The bloody brother A tragedy. By B.J.F.

Act III. Scene II.

Enter the Guard, 3 or 4 boyes, then the Shreriffe, Cooke, Yeoman of the Cellar, Butler, Pantler to execution.

Guard 1.

COme bring in these fellows, on, away with them.

Guard 2.

Make roome before there, roome for the prisoners••

Boy 1.

Let's run before boyes, we shall have no places else••

Boy 2.

Are these the youths?

Cook

These are the youths you look for, And, pray my honest friends, be not so hasty, There will be nothing done till we come, I assure you.

Boy 3.

Here's a wise hanging, are there no more?

But.

Doe you heare sir? you may come in for your share if you please.

Coo.

My friend, if you be unprovided of a hanging, You look like a good fellow, I can afford you A reasonable peny-worth.

Boy 2.

Afore, afore boyes, here's enough to make us sport.

Yeo.

Pox take you, Doe you call this sport? are these your recreations? Must we be hang'd to make you mirth?

Coo.

Doe you heare sir? You custard pate, we go to't for high treason, An honourable fault: thy foolish father Was hang'd for stealing sheepe.

Boyes

Away, away boyes.

Coo.

Doe you see how that sneaking rogue lookes now? You, chip, Pantler, you peaching rogue, that provided us these necklaces: you poore rogue, you costive rogue you.

Pant.

Pray, pray, fellowes.

Coo.

Pray for thy crusty soule? where's your reward now, Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery? I doe beseech you sir, where are your dollars? Draw with your fellowes, and be hang'd.

Yeo.

He must now. For now he shall be hang'd first, that's his comfort, A place too good for thee, thou meale mouth'd rascall.

Coo.

Hang handsomely for shame, come leave your praying You peaking knave, and die like a good courtier; Die honestly, and like a man; no preaching, With I beseech you take example by me, I liv'd a lewd man, good people; pox ont: Die me as if thou hadst din'd, say grace, and God be with you,

Guard.

Come, will you forward?

Cook.

Good Mr Sheriffe, your leave to, this hasty work Was nere done well: give us so much time as but to sing Our owne Ballads, for weele trust no man, Nor no tune but our owne; twas done in Ale too, And therefore cannot be refus'd in justice. Your penny pot Poets are such pelting theeves, They ever hang men twice; we have it here sir, And so much every merchant of our voyage, Hele make a sweet returne else of his credit.

Yeo.

One fit of our owne mirth and then we are for you.

Gu••r.

Make haste then, dispatch.

Yeo.

There's day enough, sir.

Coo.

Come boyes, sing cheerfully, we shall nere sing yonger•• We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should like well.

The Song

Come, Fortune's a whore, I care not who tell her, Would offer to strangle a page of the Cellar, That should by his oath, to any mans thinking, And place, have had a defence for his drinking; But thus she does still, when she pleases to palter, In stead of his wages, she gives him a halter.

Three merry boyes, and three merry boyes, and three merry boyes are we, As ever did sing in a hempen string, under the gallow-tree.

2

But I that was so lusty, And ever kept my bottles, That neither they were musty, And seldome lesse than pottles, For me to be thus stopt now, With hemp in stead of cork sir, And from the gallows lopt now, Shewes that there is a fork sir, In death, and this the token, Man may be two wayes killed, Or like the bottle, broken, Or like the wine, be spilled.

Three merry boyes, &c

3

Oh yet but look on the master Cook, the glory of the kitchin, In sowing whose fate at so lofty a rate, no Taylor ere had stitching•• For though he makes the man, the Cooke yet makes the dishes; The which no Taylor can, wherein I have my wishes, That I who at so many a feast have pleasde so many tasters, Should now my selfe come to be drest, a dish for you my masters••

Three merry boyes, &c.

Coo.

There's a few coppies for you; now farewell friends: And good Mr Sheriffe, let me not be printed With a brasse pot on my head.

But.

March faire, march faire, afore good Captain Pantler.

4

Pant. Oh man or beast, or you at least, That weare or brow or antler, Prick up your eares, unto the teares Of me poore Paul the Pantler, That thus am clipt because I chipt The cursed crust of Treason With loyall knife: Oh dolefull strife, To hang thus without reason.