BARTHOLOMEW FAIR

A Comedy

Acted in the Year, 1614
By the Lady Elizabeth’s Servants

And then dedicated to King James,
of most Blessed Memory

BY

BEN JONSON

To His Majesty the King.

[Pg 180]

The Stage.

Enter the Stage manager.

Platform. Gentlemen, please be patient; they’re almost here. The one who’s supposed to start the play, Master Littlewit, the proctor, has a new stitch in his black silk stocking; it’ll be fixed before you can count to twenty. He plays one of the characters from the Arches who hangs out at the hospital, and he has a really good part. But to tell you the truth about the whole play—I'm worried the poet or his assistant, Master Brome, will hear me—it’s likely to be a pretty arrogant and bad one, in plain English. When it comes to the Fair, you might as well go to Virginia, given how little there is of Smithfield. He hasn’t captured the characters; he doesn’t know them at all. He hasn’t spent time with the Bartholomew folks, as they say; he doesn’t have any sword-and-buckler men in his Fair; nor does he have a little Davy to collect tolls from the bawds like in my time; nor a Kindheart, in case someone’s teeth start to hurt in his play; nor a juggler with a well-trained ape, to come over the chain for a king of England and back again for the prince, who then just sits there for the pope and the king of Spain. None of these great sights! And he doesn’t have the canvas-cut at night for a hobby-horse man to sneak into his girl neighbor and take his leap there. Nothing! No: if some writer I know had penned this, he would have created such a lively scene in the booths that you would have thought there was an earthquake at the Fair! But these master poets insist on their own ridiculous methods; they won’t take advice. He has (with all due respect) kicked me three or four times around the tiring-house, and I’m thankful for that, but only for trying to include my experience. I’ll let you judge, gentlemen, for just one of my ideas: wouldn’t a grand spectacle on stage have been a good thing, with a woman perched on her head, her backside up, being doused by my witty young masters from the Inns of Court? What do you think of that for a show now? He won’t hear of it! I’m such a fool! I! And yet I performed on stage in Master Tarleton’s time, thank my lucky stars. Oh! If that man had lived to perform at Bartholomew Fair, you would have seen him walk in and be tricked in the cloth-quarter, so finely! And Adams, the rascal, would have jumped and danced around him, spreading his tricks like they cost him nothing! Then a solid watch would have sneaked in on them, taken them away with some mistaken words, as is the custom in stage shows.

Enter the Bookholder with a Scrivener.

Book. Hey! What interesting conversation are you having, huh? Have you met any friends here that you're so comfortable with? What's going on?

[Pg 181]

Stage. Nothing, but the respectful guys on the ground here asked for my opinion.

Book. Your judgment, you scoundrel! For what? Cleaning the stage, or picking up the fallen apples for the bears inside? Get lost, rogue, it’s gotten ridiculous in these shows when someone like you claims to have judgment. [Exit Stage-keeper.]—And yet he might be right about most of this, truly: because the author has written it just for his level, and the standard of judgment here, among his fellow wits.—Gentlemen, [comes forward] not because I lack a prologue, but as a new one, I’ve been sent out to you with a scribe and some articles hurriedly put together between our author and you; if you’d like to hear them, and if they seem reasonable, approve them, and the play will follow right away.—Read, scribe; give me the document.

Scrivener. Agreement between the audience at the Hope on the Bankside in Surrey, on one side; and the author of Bartholomew Fair, on the other side: dated the thirty-first day of October, 1614, during the twelfth year of our sovereign lord JAMES, by the grace of God, king of England, France, and Ireland, defender of the faith; and of Scotland the forty-seventh.

Imprimis. It is agreed by all parties involved, as well as the spectators and listeners, including both the curious and the envious, along with the supportive and insightful, as well as those with sound judgments and understandings, that they will each agree to stay in the seats their money or friends have provided for them, with patience, for about two and a half hours, maybe a bit more. During this time, the author promises to present to them, through us, a new and entertaining play called Bartholomew Fair, full of fun and noise, designed to amuse everyone and offend no one; as long as they have either the wit or the honesty to judge themselves positively.

It is further agreed that everyone here has the freedom to judge, to like or dislike at their own expense, since the author has now given up his rights. It is permissible for anyone to voice their opinion based on what they’ve paid—whether that’s a sixpence, a shilling, eighteen pence, or half a crown—relative to their standing; as long as their standing doesn’t exceed their understanding. And if they pay for half a dozen, they can also critique all of them, as long as they promise that the others will be quiet. They will submit their critiques here like they would for lottery tickets: however, if someone drops only sixpence at the door but wants to critique a value of a crown, it is believed there is neither fairness nor integrity in that.

It is also agreed that everyone here should use their own judgment, and not judge based on others' opinions or appearances, no matter how witty they might seem. They should also be firm in their judgments, so that what they approve or disapprove today, they will do the same tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day, and so on for the next week if necessary. They should not be swayed by anyone sitting with them, even if they criticize and analyze plays daily. Anyone who claims that Jeronimo or Andronicus are the[Pg 182] best plays ever is welcome to do so here, as it shows their judgment is consistent and has remained unchanged for twenty-five or thirty years. Even if it stems from ignorance, it is a respectable and steady ignorance; and next to the truth, a firmly held error still has its merit; the author knows where to find such a person.

It is further agreed that no one here should anticipate more than they know or expect anything better than what's reasonably offered. Instead of a little guy to collect fees from the street vendors, the author promises a flashy horse trader, accompanied by a drunken guy and a couple of others, all decked out as you'd like. For the tooth drawer Kindheart, expect a charming pig woman with her bartender to welcome you, plus a lively group for music. A thoughtful justice of the peace instead of a performer with a monkey. A polite pickpocket on the prowl. A delightful singer of new ballads. And a fresh hypocrite, as bold as ever. If there isn’t a costumed character at the fair or a collection of antiques, he says it can’t be helped. He doesn’t want to scare anyone with his plays, unlike those who create wild stories, storms, and other silly acts. Let the desire for dances and performances run wild among you; still, if the puppets amuse anyone, they will be invited to join in.

Considering this, it’s finally agreed by the aforementioned audience that they will neither hide, nor allow to be hidden, anyone who tries to interpret the outrageous and ridiculous scenes, such as figuring out who represents the gingerbread woman, the hobby horse man, or the costard-monger, or even who their products symbolize. No one should claim, based on their own misguided understanding, what Mirror of Magistrates represents by the justice, what great lady by the pig woman, or what hidden politician by the seller of mouse traps, and so on. Anyone caught doing this will be left exposed to the author’s mercy, as a penalty to the stage and for your amusement. Also, those who foolishly or ambitiously try to challenge the author for being crude, just because the language might remind someone of Smithfield, the market, or because a madman shouts, God quit you, or bless you! In witness of this, since you have already foolishly put your money on the line, you will now add your support with your hands. The play will begin shortly. And even though the Fair isn’t held in the location that some of you might prefer, remember that the author has maintained a certain appropriateness, as the place is just as dirty as Smithfield and just as smelly.

However, he asks you to believe that his goods are still the same; otherwise, you'll make him justly suspect that someone who is so reluctant to look at a baby or a hobby horse here would be eager to pick up those items at any laughter or loss elsewhere.

[Exit.]

[Pg 183]

SCENE I.—A Room in LITTLEWIT’S House.

Enter LLITTLEWIT with a license in his hand.

Lit. What a clever idea, and it's worth discovering! I’m lucky to keep creating these great things, almost like a silk worm spinning from inside myself. Here’s Master Bartholomew Cokes, from Harrow on the Hill in Middlesex, getting his license to marry Miss Grace Wellborn, also from that place and county: and when is he doing this? Today! The twenty-fourth of August! Bartholomew’s Day! Bartholomew on Bartholomew! That’s the twist! Who would have expected such a random stroke of luck? Just a little less than a roll of double ones! Well, off you go, John Littlewit, Proctor John Littlewit: one of the clever minds of Paul’s, the Littlewit of London, that’s what you’re known as, along with a few other things. When a clever remark or a pun slips past you, and you don’t catch it and bring it before the constable of cleverness (there, I’m punning too), let them haul you out of the archdeacon’s court and turn you into a Jack instead of a John. There I go again, ha!

Enter Mrs. Littlewit.

Win, good morning, Win; yes, really, Win, you look amazing right now, Win! This cap is impressive! You wouldn’t have worn it, Win, or had it made of velvet, but a rough country beaver with a copper band, like the fur woman from Budge-row; sweet Win, let me kiss it! And your beautiful high shoes, like a Spanish lady! Good Win, take a few steps, I’d love to see you walk, pretty Win; with this beautiful cap, I could kiss it forever.

Ms. Lit. Come on, really? You're still such a fool!

