Internet Shakespeare Editions

Author: Anonymous
Not Peer Reviewed

The History of Sir John Oldcastle (Folio 3, 1664)


2315
Enter Priest and Doll.
Priest. Come Doll, come, be merry wench.
Farewell Kent, we are not for thee.
Be lusty my Lasse, come for Lancashire,
We must nip the Boung for these Crowns.
2320Doll. Why is all the gold spent alerady, that you had
the other day.
Priest. Gone Doll, gone; flown, spent, vanished,
the Devil, drink, and dice, has devoured all.
Doll. You might have left me in Kent till you had
2325been better provided.
Priest. No, Doll, no, Kent's too hot, Doll, Kent's
too hot: the weathercock of Wrotham will crow no lon-
ger, we have pluckt him, he has lost his feathers, I have
prun'd him bare, left him thrice, is moulted, is moulted
2330wench.
Doll. I might have gone to service again, old M. Har-
pool told me he would provide me a Mistris.
Priest. Peace, Doll, peace; come mad wench, I'le
make thee an honest woman, we'll into Lancashire to
2335our friends, the troth is, I'le marry thee, we want but a
little money, and money we will have I warrant thee:
stay, who comes here? some Irish villain me thinks that
has slain a man, and now he is rifling on him, stand close,
Doll, we'll see the end.
2340
Enter the Irishman with his dead Master,
and rifles him.
Irish. Alas poe Master, Sir Rishard Lee, be S. Patrick
is rob and cut thy trote, for de shain, and dy mony, and
dy gold ring, be me truly is love de well, but now dow
2345be kill de, be shitten kanave.
Priest. Stand, sirra, what art thou?
Irish. Be S. Patrick Mester, is poor Irisman, is a
leufter.
Priest. Sirra, sirra, y'are a damn'd rogue, you have
2350kill'd a man here, and rifled him of all that he has:
sbloud you rogue deliver, or I'le not leave you so much as
a hair above your shoulders, you whorson Iris dog.
Robs him.
Irish. We's me S. Patrick, Ise kill my Mester for
2355shain and his ring, and now's be rob of all, me's undo.
Priest. Avant you Rascal, go sirra, be walking: come
Doll, the devil laughs when one thief robs another: come
wench, we'll to S. Albans, and revel in our bower, my
brave girle.
2360Doll. O thou art old Sir John when all's done ifaith.