LITMIR.BIZ

      Hig. Come Princes of the ragged regiment,

      You o' the blood, Prig my most upright Lord,

      And these (what name or title, e're they bear)

      Jarkman, or Patrico, Cranke, or Clapperdudgeon, Frater, or Abram-man;

      I speak to all

      That stand in fair Election for the title

      Of King of Beggars, with the command adjoyning, Higgen, your

      Orator, in this Inter-regnum,

      That whilom was your Dommerer, doth beseech you

      All to stand fair, and put your selves in rank,

      That the first Comer, may at his first view

      Make a free choice, to say up the question.

      Fer. Pr. 'Tis done Lord Higgen.

      Hig. Thanks to Prince Prig, Prince Ferret.

      Fer. Well, pray my Masters all, Ferret be chosen,

      Y'are like to have a mercifull mild Prince of me.

      Prig. A very tyrant, I, an arrant tyrant,

      If e're I come to reign; therefore look to't,

      Except you do provide me hum enough

      And Lour to bouze with: I must have my Capons

      And Turkeys brought me in, with my green Geese,

      And Ducklings i'th' season: fine fat chickens,

      Or if you chance where an eye of tame Phesants

      Or Partridges are kept, see they be mine,

      Or straight I seize on all your priviledge,

      Places, revenues, offices, as forfeit,

      Call in your crutches, wooden legs, false bellyes,

      Forc'd eyes and teeth, with your dead arms; not leave you

      A durty clout to beg with o' your heads,

      Or an old rag with Butter, Frankincense,

      Brimston and Rozen, birdlime, blood, and cream,

      To make you an old sore; not so much soap

      As you may fome with i'th' Falling-sickness;

      The very bag you bear, and the brown dish

      Shall be escheated. All your daintiest Dells too

      I will deflower, and take your dearest Doxyes

      From your warm sides; and then some one cold night

      I'le watch you what old barn you go to roost in,

      And there I'le smother you all i'th' musty hay.

      Hig. This is tyrant-like indeed:

      But what would Ginks Or Clause be here, if either of them should raign?

      Clau. Best ask an Ass, if he were made a Camel,

      What he would be; or a dog, and he were a Lyon.

      Ginks. I care not what you are, Sirs, I shall be

      A Beggar still I am sure, I find my self there.

      Snap. O here a Judge comes.

      Hig. Cry, a Judge, a Judge.

      Gos. What ail you Sirs? what means this outcry?

      Hig. Master,

      A sort of poor souls met: Gods fools, good Master,

      Have had some little variance amongst our selves

      Who should be honestest of us, and which lives

      Uprightest in his calling: Now, 'cause we thought

      We ne're should 'gree on't our selves, because

      Indeed 'tis hard to say: we all dissolv'd, to put it

      To him that should come next, and that's your Master-ship,

      Who, I hope, will 'termine it as your mind serves you,

      Right, and no otherwise we ask it: which?

      Which does your worship think is he? sweet Master

      Look over us all, and tell us; we are seven of us,

      Like to the seven wise Masters, or the Planets.

      Gos. I should judge this the man with the grave beard,

      And if he be not—

      Clau. Bless you, good Master, bless you.

      Gos. I would he were: there's something too amongst you

      To keep you all honest. [Exit.

      Snap. King of Heaven go with you.

      Omn. Now good reward him,

      May he never want it, to comfort still the poor, in a good hour.

      Fer. What is't? see: Snap has got it.

      Snap. A good crown, marry.

      Prig. A crown of gold.

      Fer. For our new King: good luck.

      Ginks. To the common treasury with it; if't be gold,

      Thither it must.

      Prig. Spoke like a Patriot, Ferret—

      King Clause, I bid God save thee first, first, Clause,

      After this golden token of a crown;

      Where's oratour Higgen with his gratuling speech now

      In all our names?

      Fer. Here he is pumping for it.

      Gin. H'has cough'd the second time, 'tis but once more

      And then it comes.

      Fer. So, out with all: expect now—

      Hig. That thou art chosen, venerable Clause,

      Our King and Soveraign; Monarch o'th'Maunders,

      Thus we throw up our Nab-cheats, first for joy,

      And then our filches; last, we clap our fambles,

      Three subject signs, we do it without envy:

      For who is he here did not wish thee chosen,

      Now thou art chosen? ask 'em: all will say so,

      Nay swear't: 'tis for the King, but let that pass.

      When

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