Lit. No, but half of one, Win; you're the other half: a man and wife make one fool, Win. Good! Is there a proctor or a doctor in the diocese who has ever been lucky enough to win a Win like you? There I go again! I can feel ideas bubbling up inside me, more than I can put into words. Curse these wannabe wits! Your Three Cranes, Mitre, and Mermaid guys! Not a speck of genuine talent, not a bit of real skill among them. They might run for positions or something during the next wit competition and pay two pence more per quart for their canary than anyone else. But give me the person who can spark a burst of wit from six shillings' worth of beer and could school all the poets and poetry pretenders in town: because they’re the gossip of the players! Damn! Other men have wives just as lovely as the players, and just as well dressed. Come here, Win!

Kisses her.

Join WINWIFE.

Win. Hey there, Master Littlewit! Are you measuring lips or shaping kisses? Which one is it?

[Pg 184]

Fire. Honestly, I'm really impressed with how Win looks in that outfit: doesn’t it look great, Master Winwife? What do you think, sir? She wouldn’t have worn this outfit if it wasn’t special. I dare anyone from Cheapside to show off something as nice as this: Moorfields, Pimlico path, or the Exchange on a summer evening, complete with lace, like this one. Sweet Win, let Master Winwife kiss you. He’s here to court our mother, Win, and may even end up being our father, Win. There’s nothing wrong with him, Win.

None on Earth, Master Littlewit.

Kisses her.

Lit. I don't envy any man my nice things, sir.

Win. Sadly, you still have the garden where they grow! A wife here with the sweet scent of strawberries, cherry-red lips, soft apricot-colored cheeks, and a smooth, velvety head, like a ripe peach.

Fire. Good, for real! How stupid of me that I didn’t realize that before him; I should have figured it out just like he did! What a fool!

Win. But my preferences, Master Littlewit, lean more towards something a bit more refined; like the serious matron, your mother-in-law.

Lit. Yes, we know you’re interested, sir; both Win and I wish you the best. With this permission here, I wish you had her, so your two names could be as linked as this pair! Win would love to have a great young father-in-law with a fancy title, so her mother could show it off alongside Mistress Overdo. But you're not going about it the right way, Master Winwife.

Winw. No, Master Littlewit, why not?

Lit. You're not crazy enough.

Win. What! Is going mad the right way to go?

Lit. I don’t say anything, but I wink at Win. You have a friend, a guy named Quarlous, who comes here sometimes.

Win. So, he's not interested in her, right?

Fire. Not a single token that I've ever seen, I promise you: but—

Winw. What’s up?

Fire. He is the crazier of the two. You don't understand me.

Mrs. Literature. You have a hot coal in your mouth right now, and you can't hold it.

Lit. Just tell me, babe.

Mrs. Lit. I'll tell him myself.

Lit. Go ahead, take all the thanks, and may your beautiful heart be blessed, Win.

Ms. Lit. Sir, my mother recently had her birth chart read by the fortune tellers in Cow-lane, and they've predicted her future. They assured her she won't have a happy moment unless she marries within this week; and when she does, they say it has to be to a madman.

Literally. Yeah, but he has to be a gentleman who’s crazy.

Ms. Lit. Yeah, that's what the other guy from Moorfields says.

Winw. But does she trust them?

Lit. Yes, and has been to Bedlam twice every day since, to ask if any gentlemen are there, or to see if he goes mad.

[Pg 185]

Win. This is a conspiracy, just a trick played on her by these frauds.

Fire. I tell her that, or else I say they might mean some young wild guy; because the devil can twist words just as well as a shopkeeper: so I would suggest you act a bit crazier than Master Quarlous from now on.

Winw. Is she stirring yet?

Fire. Exciting! Yes, and listening to an old guy from Banbury, a suitor who shows up here at mealtime to praise the hardworking brethren or pray for the return of the sweet singers; he says a grace as long as he can hold his breath! Sometimes the spirit is so strong in him that it completely takes over, and then my mother or Win has to bring him back with some malmsey or celestial water.

Mrs. Literature. Yes, definitely, we have such a boring time with him because of his diet, and his clothes as well! He breaks his buttons and rips seams with everything he says.

Fire. He can't stand my job, he says.

Ms. Lit. No; he told my mom that a proctor was a paw of the beast, and that she had barely avoided committing a sin by marrying me like she did.

Bet. He claims that every line a proctor writes, when it's read in the bishop's court, is like a long black hair, combed out of the tail of Antichrist.

Winw. When did this proselyte arrive?

Lit. About three days ago.

Enter QUARLOUS.

Dispute. Oh sir, have you taken root here? It's surprising a man can find you after running for three hours! What a ruthless companion you are, to leave your place at such ungentlemanly hours! Only a bunch of wandering musicians, a scavenger in trash heaps, or maybe a bone collector would have been up when you went out, by all accounts. Please, what’s wrong with you? Can't you sleep? Do you have thorns in your eyelids, or thistles in your bed?

Win. I can't say for sure: it looks like you didn't have either in your feet, that took this pain to find me.

Argument. No, if I had, all the hounds in the city would have chased you by the scent instead. Master John Littlewit! Good to see you, sir. It was a hot night for some of us last night, John: should we indulge in a little of the same mischief today, Proctor John?

Lit. Do you remember, Master Quarlous, what we talked about last night?

Quarantine. Not me, John, nothing that I say or do; during those times I lose everything to forgetfulness.

Lit. No! not about Win? Look, there she is, dressed just like I said she would be: hey, sir, [whispers to him.] did you forget?

Quarantine. With this in mind, I’ll think twice about hanging out with you, John,[Pg 186] when I’m drunk, considering you have this risky memory: that much is clear.

Lit. Why, dude?

Quar. Wow! We were all a bit tipsy last night, doused with a drink or two, and I agreed with Proctor John here to come and do something with Win (I’m not sure what it was) today; and he just reminded me about it now, saying he was coming to get me. Honestly, if you have that scary ability, John, to remember when you’re sober what you promised when you were drunk, John; I’ll have to watch you, John. For this time, I’m okay with overlooking it. Where’s your wife? Come here, Win.

Kisses her.

Ms. Lit. Hey, John! Do you see this, John? Look! Help me, John.

Fire. Oh Win, come on, what do you mean, Win? Be a good woman, Win; speak up to your mother, Win! Master Quarlous is a decent guy and a good friend of ours, Win; and he’s also a friend of Master Winwife: and Master Winwife is asking for your mother’s hand, Win; as I mentioned before, Win, and he might even become our father, Win: they won’t harm you, Win; they’re both our good friends. Master Quarlous! You need to get to know Master Quarlous, Win; you shouldn’t get into a fight with Master Quarlous, Win.

Quar. No, we’ll kiss again and dive in.

Kisses her again.

Lit. Yes, go ahead, good Win.

Ms. Lit. Honestly, you’re such a fool, John.

Lit. She calls me a fool, John; did you catch that, gentlemen? Pretty Littlewit in velvet? A fool.

Quar. She might call you a loser if you use this. [Aside.

Kisses her again.

Win. Please hold back a bit, out of respect for me.

Quar. Wow! How suddenly you’ve become so respectable? I worry this family will change you for the better too; please come around again. Because she could be your daughter-in-law and might ask for your blessing later when she goes to Tottenham for cream! Well, I’ll hold back, sir; but honestly, I wish you would stop this widow-hunting for once; chasing after some old reverend lady with a splay foot! There’s not an old relic in town that you’re not sniffing around, and it’s quite a nice little hobby you’re choosing, especially when you actually catch one; cleaning up an old gown as if you had a lifetime lease on a stinky alley; or worse, grooming a corpse that you’ve bound yourself to while she’s still alive. I swear, some of the women you’re after, or have pursued, are so old that there’s no pure pleasure in being with them anymore; the honest tool of reproduction hasn’t belonged to them in forty years; you’ll need to visit them like you would a tomb, with a torch or three flaming torches, and maybe you’ll make them feel your presence and later inherit something according to your size. What a sweet way for a man to waste his life, still raking in a fortune from an old woman’s ashes! We’ll see you, [Pg 187], after you’ve been married to one of them for just a month, looking like a mix of recurring fever and jaundice, walking as if you borrowed legs from a spinner, and your voice sounding like a cricket. I’d gladly listen to fifteen sermons a week for her, and coarse, loud ones at that! I’d rather live in a drum and eat with an old broken tobacco pipe and a straw. Do you ever think you can handle the patience of a long, dry grace, as long as your tablecloth, droned out by your son here (who could be your father) until all the food on your table has forgotten it was cooked that day? Or endure the noise from a debate on predestination, led by the good workers gathered around, prompted by your matron spouse; who takes breaks with a glass of wine now and then, and quotes Knox in between? Or the endless spitting before and after a six-hour bore of a sermon, where the best part was the hum-ha-hum? Or to hear prayers groaned out over your iron chests, as if they were spells to break them? And all this for the hope of two apostle spoons to endure! And a cup to drink a caudle in! Because that’s going to be your legacy. She’ll have made sure to secure her possessions from you, if she’s a true widow.

Win. Unfortunately, I've completely lost track of that.

Quar. How come?

Win. Discouraged by a brother from Banbury, someone who, they say, has arrived here and is already in control.

Quarantine. What do you call him? I knew several of those Banburians when I was at Oxford.

Winw. Master Littlewit knows.

