_Boy._ They durst not speak, But blest themselves, and the strange means that had Made him a Christian in this over-joy, I took my leave, and bad 'em say their prayers, And humor him, lest he turn'd Jew agen. _Lur._ Enough, enough. Who's this? _Enter_ Toby. 'Tis one of my ringers; stand close, my Ladies Coachman. _To._ Buy a mat for a bed, buy a mat; Would I were at rack and manger among my horses; We have divided the Sextons Houshold-stuff among us, one has the rugg, and he's Turn'd Irish, and another has a blanket, and he must beg in't, The sheets serve another for a frock, and with the bed-cord, He may pass for a Porter, nothing but the mat would fall To my share, which with the help of a tune and a hassock Out o'th' Church, may disguise me till I get home; A pox o' bell-ringing by the ear, if any man take me At it agen, let him pull mine to the Pillory: I could wish I had lost mine ears, so I had my cloaths again: The weather wo'not allow this fashion, I do look for an Ague besides. _Lur._ How the raskal shakes! _To._ Here are company: Buy a Mat for a Bed, buy a Mat, A hassock for your feet, or a Piss clean and sweet; Buy a Mat for a Bed, buy a Mat: Ringing I renounce thee, I'll never come to church more. _Lur._ You with a Mat. _Tob._ I am call'd. If any one should offer to buy my Mat, what a case were I in? Oh that I were in my Oat-tub with a horse-loaf, Something to hearten me: I dare not hear 'em; Buy a mat for a bed, buy a mat. _Lur._ He's deaf. _Tob._ I am glad I am: buy a mat for a bed. _Lur._ How the raskal sweats! What a pickle he's in! Every street he goes through will be a new torment. _Tob._ If ever I meet at midnight more a jangling: I am cold, and yet I drop; buy a mat for a bed, buy a mat. _Lur._ He has punishment enough. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Wildbrain. Who's this, my tother youth? he is turn'd Bear. _Wild._ I am halfe afraid of my self: this poor shift I got 'o th' Sexton to convey me handsomly To some harbor, the wench will hardly know me; They'll take me for some Watchman o'th' parish; I ha ne'r a penny left me, that's one comfort; And ringing has begot a monstrous stomach, And that's another mischief: I were best go home, For every thing will scorn me in this habit. Besides, I am so full of these young bell-ringers; If I get in adoors, not the power o'th' countrey, Nor all my Aunts curses shall disembogue me. _Lur._ Bid her come hither presently,--hum, 'tis he. [_Exit. Serv._ _Wild._ I am betraid to one that will eternally laugh at me, Three of these rogues will jeer a horse to death.