_Port._ What should you do, but knock 'em down by[865][866] 30 the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have we[866] some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the[866] women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication[866] is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening[866][867] will beget a thousand; here will be father, godfather,[866] 35 and all together.[866] _Man._ The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a[866] fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by[866] his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now[866] reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the[866][868] 40 line, they need no other penance: that fire-drake did I hit[866] three times on the head, and three times was his nose[866] discharged against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece,[866] to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small[866][869] wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked porringer[866] 45 fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the[866][870] state. I missed the meteor once, and hit that woman, who[866] cried out 'Clubs!' when I might see from far some forty[866][871] truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o'[866][872] the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made[866][873] 50 good my place: at length they came to the broomstaff to[866][874] me; I defied 'em still: when suddenly a file of boys behind[866][874][875] 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of pebbles, that[866][875][876] I was fain to draw mine honour in and let 'em win the[866] work: the devil was amongst 'em, I think, surely.[866] 55 _Port._ These are the youths that thunder at a play-house[866] and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but[866] the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of Limehouse,[866][877][878] their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of[866][879] 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance[866] 60 these three days; besides the running banquet of two[866] beadles that is to come.[866] _Enter_ LORD CHAMBERLAIN. _Cham._ Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here![880] They grow still too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here. Where are these porters,[881] 65 These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows:[882] There's a trim rabble let in: are all these Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening. _Port._ An't please your honour,[883] 70 We are but men; and what so many may do,[884] Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:[885] An army cannot rule 'em.