Lit. Sir!—Good Win, go ahead and if Master Bartholomew Cokes, his servant, comes for the license (that little old guy), let him talk to me. [Exit Mrs. Littlewit.]—What do you think, gentlemen?

Win. What do you call the respected elder you mentioned, your Banbury guy?

Fire. Rabbi Busy, sir; he's not just an elder, he’s a prophet, sir.

Quar. Oh, I know him! He's a baker, right?

Lit. He used to be a baker, sir, but now he dreams and sees visions; he has left his trade behind.

Argument. I remember that too; out of a sense of moral duty, he believed that the cakes he made were served at weddings, maypole dances, morris dances, and other secular celebrations. His first name is Zeal-of-the-land.

Lit. Yes, sir; Zeal-of-the-land Busy.

Winw. Wow! What a name!

Fire. Oh, they all have those kinds of names, sir; he was a witness for Win here,—they won’t be called godfathers—and named her Win-the-fight: you thought her name was Winnifred, didn’t you?

I totally did.

Lit. He would have considered himself a total outcast if it had.

[Pg 188]

Quar. Yes, there was a woman in blue starch with that name at the same time. She's a classic hypocritical pest; I know her well. She prioritizes her image over her beliefs constantly: always stirring up trouble and criticizing others for being vain; she has a completely irrational conscience and is overly dramatic in everything she does. She ruined a grocer here in Newgate-market who trusted her with currants, just as zealous as she is, but that’s beside the point. By her profession, she'll always act like she's innocent and naive; she mocks all tradition and rejects any knowledge that doesn't come from divine inspiration. Whatever wisdom she should have gained over the years, she loses completely due to her original ignorance: stay away from her because she is exceptionally arrogant and unyieldingly dull, I assure you. —Who is this?

Re-enter Mrs. LITTLEWIT with WASPE.

Wasp. Excuse me, gentlemen, I wholeheartedly wish you all the best; and may God grant you a good morning!—Master Littlewit, I'm here for you: is this license ready?

Lit. Here it is for you in my hand, Master Humphrey.

Waspe. That’s fine: seriously, don’t open or read it to me, it’s pointless, you know. I’m no clerk; I refuse to depend on my book for salvation, honestly, I’d rather hang first. Just fold it up based on your word and give it to me. What do you want for it?

Fire. We'll talk about that later, Master Humphrey.

Wasp. Now, or never, good master Proctor; I’m not in the mood for any delays, I assure you.

Fire. Sweet Win, ask Solomon to send me the little black box in my study.

Waspe. Yes, hurry up, good lady, please; because I have eggs cooking on the spit and something heating in the fire. [Exit Mrs. Littlewit.]—Tell me what you need, good Mr. Littlewit.

Fire. Well, you know the cost, Master Numps.

Wasp. I get it! I know nothing, right? What do you want me to say about knowing? Right now, I'm in a rush, sir, I don’t know, and I won't know, and I refuse to know, but now that I think about it, I will and do know just as well as anyone else; you need a mark for your item here and eight pence for the box; I could have saved two pence if I had brought it myself; but here’s fourteen shillings for you. Good Lord, how long is your little wife taking? I pray God, Solomon, your clerk, isn’t looking in the wrong box, master proctor.

Fire. Seriously! No way, I’m sure Solomon is smarter than that, sir.

Wasp. Ugh, seriously, master Littlewit, this is terrible, lazy, silly, and disgusting, and I truly mean it; I don’t like it.

Walks to the side.

Win. Do you hear! Jack Littlewit, what do you think this guy's deal is, that he's causing such a commotion?

Argument. More than just buying gingerbread in the cloister here, which we allow him, or a fancy pouch at the fair?

[Pg 189]

Lit. Master Quarlous, don’t get it wrong; he’s his master’s right hand, I assure you.

Quarantine. What! Does he really put on his boots or his socks in the morning?

Lit. Sir, if you want to make fun of him, do it gently and look the other way; because if he catches you mocking him even once, he'll go off on you right away. He's a really cranky old guy, and his name is Waspe too.

Brawl. Pretty insect! Make a lot of him.

Wasps. A curse on this box, and the pox too, on the one who made it, the one who went for it, and everyone who should have searched for it, sent it, or brought it! Do you see, sir?

Lit. No, good master Waspe.

Wasp. Hey, Master Hornet, shut your mouth. Don’t I know you? Your dad was a pharmacist who sold enemas more than he actually gave them, that’s for sure; and watch out, I might have something to say about your little wife too—here she comes—

Re-enter Mrs. LITTLEWIT, with the box.

It'll make her furious, no matter how classy she is, with all that fancy custard on her head, sir.

Lit. Oh, be polite, Master Numps.

Wasp. Well, if I decide not to be polite, what then? Who’s going to force me, you?

Lit. Here’s the box now.

Waspe. What a pain your box is, here we are again! Let your little wife stay in it if she wants. Look, I want you to understand, and these gentlemen too, if they care—

Winw. With all our hearts, sir.

Wasp. I have something to address, gentlemen.

Lit. They understand, sir.

Wasps. Excuse me, sir, neither they nor you can understand me yet. You're an idiot.—I have a young master who is currently figuring things out; all his well-being is now my responsibility. His silly teachers have just dragged him around the county begging for puddings and cake-bread from his tenants, and they’ve almost ruined him. He hasn’t learned anything except to sing silly songs and repeat Rattle bladder, rattle! and O Madge! I can't let him walk alone for fear he’ll pick up terrible tunes that he'll sing at dinner and during sermons! If he runs into a carman in the street and I don’t keep him from talking to him, he’ll whistle his tunes all night in his sleep! He's got a head full of nonsense! I’m now in a bit of a bind, having to leave him in the care of a woman for a short while: it’s true she’s a justice of the peace and his wife and a well-bred lady, and his natural sister; but who knows what might happen under a woman's supervision, that’s the worry. Gentlemen, you don’t know him; he’s not at all what you expect: just nineteen years old, and already he’s taller than either of you by a head, God bless him!

[Pg 190]

Quar. Well, I think this is a great guy.

Win. I think he’s made his master sound more impressive with this description.

Quar. Honestly, it’s really a toss-up, whether for a new penny.

Waspe. I’ll tell you, guys—

Lit. Would you like to drink, Master Waspe?

Wasp. Why, I haven't talked for so long just to be boring, sir. You don’t see any dust or cobwebs coming out of my mouth, do you? You want me to leave, don't you?

Literally. No, but you were in a hurry just now, master Numps.

Wasp. What do I care? I still am what I am, and I’m going to stay that way; focus on your own business, your win there, she seems as clueless as her husband: I have other people to chat with.

Lit. She's definitely my match, and just as little wit as I am, good!

Wasp. We've only been in town for a day and a half, gentlemen, it’s true; and yesterday afternoon we walked around London to show the city to the woman he’s going to marry, Mistress Grace. But before I endure another half day with him, I’d rather be dragged with a good cat through the big pond at home, just like his uncle Hodge was. We couldn’t get away from that wild creature all day; he would loudly name every sign as we passed by. And whenever he spotted a parrot or a monkey, he was glued to the spot, surrounded by all those little kids, boys and girls; there was no getting him away! I thought he was going to go mad over the black kid in Bucklersbury who smokes the roguish tobacco there.

Lit. You're right, Master Numps; there really is someone like that.

Wasp. It doesn’t matter whether there is or isn't, what does that have to do with you?

Quar. He won't let John read at all.

Enter COKES, Mistress OVERDO, and GRACE.

Sodas. Oh Numps! Are you here, Numps? Look where I am, Numps, and Mistress Grace too! Come on, don’t look so angry, Numps: my sister is here too; I didn’t come without her.

Wasp. What on earth are you doing with her, or is she with you?

Sodas. We all came to find you, Numps.

Wasp. Why were you looking for me? Did you all think I was lost or that I took off with your fourteen shillings' worth of merchandise? Or that I traded it at the fair for hobby-horses? Seriously—what's with the search?

Mrs. O. No, good master Numps, you should use discretion, even if he is excessive, as master Overdo says, and it's just for the sake of maintaining peace.

Waspe. Get lost, good lady Justice, Mrs. Frenchhood! You're full of crap, and so is your Frenchhood, just so you know! Do you really have to throw your Adam in my face? You think you're still the madam Regent, don’t you, Mrs. Overdo, just because I'm here; [Pg 191] that's not how it works. I promise you, your time is over when I'm around, lady.

Ms. Over. I'm okay with stepping back, sir, and letting you take charge; he should do the same if he's smart about it; but it's expected that you should also manage your emotions.

Wasp. Really! Wow, you’re really quick-witted after being at Bedlam yesterday! Whetstone sharpened you up, did he?

Mrs. Over. No, if you don't understand what your dignity requires, I still know what mine does.

Waspe. Alright then.

Sodas. Is this the license, Numps? For love’s sake, let me see it; I’ve never seen a license.

Wasp. Didn't you? Well, then you won't see it.

Sodas. If you love me, sweet Numps.

