Henry VIII: Act 5, Scene 4 Translation

Scene 3

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man,
carrying cudgels.

PORTER You’ll leave your noise anon, you rascals! Do
you take the court for Parish Garden? You rude
slaves, leave your gaping!

ONE, (within) Good Master Porter, I belong to th’
larder. 5

PORTER Belong to th’ gallows and be hanged, you rogue!
Is this a place to roar in?—Fetch me a dozen crab-tree
staves, and strong ones. These are but switches
to ’em.—I’ll scratch your heads! You must be seeing
christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, 10
you rude rascals?

PORTER’S MAN
Pray, sir, be patient. ’Tis as much impossible—
Unless we sweep ’em from the door with cannons—
To scatter ’em as ’tis to make ’em sleep
On May Day morning, which will never be. 15
We may as well push against Paul’s as stir ’em.

PORTER How got they in, and be hanged?

PORTER’S MAN
Alas, I know not. How gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot—
You see the poor remainder—could distribute, 20
I made no spare, sir.

PORTER You did nothing, sir.

PORTER’S MAN
I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
To mow ’em down before me; but if I spared any
That had a head to hit, either young or old, 25
He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again—
And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

ONE, (within) Do you hear, Master Porter?

PORTER I shall be with you presently, good master 30
puppy.— Keep the door close, sirrah.

PORTER’S MAN What would you have me do?

PORTER What should you do but knock ’em down by
th’ dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have
we some strange Indian with the great tool come to 35
court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a
fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience,
this one christening will beget a thousand;
here will be father, godfather, and all together.

PORTER’S MAN The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is 40
a fellow somewhat near the door—he should be a
brazier by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of
the dog days now reign in ’s nose. All that stand
about him are under the line; they need no other
penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the 45
head, and three times was his nose discharged
against me. He stands there like a mortar-piece, to
blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small
wit near him that railed upon me till her pinked
porringer fell off her head for kindling such a 50
combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once
and hit that woman, who cried out “Clubs!” when I
might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to
her succor, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where
she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my 55
place. At length they came to th’ broomstaff to me;
I defied ’em still, when suddenly a file of boys behind
’em, loose shot, delivered such a shower of
pibbles that I was fain to draw mine honor in and
let ’em win the work. The devil was amongst ’em, I 60
think, surely.

PORTER These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse
and fight for bitten apples, that no audience
but the tribulation of Tower Hill or the limbs of
Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to 65
endure. I have some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and
there they are like to dance these three days, besides
the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

CHAMBERLAIN
Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still too. From all parts they are coming, 70
As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
These lazy knaves?—You’ve made a fine hand, fellows!
There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these
Your faithful friends o’ th’ suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, 75
When they pass back from the christening!

PORTER An ’t please
your Honor,
We are but men, and what so many may do,
Not being torn a-pieces, we have done. 80
An army cannot rule ’em.

CHAMBERLAIN As I live,
If the King blame me for ’t, I’ll lay you all
By th’ heels, and suddenly, and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect. You’re lazy knaves, 85
And here you lie baiting of bombards, when
You should do service.

Trumpets.

Hark, the trumpets sound!
They’re come already from the christening.
Go break among the press, and find a way out 90
To let the troop pass fairly, or I’ll find
A Marshalsea shall hold you play these two months.

PORTER
Make way there for the Princess!

PORTER’S MAN You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache. 95

PORTER
You i’ th’ camlet, get up o’ th’ rail!
I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.

They exit.