_Ralph._ When I was mortal, this my costive corps Did lap up figs and raisins in the Strand, Where sitting, I espy'd a lovely dame, Whose master wrought with lingel and with awl, And underground he vampéd many a boot. Straight did her love prick forth me, tender sprig, To follow feats of arms in warlike wise, Through Waltham Desert; where I did perform Many achievements, and did lay on ground Huge Barbaroso, that insulting giant, And all his captives soon set at liberty. Then honour prick'd 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-thumbed maid Susan, and scornéd Pompiana's love. Yet liberal I was, and gave her pins, And money for her father's officers. I then returnéd home, and thrust myself In action, and by all men chosen was The Lord of May, where I did flourish it, With scarfs and rings, and posie in my hand. After this action I preferréd 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 clean, Save one man that berayed him with the noise. But all these things I, Ralph, did undertake, Only for my belovéd Susan's sake. Then coming home, and sitting in my shop With apron blue, Death came unto my stall To cheapen aquavitæ, but ere 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'er, And in an instant vanishéd away. _Cit._ 'Tis a pretty fiction, i'faith. _Ralph._ Then took I up my bow and shaft in hand, And walkéd in Moorfields to cool myself, But there grim cruel Death met me again, And shot his forkéd arrow through my head. And now I faint; therefore be warn'd by me, My fellows every one, of forkéd heads. Farewell, all you good boys in merry London, Ne'er shall we more upon Shrove Tuesday meet, And pluck down houses of iniquity. My pain increaseth: I shall never more When clubs are cried be brisk upon my legs, Nor daub a satin gown with rotten eggs. Set up a stake, oh never more I shall; I die! Fly, fly, my soul, to Grocers Hall! Oh, oh, oh, &c. _Wife._ Well said, Ralph, do your obeisance 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. SONG.