Wasabi. Sir, I care for you, but not in these silly games: calm your heart, there’s nothing here but harsh words;—and why would you want to see it?

Sodas. I would see the length and width of it, that’s all; and I will see it now, I will.

Waspe. You can't find it here.

Sodas. Then I’ll see it at home, and I’ll check the box here.

Waspe. Go ahead, a man should let him have some leeway in small matters, gentlemen. These are mistakes, signs of youth; he'll correct them when he gains better judgment and understanding. I ask you to see it this way, and I appreciate it: and I ask you to forgive him, and I thank you once more.

Argument. Well, this caregiver, I still say, is a sensitive guy.

Win. And I am, for the sake of his responsibility: did you ever see a guy's face look more like it was calling him an idiot?

Quarantine. Accuse him! It makes him guilty without any accusation. What a shame that girl should marry such a fool!

Winw. It's true.

Quarantine. She appears to be reserved, and just as serious as she is attractive.

Win. Yes, and if you pay attention to her, you can see the subtle contempt she has for all his actions and words!

Sodas. Well, Numps, I’m off to take care of another task, the Fair, Numps, and then—

Waspe. Oh my! Save me! Help, hold me! the Fair!

Sodas. No, don’t fidget back and forth, Numps, and get all worked up. I am determined, Bartholomew on this; I won’t ask you about it; the whole point of my journey was to show Mistress Grace my Fair. I call it my Fair because of Bartholomew: you know my name is Bartholomew, and Bartholomew Fair.

Lit. That was mine before, gentlemen; this morning. I had that, I swear, with his permission, believe me, there he comes after me.

Quar. Come on, John, this ambitious cleverness of yours, I'm afraid, will end up being unhelpful for you.

Lit. No! Why, sir?

[Pg 192]

Dispute. You're getting so full of yourself with it, and going too far, John, that if you don't watch it and rein it in, it'll lead you to some unknown place in time, and then it'll just abandon you there.

Win. Don’t rely on it too much, John, use it sparingly and only occasionally; being clever can be risky these days; don’t overdo it.

Lit. You really think that, gentlemen? I'll keep that in mind from now on.

Mrs. Lit. Go ahead, John.

Sodas. A charming person, this same Mistress Littlewit, I wish I could marry her!

Favor. Me too; or anyone else, just to get away from you. [Aside.

Sodas. Numps, I will make sure of it, Numps, it’s settled: don’t be sad about it.

Wasp. Come on, sir, check it out! What’s stopping you? Why aren’t you going to see it? Seriously, just go and see it.

Cokes. The Fair, Numps, the Fair.

Wasp. I wish all the fun of the Fair, and all the drums and noisemakers, were in your belly for me! They’re already in your head. Whoever had the chance to explore your mind would see greater things than anything at the Fair and would have a better journey than that; to see it all decorated with seashells, pebbles, beautiful wheat straws, a chicken feather here and there, and a cobweb.

Quarantine. Honestly, he looks, if you notice him, like someone who was made to catch flies, with his skinny legs.

Win. And his Numps, to shoo them away.

Waspe. God be with you, sir, here's your bee in a box, and I hope it serves you well.

Gives Cokes the box.

Sodas. Why, your friend, and Bartholomew; can you be so stubborn?

Quar. What do you mean, Numps?

[Takes Waspe aside as he's leaving.]

Wasps. I won't be at fault, I swear, gentlemen.

Ms. Over. You aren't going to let him leave, are you, brother?

Sodas. Who can resist that will? I would prefer to lose him than the Fair, that's for sure.

Waspe. You have no idea of the trouble, gentlemen, you cause me, nor the hassle I deal with because of his antics. If he goes to the Fair, he'll buy everything for a baby while he’s at it; even household items for that too. If he doesn’t lose a leg or an arm in the crowd, he’s lucky. I just hope I can get him out of there in one piece! And he’s such a glutton for fruit!—you won’t believe the mess I had the other day trying to sort out an issue between him and a woman selling Catherine pears over a theft: it’s unbearable, gentlemen.

Win. Oh, but you can't leave him now to face these dangers, Numps.

Wasps. No, he knows I won't leave him, and that makes him think: Well, sir, are you leaving now? If you’re so eager to head to the Fair, why are you still here? Am I [o’] your hold-up? Go on, are you going, sir? Why aren’t you going?

Sodas. Oh Numps, what have I done to you? Come on, Mistress Grace and sister, I’m still determined, seriously.

Grace. Honestly, I have no desire to go to the Fair, nor do I care to see it: there’s no one there of any importance or style.

Sodas. Oh Lord, sir! Please forgive me, Mistress Grace, we have enough of ourselves to set a trend; and as for the qualities, leave Numps to it, he’ll find the qualities.

Quar. What a fool this is, unable to grasp her language any better!

Win. Yeah, and propose to marry her! Well, I’ll skip hunting for my widow today and head straight to the Fair. This hot season is bound to provide us with some great opportunities for fun.

Dispute. A guy with just a bit of common sense would think that. —Take care, John.

[Quarlous and Winwife exit.]

Fire. Win, it’s trendy to go to the Fair, Win; we should go to the Fair too, you and I, Win. I have something planned for the Fair, Win, a puppet show I created, but keep it quiet, that I wrote for the performer, which you have to see, Win.

Ms. Lit. I wish I could, John; but my mother will never agree to such a disrespectful request, as she would call it.

Lit. Come on, we’ll get a little gadget, a nice one: Now, Wit, help me out, please, good Wit, come on, good Wit, if it’s your will! I’ve got it, Win, I’ve got it for sure, and it’s a great one. Win, you really want to eat some pig, sweet Win, at the Fair, you see, right in the middle of the Fair, not at Pye Corner. Your mom will do anything, Win, to satisfy your craving, you know; please pretend to want it soon; and act sick all of a sudden, good Win. I’ll go inside and tell her; cut your lace in the meantime, and play the part, sweet Win.

Mrs. Literature. No, I won’t get myself unprepared for it: I can be a hypocrite enough, even if I’ve never been very uptight.

Fire. You're right, you grew up in this family and were raised to be like this. Our mother is a real master of hypocrisy and has kept us all living like gentlemen for these past seven years because of it.

Ms. Lit. Oh, leave her be, John, she isn’t a clever, stubborn widow for no reason; nor a pious sister for nothing. And leave me be too, I have a bit of maternal instinct in me, you’ll see: go get her, go get her—[Exit Littlewit.] Ah! ah!

Seems to faint.

Re-enter LITTLEWIT with Dame PURECRAFT.

Clear. Now, the light of beautiful discipline, drive this evil away from our home! Hey, Win-the-fight, kid! How are you? Sweet child, talk to me.

Mrs. Lit. Yes, indeed.

Clean. Look up, sweet Win-the-fight, and don’t let the enemy come in through this door. Remember, your upbringing has been with the purest: Who was it that first called the unclean animal, pig, to you, child?

[Pg 194]

Mrs. Lit. Um, um!

Lit. Not me, honestly, mom! She waited over three hours before she would tell me. —Who was it, Win?

Mrs. Literature. A vulgar black object with a beard, John.

Authentic. Oh, resist it, Win-the-fight, it's the tempter, the wicked tempter. You can recognize it by its base urges. Be strong against it and its disgusting temptations, which attack you where you're most vulnerable; and pray against its worldly seductions; good child, sweet child, pray.

Fire. Good mother, I ask you to let her eat some pork and fill her belly too; and please don’t abandon your own child, and maybe one of mine, with your story about the tempter. How are you, Win? Aren't you feeling unwell?

Ms. Lit. Yes, a lot, John, um, um!

Clean. What are we going to do? Let's call our eager brother Busy here for his strong support against this enemy. [Exit Littlewit.] Child, my dear child, you’re going to have some pig; don’t worry, my sweet child.

Ms. Lit. Yes, but at the Fair, mom.

Clean. I mean in the Fair, if it can be made or found lawful in any way.—

Re-enter Littlewit.

Where is our brother Busy? Is he not coming? Look up, kid.

Lit. Right now, mom, as soon as he’s cleaned up his beard. I caught him munching on the cold turkey pie in the cupboard, holding a big white loaf in his left hand and a glass of sweet wine in his right.

Clean. Don't slander your brothers, you evil one.

Fire. Here he is now, cleansed, Mom.

Enter ZEAL-OF-THE-LAND BUSY.

Clean. Oh brother Busy! We need your help here to enlighten and uplift us regarding a delicate matter: my daughter Win-the-fight is suffering from a common women's condition known as a craving for pork.

Lit. Yeah, sir, a Bartholomew pig; and at the Fair.

Clean. And I would be content with you, in a spiritual sense, whether a widow from the holy group or a widow’s daughter, can take this action without causing harm to the more vulnerable sisters.

Occupied. Indeed, longing is a condition, a physical desire, or craving, that affects women; and since it’s a physical and natural thing, it’s very much part of who we are. Now, pork is a food, and it’s nutritious and something that can be desired, and therefore eaten; it can definitely be eaten; it can be enjoyed quite a bit; but at the Fair, and when it’s referred to as a Bartholomew pig, it cannot be eaten; because calling it a Bartholomew pig and consuming it that way is a hint of idolatry, and you’re turning the Fair into nothing more than one of the sacred sites. This, I believe, is the essence of the matter: a sacred site.

