mer._ Strike up then.