[Pg 195]

Fire. Yes, but in a situation of necessity, position should yield, master Busy. I still have an idea left.

Clean. Good brother Zeal-of-the-land, try to make it as lawful as you can.

Fire. Yes, sir, and as soon as you can; because it has to be, sir: you can see the danger my little wife is in, sir.

Clean. Honestly, I love my child so much, and I wouldn’t want her to suffer a miscarriage or risk losing her firstborn if it could be avoided.

Swamped. It might be different, but it's up for interpretation, and it can be off-putting to the weak—really off-putting and ugly; however, that can be covered up, like with a veil to cast a shadow over it. It can be indulged in, and at the Fair, I suppose, in a stall, among the wicked tents. The place isn’t much, really not much at all; we can be religious even in the middle of the sinful, as long as we partake with a reformed attitude, exercising restraint and humility—certainly not indulging in gluttony or greed. That's where the concern lies: if she were to go there, taking pride in the location or finding pleasure in the unclean appearance, feeding the vanity of her eyes or the cravings of her taste, it would be wrong, not appropriate, truly abominable, and not good.

On fire. No, I already knew that and told her about it; but don’t worry, Win, we’ll be modest enough. We’ll find the simplest booth at the Fair, that’s for sure; if we can’t, we’ll eat it on the ground.

Clean. Yes, I’ll go with you myself, Win-the-fight, and my brother Zeal-of-the-land will come along as well, for our own comfort.

Mrs. Lit. Um, um!

Lit. Yeah, and Solomon too, Win, the more the merrier. Win, we’ll leave Rabbi Busy in a booth. [Aside to Mrs. Littlewit.]—Solomon! my cloak.

Enter SOLOMON with the cloak.

Here, sir.

Swamped. To provide comfort to the weak, I'm going to eat. I'm going to eat a lot and share my thoughts; there might actually be a good reason for it now that I think about it: by publicly eating pork, we can show our dislike for Judaism, which the others are criticized for. So, I will eat, yes, I will eat a lot.

Lit. Good, for real, I will eat well too, because I won't be like a Jew; I could never deal with that stubborn bunch: and honestly, I hope my little one will be like me, crying for pig while still in the womb.

Swamped. Most definitely, highly likely, extremely likely.

[Exit.]

[Pg 196]

SCENE I—The Fair.

A number of booths, stalls, etc., are set up.

LANTHORN LEatherhead, JOANN TRash, and others, sitting beside their goods.

Enter Justice OVERDO, from a distance, in disguise.

Done. Well, for the sake of justice, the king, and the common good! I defy the whole world, Adam Overdo, for a disguise, and for all storytelling; because you really have prepared yourself, I swear. I wish I could meet the Linceus now, that eagle-eyed, sharp Epidaurian serpent (as my Quintus Horace calls him) who could identify a justice of peace (and recently a member of the Quorum) even under this disguise. They may have seen plenty of fools dressed as justices, but never before have we seen a justice dressed as a fool. This is what we must do, those of us who work for the common good; and wise magistrates throughout history have done the same. There's a way to right wrongs, if you can find it. I can't praise enough a certain honorable man, once a leading member of this city, for his astute wisdom in this matter, who would occasionally take on the appearance of a porter, then a carman, then a dog-catcher in this month of August; and in winter, of a seller of tinder-boxes. And what would he do in all these roles? Well, he would go into every pub and down into every cellar; measure the length of sausages; check the size of black pots and cans, yes, and custards, with a stick; measure their circumference with a thread; weigh loaves of bread with his middle finger; then he would send for them to be brought to him; give the sausages to the poor, the bread to the hungry, the custards to his kids; he would break the pots and burn the cans himself: he wouldn’t trust his corrupt officers; he would do it all himself. If only everyone in power would follow this excellent example! Because, alas, as public figures, what do we know? Really, what can we know? We hear with other people’s ears, we see with their eyes. A foolish constable or a sleepy watchman is all our information; they slander a gentleman by the authority of their position, as they call it, and we, due to our position, must believe them. Just the other day, they made me mistake an honest, zealous emissary for a rogue; and a handsome young musician for a pimp. This is what we have to endure when we live in high places; all our information is useless, and most of our informants are crooks; and, if I may say so, we’d be thought little better, if not complete fools, for believing them. I, Adam Overdo, have therefore decided to stop wasting money on spies from now on and make my own discoveries. There are many yearly abuses at this Fair, where I've had the honor, over the past three days, to sometimes serve as a judge in the courts of Pie-poudres. But this is the[Pg 197]

[Moves toward the booths and steps aside.]

Leather. It seems like the Fair’s sickness is gone; no one is out today, whatever the reason might be. Do you hear me, sister Trash, queen of the basket? Stay farther away with your gingerbread kids over there, and don’t block my shop’s view, or I’ll announce at the Fair what they’re really made of.

Garbage. What are they made of, brother Leatherhead? It's nothing but good stuff, I promise you.

Leath. Yeah, old bread, spoiled eggs, moldy ginger, and expired honey, you know.

Done. Oh! Did I really encounter something so huge this quickly? [Aside.

Leather. I’m going to mess up your business, old Joan.

Garbage. Mess up my market, you too-proud peddler! Go ahead, do your worst, I dare you. I’ll stand strong against you and your stable of hobby-horses. I pay for my spot just like you do; if you wrong me, even if you’re just a wannabe poet and a schemer, I’ll find someone who will make things right and write a ballad about you and your goods all over town. Are you full of yourself because of your merchandise? Your nonsense?

Leather. Alright, old Joan, I’ll chat with you soon; and I’ll take you down there before Justice Overdo: he’s the one who needs to impress you, I want to see you in the Pie-poudres.

Garbage. Win me over! I'll meet you in person, in front of him, whenever you're brave enough: and even though I'm a bit bent in my body, I’ll be as honest in my dealings as any woman in Smithfield, I; win me over!

Done. I'm glad to know that my name still scares them; this is a matter of justice. [Aside.]

[A number of people walk across the stage.

Leather. What do you need? What are you buying? What do you want? Rattles, drums, halberds, horses, the best babies, or the finest fiddles?

Enter Costard-monger, followed by Nightingale.

Price. Buy any pears, delicious pears, really great pears!

Trash. Buy any gingerbread, gold gingerbread!

Night. Hey, [Sings.]

Buy any new ballads?

[Pg 198]

Enter URSULA, from her booth.

Urs. Seriously: who would waste their youth and prime doing this, cooking pigs, if they had any better job? Hell’s like a cold cellar for that, a really nice vault, honestly!—What, Mooncalf!

Moon. [inside.] Here, ma'am.

Nighttime. What's up, Ursula? Are you all worked up?

Urs. My chair, you fake faucet; and my morning drink, hurry up, a bottle of ale, to quench my thirst, trickster. I’m all energy and grease, Nightingale, I might just melt away into a rib again, I’m worried. I drench the ground in spots as I walk, like a big garden pot; you can follow me by the puddles I make.

Nighttime. Oh no, good Urse! Was Zekiel here this morning?

Urs. Zekiel? Which Zekiel?

Nighttime. Zekiel Edgworth, the street thief, you know him pretty well; he's the one who still talks dirty to you: I call him my secretary.

Urs. He said he would be here this morning, I remember.

Nighttime. When he arrives, ask him to wait: I’ll be back in a moment.

Urs. You should really have some morning dew in your stomach, Nightingale.—

Join MOONCALF, with the Chair.

Come on, set it here. Didn't I tell you to bring a chair that has extended sides for me, so I can move comfortably? You won’t think of anything until your partner is irritated; it’s fine, you little troublemaker: since it fits your skinny legs, you don’t care about anything else. Right now, you look like you’ve been in the corner of the booth, scratching your backside with a candle stub and setting the Fair on fire. Fill it up, Stote, fill it up.

Done. I know this pig-woman, and I'm going to include her as my second huge offense; she's been in front of me, as a prostitute, small ship, and madam, for the past twenty-two years in the Pie-poudres. [Aside.

Urs. Refill, you unlucky pests!

Moon. Please don't be upset, ma'am, I'll get it made wider right away.

Urs. No, no, I’m going to waste away before the Fair ends, you think, now that you’ve got me all worked up: I’m just a poor, troubled thing, and I can feel myself fading away as quickly as I can; I’m eating two stone of fat a day, that’s my share. I can barely keep body and soul together with this, (here’s to you, Nightingale,) and maybe a puff of tobacco at most. Where’s my pipe now? Not filled! You useless thing.

Nighttime. No, Ursula, you'll worry between your tongue and teeth with all this fretting now.

Urs. How can I expect him to fulfill his responsibilities, bartender, when he's someone I can rely on but who doesn’t remember a thing I say? [Exit Nightingale.] But listen up, you’d better pay attention. I want to make three pence a pipe-full from my entire half-pound of tobacco, and a quarter pound of colt’s-foot mixed in[Pg 199] to help with that itch. After dealing with fire for so long, I can handle some smoke now. Then I will advance six and twenty shillings a barrel on my beer, and fifty shillings a hundred on my bottled ale; I’ve told you how to make it happen. Make sure to froth your cans well while filling them, you rogue, and give your bottles a good shake, then pour out the first glass and drink with everyone, even if it makes you drunk; you'll miscount better and won't feel as embarrassed about it. But your real trick, you rascal, should be to stay busy, quickly mix up the bottles and cans before they’re half drunk, and ignore anyone calling you (if they happen to notice) until you have replaced them and can deny it. Give me a drink of ale.

Done. This is the true source and foundation of something huge! as outrageous as she is! everything here must be taken down for this enormity, all of it, every single bit of it. [Aside.

[Knocking inside.

Urs. Look who's here, buddy: my price is five shillings for a pig, at least; if it's a sow, add sixpence; if she's heavily pregnant and really wants it, tack on another sixpence for that.

Done. Oh, the times! Oh, the morals! I wouldn’t have missed finding out about this one issue, considering my position and respect for the law. How poorly the average person is treated here! Well, I’ll join her and her foolish companion and uncover some astonishing truths. [Steps forward.]—With your permission, good woman, and the plumpness of the Fair, slick like the king’s constable’s lamp, and shining like his shoehorn! Does your ale have charm, or does your beer have strength, enough to please a man’s tongue and his taste buds in the morning? Let your handsome nephew go check it out.

Urs. What new beast is this?

Moon. Oh Lord! Don’t you know him, ma'am? It’s crazy Arthur of Bradley, the one who gives the speeches. —Great to see you, old Arthur of Bradley, how are you? Welcome to the Fair! When can we hear you again, discussing your stuff with your back against a stall, huh? I used to be one of your little students in my younger days.

Done. Let me drink, boy, with my love, your aunt, here; so I can speak beautifully: but give me your best, so it doesn’t taste bad in my mouth, and my words don’t end up sounding unpleasant to the Fair.

Urs. Why don't you get him a drink and invite him to sit down?

Moon. Is it ale or beer, Master Arthur?

Done. Do your best, pretty young man, do your best; that's what your dove drinks, and that's what you take out on holidays.

Urs. Bring him a sixpenny bottle of ale: they say a fool's gift is lucky.

Done. Bring both, kid. [Sits down in the booth.] Ale for Arthur, and beer for Bradley. Ale for your aunt, boy. [Exit Mooncalf.]—My disguise fits the very wish and need of it. I’ll, by this advantage, figure out enough, and more: and still come away with the reputation I want: a sort of average person, caught between a fool and a madman. [Aside.

[Pg 200]

Enter KNOCKEM.

Knock. What! my little skinny Ursula! my she-bear! are you still alive, with your little pigs ready to grunt out another Bartholomew Fair? ha!

Urs. Yes, and to stroll a little, after the Fair is over, to hear you groan from a cart, up the steep hill—

Knock. Of Holbourn, Ursula, do you mean that? For what, for what, lovely Urse?

Urs. For cutting halfpenny bags, or stealing small change dogs out of the Fair.

Knock! Oh! nice words, nice words, Urse.

Done. Another unique situation. A thief with a sword, a disguise, and a flashy feather! those are his trademarks. [Aside.

Re-enter MOONCALF, with the beer, etc.

Urs. You’re one of those gossipers who spread the word that I died from drinking too much beer and eating too many tripe dishes in Turnbull Street?

Knock. No, it was better food, Urse: cow’s udders, cow’s udders!

Urs. Well, I will have a conversation with your mumbling mouth someday.

Knock! What! You’re going to try to poison me with a newt in a bottle of beer, are you? Or a spider in a tobacco pipe, Urse? Come on, there’s no harm in these hefty folks, I’m not scared of you if I can get away from your skinny Mooncalf here. Let’s drink it out, good Urse, and no more nonsense!

Exit Ursula.

Done. Do you hear me, kid? Here’s some money for your beer, and what’s left is for you. —Now, speak honestly about a faucet; is this impressive person we see here, this fancy guy, a knight of the blade?

Moon. What do you mean by that, Master Arthur?

Done. I mean a child of the horn-thumb, a babe of booty, boy, a pickpocket.

Moon. Oh lord, no! This is Master Daniel Knockem Jordan: the ranger of Turnbull. He’s a horse trader, sir.

Done. Your delicate lady, though, called him a thief.

Moon. Probably, sir; she’ll do about forty such things in an hour (if you pay attention to her) for fun, if the toy catches her interest in the greasy kerchief: it makes her gain weight, you see; she thrives on it.

Done. I could have been fooled and marked myself as a fool if I hadn't played it smart afterward! [Aside.

Re-enter URSULA, dropping.

Knock knock. Unfortunately, poor Urse! this is a tough time for you.

Urs. Go hang yourself, hackney-man!

Knock. How are you, Urse? Do emotions bring on vapors?

Urs. Seriously! Don't waste your energy, Jordan. I know what you’re after. Even if you're in charge of the loudmouths and you can hold your own in a fight, you can't scare me with your tough guy act or your threats; you're just angry because you're hungry. A pig's head will keep you quiet and fill you up anytime. [Pg 201]

Knock! You’re still such a crazy, happy Urse! Honestly, I feel guilty bothering you during these hot days, worrying I might wear you out and ruin a part of the Fair. Please, sit back down and act like royalty; let’s get a fresh bottle of ale and a pipe of tobacco, and no moody vibes. I want to take care of that belly of yours and tidy up your grass, girl.—

Enter EDGWORTH.

Look, here’s Ezekiel Edgworth; a great guy for his size, as good as anyone at the Fair! He still has money in his wallet and is ready to pay for everything, with a generous spirit and a positive attitude.

Edge. I definitely will, no problem, master Knockem; go get some beer and tobacco.

[Exit Mooncalf.—People walk across the stage.

Leather. What do you need, gentlemen? Maid, get a nice hobby-horse for your young master; it will only cost you a little a week for his feed.

Re-enter Nightingale, with Corn-cutter, and Mousetrap-man.

Corn. Do you have any corns on your feet and toes?

Mouse. Buy a mousetrap, a mousetrap, or something to torment a flea?

Trash. Buy gingerbread?

Night. Songs, songs! great new songs:

What are you buying?

Re-enter MOONCALF, with beer and cigarettes.

Edgy. Master Nightingale, come over here, take a break from your work for a moment.

Nighttime. Oh my assistant! What does my assistant say?

They enter the booth.

Done. Kid of the bottles, what’s he? what’s he?

[Points to Edgworth.]

Moon. A polite young man, master Arthur, who hangs out with the loud crowd, but stays calm himself. He always has cash on hand; he covers their expenses, and they make a scene for him; everyone helps each other out. They call him the secretary, but he doesn’t really serve anyone. He’s a close friend of the ballad singer, and they’re never apart.

Done. What a shame it is that such a polite young man spends his time with this[Pg 202] corrupt crowd. It really shows the downfall of today's youth. He’s a skilled writer, I can tell from his face; he has the look of a good clerk, and I bet he’s got a swift hand.

Moon. A really fast hand, sir.

[Leave.

Edgy. [whispering with Nightingale and Ursula.] All the money and items I'm giving you today through delivery, bring them here to Ursula's right away. We'll meet at her place tonight and share everything. Make sure you pick good spots at the Fair for when you sing, Nightingale.

Urs. Yes, close to the most significant parts; and change them frequently.

Edgy. And in your singing, you need to use your keen eye wisely, and direct the money to the right spot, where it’s worn, and which side it’s on; so you can signal me with your beak, or tilt your head that way in the song.

Urs. Enough, let’s not talk about it anymore: your friendship, guys, isn’t something that’s going to start now. Finish your drink of the agreement, your sip of the contract, and then get going: the fair is getting busy, more people are starting to arrive, and I don’t have a single pig ready yet.

Knock knock. Well said! Fill the cups and light the tobacco: let’s spark up the festivities and enjoy some fine smoke.

Edgy. So, will we have dresses, Ursula, and nice surprises, ha!

Urs. Come on, you're in a flirtatious mood!—the best the Fair has to offer, Zekiel, if bawd Whit keeps his promise.—

Re-enter MOONCALF.

How are the pigs, Mooncalf?

Moon. Very passionate, mistress, one of them has cried out an eye. Master Arthur of Bradley is feeling down here, nobody talks to him. Do you want some tobacco, Master Arthur?

Done. No, kid; just let me be with my thoughts.

Moon. He’s preparing for a speech right now.

Done. If I can, with today’s hard work and all my strategies, just rescue this young man from the grasp of the immoral man and the unusual woman, I will sit down at night and say with my friend Ovid,

I have finished the work that neither Jupiter's wrath nor fire, etc. [Aside.

Knock. Hey, Zekiel, here’s a toast to Ursula, and some good vibes; you've still got money in your pocket, and plenty of it! How did you get it? Please share some positive energy with your friends in a nice way.

Edge. I have half, Master Dan. Knockem is always at your service.

Pulls out his wallet.

Done. Ha, sweet nature! What goshawk would hunt such a lamb? [Aside.

Knock. Let’s see what it is, Zekiel; count it, come, let’s get him to pledge me.

Enter WINWIFE and QUARLOUS.

Win. I think we are here in front of them.

Argument. Great, we’ll see them come in now.

[Pg 203]

Leather. What do you guys need, what is it you need? a fancy horse? a lion? a bull? a bear? a dog? or a cat? a really nice Bartholomew bird? or a musical instrument? what is it you need?

Quarantine. Wow! Here’s Orpheus with the animals, fiddle and all!

Garbage. Are you guys going to buy any comfy bread?

Quarantine. And Ceres selling a picture of her daughter, made from gingerbread.

Win. Can you believe these people are so clueless that they think we’re here to sell to them? Do we really look like we’d buy gingerbread or hobby-horses?

Quar. They really don’t know anything better than what they have, nor do they have better customers than those who show up. Just our presence here makes us just as eligible to be asked for as anyone else. I wish Cokes would show up! He would be a real customer for them.

Knock. [to Edgworth.] How much is it? Thirty shillings? Who's that over there! Is it Ned Winwife and Tom Quarlous? Yes: (give me it all, give it all.)—Master Winwife! Master Quarlous! Would you like to smoke a pipe of tobacco with us?—Don't let me down now, Zekiel.

Edgworth hands him his wallet.

Winw. Don't look at him: he's the loud horse dealer, let’s steer clear of him: let’s go this way.

Quar. Damn it, I’ll confront him and shout with him too, if he roars as loudly as Neptune; come with me, please.

Win. You can bring me into as much trouble as you want, whenever you want, just like this.

Quar. Come on, let’s go; we’ve got nothing to do, dude, but check out some sights now.

They move to the booth.

Knock. Welcome, Master Quarlous and Master Winwife; would you like to join us for some drinks and conversation?

Quarantine. Yes, sir; but you’ll forgive us if we didn’t realize we were that familiar with each other before.

Knock. As what, dude?

Quar. To be casually invited to smoke and relax.

Knock. A nice steam! Will you take a seat, sir? This is old Ursula’s house; how do you like her cozy spot? Here, you can enjoy your hookah and your roast pork in style, sir, both steaming hot.

Quarantine. I’d prefer my girl to be cold, sir.

Done. That’s for me: punk! and pig! [Aside.

Urs. [within.] What, Mooncalf, you rascal!

Moon. Eventually, the bottle is almost empty, ma’am; here, master Arthur.

Urs. [within.] I’ll separate you and your friend there, in the garden coat, if you don't break apart soon.

Knock. Master Winwife, you seem a bit proud. You don't talk or drink; are you feeling proud?

Win. I'm not part of the group I'm with, sir, nor the location, I promise you.

Knock knock. You're not seriously expecting company, are you? Are you feeling unwell, sir?

Moon. No, good master Daniel Knockem, respect my mistress’s[Pg 204] bower, as you say; for the honor of our booth, keep your nonsense to yourself.

Enter URSULA with a torch.

Urs. Why, you skinny, lean troublemaker, if they want to be dramatic, why do you have to stop them? What do you care, pest, if they would have lost a cloak or some minor thing? Do you really need to act all calm while I'm suffering inside like I'm on fire, you weasel? [Aside to Mooncalf.

Moon. Good lady, I mentioned it for the sake of your booth’s reputation.

Urs. Why would my booth have broken if they didn’t fall out, sir? Or would their heat have set it on fire? Get in here, you rascal, and clean the pigs, and fix the fire so they don’t fall, or I’ll baste and roast you until your eyes pop out like those!—Leave the bottle behind and be cursed for a bit!

[Exit Mooncalf.

Argument. Body of the Fair! What’s this? Mother of the Prostitutes?

Knock! No, she’s the pig's mom, sir, the pig's mom.

Win. Mother of the furies, I assume, by her fire-brand.

Quarantine. No way, she's way too fat to be a fury, definitely some walking blob of fat!

Win. An inspired collection of kitchen gadgets!

Quarantine. She'll provide great grease for the coach makers here in Smithfield to use on wheels and axles.

She drinks this while.

Urs. Oh, you gamblers, make fun of a simple, curvy girl from the suburbs, just because she's healthy and full of life; you prefer your skinny, tightly-wrapped girls, confined to the size of a dog collar, (or it won't work) who look like a long, laced eel standing up, with a green feather, like fennel stuck in it.

Knock on the door. Well said, Urse, my good Urse! Go for it, Urse!

Quar. Is she your mess, Daniel Knockem? Is this your swamp?

Night. We're going to argue soon.

Knock! What! mud! swamp? bad smells! hmph!

Quar. Yeah, anyone who dares to try it, I promise, could get lost in her and be gone for a week before any of his friends could ever figure out where he was.

Win. And then he would spend two weeks thinking it over again.

Argument. It would be like falling into a huge pond of butter; they would need a team of Dutchmen to pull him out.

Knock. Answer them, Urse: where’s your Bartholomew wit now, Urse, your Bartholomew wit?

Urs. Hang them, filthy, sneaky cheaters! I hope one day they are tormented (they're already cursed, I'm sure) with skinny theater birds, whose bony backs stick out like the ace of spades, or the tip of a spear, and every rib is like a saw tooth; they'll grind them down with their hips and shoulders, making it as good as lying with a fence.

[Pg 205]

Quarantine. Ugh, look at her, she’s so alluring! Just looking at her can give a guy a serious case of the sweats.

Urs. Marry, look away, with a patch on your face, and a dozen in your pants, even if they are red, sir. I've seen just as nice appearances as either of yours, bring in lousy insides to the brokers, twice a week, before now.

Quar. Do you think there might be a nice new cucking-stool at the Fair for sale; one that's big enough, I mean? I know there's a pond that can hold it.

Urs. For your mother, you little troublemaker! Get out, you scoundrel, you thief, you hustler, you bag-man’s illegitimate child, you!

Quar. Haha!

Urs. Do you mock, you mutt, you coward! You look like you were born on a cart during harvest when the pup was all fired up. Go chase after your brother’s female dog, Mistress Commodity; that’s the look you’ve got, and it won't last long. It’s time you got to work for the other leftovers.

Knock. Calm down, Urse, calm down;—they’re going to kill the poor whale and turn her into oil. Please, go inside.

Urs. I’d rather see them covered in pox first, stacked up, and stacked up again.

Win. Let’s go, her language is getting dirtier than her pigs.

Urs. Is that how it is, you little brat? Good grief! Are you crying? You were born to a homeless woman in a barn, while your father, the bald thresher, was still warming up.

Winw. Please let's go.

Quar. No, really; I’ll see this through to the end with her now; I know she can’t hold on much longer: I can tell by her smiles that she’s fading quickly.

Urs. Does she really? I'll make sure you leave. Bring me my pig pan over here for a moment: I'll scald you if you don't go.

[Leave.

Knock. Gentlemen, these are quite unusual fumes, and very pointless ones, I assure you.

Quarantine. You’re really a total jerk, we promise you.

Knock. Ugh, jerk! and no kidding! well, excuse my rant. I have a silly rant, folks: Any guy who tries to mess with me, master Quarlous—

Quar. What’s next, Master Jordan?

Knock! I do give him the false story.

Argument. Honestly, if anyone tries to insult me, I will respond in kind.

*Hits him.*

Knock. No, then, fumes upon fumes.

They’re fighting.

Re-enter URSULA, with the drip pan.

Edge. Nighttime. Watch out for the pan, the pan, the pan! Here she comes with the pan, guys! [Ursula falls with the pan.]—God bless her.

Urs. Wow!

[Quarlous and Winwife exit.]

Trash. [runs in.] What’s wrong?

Done. Good woman!

Moon. Lady!

[Pg 206]

Urs. Damn it! Why did I have to see these monsters! Oh! I’ve burned my leg, my leg, my leg, my leg! I’ve lost a limb in this service! Hurry and get some cream and salad oil. Are you all just standing there, you idiots? Rip off my pants, if you're real men!

Moon. Go grab some cream, good mother Joan. I’ll keep an eye on your basket.

[Delete Trash.

Leather. You better sit up in your chair, Ursula. Help, guys.

Knock! Cheer up, Urse; you've kept me from grooming a couple of stallions here that mistreated the good racehorse handler of Smithfield; it was time for them to leave.

Nighttime. I swear, when the pan came,—they made you run in another direction. This would have been a perfect time to buy, if you had taken the chance. [Aside to Edgworth.

Edgy. Not at all, these guys were too high-class to carry cash.

Knock. Nightingale, get someone to help you carry her leg down: take off her shoes. Oh my! She's got the mallanders, the scratches, the crown scab, and the quitter bone in the other leg.

Urs. Oh, the pox! Why do you remind me of my leg like this, making it tingle and ache? Do you want me to end up in the hospital before my time?

Knock. Patience, Urse, stay strong, it’s just a small blister, not much bigger than a windgall. I’ll fix it with some egg white, a bit of honey, and some hog lard. I’ll make sure your legs are well cared for, and you’ll be walking again by tomorrow. I’ll handle your booth and take care of your business in the meantime: you can sit in your chair, give orders, and shine bright like Ursa Major.

[Knockem and Mooncalf exit, taking Ursula in her chair with them.]

Done. These are the results of beer and tobacco! the foam from the beer, and the smoke from the tobacco! Hold on, young man, and don’t ignore the wisdom that comes from these few gray hairs that have grown from worrying about you.

Edgy. Nightingale, hang on for a moment. I really want to hear some of this!

Enter COKES, with his box, WASPE, Mistress OVERDO, and GRACE.

Sodas. Come on, Numps, where are you? Welcome to the Fair, Miss Grace.

Edgy. He’ll call for company soon, and you’ll see, and get us moving right away.

Done. Don't crave that frothy drink, ale; for who knows what might be in the bottle when you pop the cap? Haven't snails, spiders, and even newts been discovered in there? Don't thirst for it, young one; don't thirst for it.

Sodas. This guy is brave, Numps, let’s hear what he has to say.

Waspe. Good grief! How bold he is? In a fancy coat! You should deal with him; just go ahead, and make a deal right now, it would suit you. Why listen to him? Because he’s a fool, and might be related to the Cokeses?

Cokes. Oh, good Numps.

Done. Don't be tempted by that brownish tobacco.

Cokes. Bold statement!

[Pg 207]

Done. Whose skin color is like that of the Indian who expresses it.

Cokes. Aren't those bold words, sis?

Done. And who can say if, before it was gathered and put together, the Alligarta hasn't already peed on it?

Wasp. "Heart! Let them be bold words, as bold as they can be! And if they were all the brave words in the country, what then? Are you leaving yet, or do you still want more from him? Mistress Grace, come on; please, don’t get involved. If you lose your freedom, or something else, sir, for listening to his stories, then go ahead and say Numps is a witch, I fully support that."

Sodas. Stay away from that in your fancy outfit, Numps.

Done. The slow poison of that sly serpent, as some recent writers claim, can’t be affected or eased by cutting the dangerous plant, drying it, or lighting or burning it in any way.

Cokes. Awesome, right, sis?

Done. That's why the tobacconist's lungs are damaged, the liver has spots, the brain is clouded like the rear of the pig-woman’s booth here, and the entire body inside is as black as the pan you just saw outside.

Sodas. What a great comparison, sir! Did you see the pan?

Sure thing, sir.

Done. No, the hole in the nose of some tobacco users, or the third nostril, as I might call it, allows them to blow out the tobacco, like the ace of clubs, or perhaps the fleur-de-lis, is caused by the tobacco, just the tobacco! while the poor innocent pox, having nothing to do with it, is harshly and unfairly blamed.

Sodas. Who could have overlooked this, sis?

Mrs. O. Not just anyone, but Numps.

Cokes. He doesn't get it.

Edgy. [takes Cokes's wallet from his pocket.] Nor do you feel. [Aside.

Sodas. What would you want, sister, from a guy who only knows about a basket-hilt and an old fox in it? The best music at the Fair won’t do anything to change that.

Edgy. [hands the purse to Nightingale.] Here, take this to Ursula, Nightingale, and bring her some cheer: make sure it gets to her. This guy was sent to us by luck, as our first gift.

Exit Nightingale.

Done. But what am I talking about the diseases of the body, children of the Fair?

Sodas. That's for us, sister. Truly bold!

Done. Hey, you sons and daughters of Smithfield! Listen to what troubles the mind: it makes you swear, it makes you swagger, it makes you sniff and snarl, and sometimes it causes pain.

Mrs. O. He has a bit of that Overdo character, I think, brother.

Sodas. So I thought, sister, a lot about my brother Overdo: and that’s when he talks.

[Pg 208]

Done. Look at any part of the town, the Streights, or the Bermudas, where the argument lesson is taught, and how do they pass the time, but with beer and cigarettes? The speaker is on one side, and his listeners are on the other; but the constants are still beer and cigarettes, for which the speaker presents, and the learners pay. Thirty pounds a week on beer! Forty on cigarettes! And ten more on beer again. Then for a suit to drink in, that costs this much, and, once it’s stained, that’s how much for another suit, and then a third suit, and a fourth suit! And still the beer leaves stains, and the cigarettes smell.

Wasp. You’ve got the heart of a madman! Are you stuck here? Will you never leave? What does anyone see in this loud guy that makes them want to stick around? He’s way too much to handle since I first heard him. Are you planning to stay and set up shop here, sir?

Done. I'll wrap up quickly—

Wasp. Quiet down, you loud fool, or I’ll get my head caught in your jaws. You should set up a booth and host him; write your will if you mention it, and make him your heir! Honestly, I’ve never seen someone so smitten by just a peck before. I swear, I’ll carry you away on my back if you won’t come willingly.

He gets Cokes on his back.

Sodas. Wait, Numps, wait, put me down: I’ve lost my wallet, Numps. Oh my wallet! One of my nice wallets is missing!

Mrs. Over. Is it really, brother?

Sodas. Yes, as I’m an honest man, I wish I were a complete scoundrel instead! A curse on all those pesky thieves for me.

[Checks his pockets.]

Wasp. Bless them with all my heart, truly, do you see! Now, as far as I know, I'm no infidel, and I'm glad of that. Yes, I am, (here’s my witness,) do you see, sir? I didn’t tell you about his stories, I! No, no, I’m just a dull workhorse, I don’t know anything. Aren’t you justly served, in your conscience, now? Speak from your conscience. Much good comes from all my heart, and his good heart that has it, with all my heart again.

Edgy. This guy is really generous; I wish he had some money too! But I shouldn't push my luck all at once. [Aside.

Sodas. No, Numps, it's not my best wallet.

Waspe. Not your best! Death! Why should it be your worst? Why should it be anything at all? Answer me that; give me a reason why it should be anything.

Sodas. Not my gold, Numps; I still have that, look here, sister.

Shows the other purse.

Wasp. Why is that? That’s all the emotion he has!

Ms. Over. I urge you, take better care of that, brother.

Soda. No way, I definitely will; let him try to take what he can. I really want to see him get this, just look here.

Wasp. So, so, so, so, so, so, so, so! really good.

Sodas. I’d have him come back now, and just give it a try. Sister, will you pay attention to a good joke? I’ll place it right where[Pg 209] the other one was, and if we get lucky, you’ll see a really clever trap to catch the pickpocket sneaking around.

Edgy. Believe me, and he'll try before you leave the Fair. [Aside.

Sodas. Come on, Mistress Grace, please don’t be sad about my trouble; being upset won’t change it, darling.

Grace. I don’t think so, dude.

Sodas. It was just some worthless white money, dang it! It might end up hanging the pickpocket one day. I still have enough gold to get you a little gift, no matter how tough things are. The only thing that bothers me is that nobody here looks like a pickpocket, except maybe Numps.

Wasps. What! Me, a pickpocket? No way! Your sister’s a pickpocket! Your mother and father, and all your relatives are pickpockets! And here’s a scoundrel who’s the ringleader of the pickpockets, and I’m going to beat him up first.

[They all talk at once, and Waspe outshines Overdo.]

Done. Pause, child of anger and heir to rage, don’t let your fury turn today into Childermass day, or the feast of the French Bartholomew, which was the source of the massacre.

Cokes. Numps, Numps!

Mrs. Over. Good Master Humphrey!

Wasp. So, you're the Patrico, right? The leader of the pickpockets? They say you share, so let them share this with you. Are you back to your intense preaching again? I'll calm you down.

Beats him again.

Over. Murder, murder, murder!

[They exit.]

SCENE I.—The Festival.

LANTHORN LEatherhead, JOANN TRash, and others, sitting by their goods, just like before.

Enter WHIT, HAGGISE, and BRISTLE.

Whit. No, it's all gone now! But seriously, why won't you just call, officer? What does it take for a man to listen to some noise for you? We’re in a different world, with plenty of noise and charm too! One of their loud rants could have fed us all this fortnight, but you're so concerned about beggars that you have no time for gentlemen, and that’s just how it is.

Hag. I told you, Davy Bristle.

Bri. Come on, you said there was a pudding, Toby Haggise; it turned out to be nothing at all. You suggested going to Ursula’s, but then you ran into that guy with the creatures, and I couldn’t pull you away from him. Such an old fool, still not realizing!

Witch. Why, who would have thought anyone would have fought so early; or that the ale of the fair would have run out so soon?

White. Hey, what time do you think it is, man?

[Pg 210]

Hag. I can't say.

Whit. You are a good watchman, in the meantime.

Witch. Why should the watch follow the clock, or the clock follow the watch, I ask?

Bri. One should follow another, if they did well.

Whit. You are right now! When did you ever know or hear of a sufficient watchman, yet he did tell the clock what business he had?

Bri. No, that’s absolutely true; a good watchman knows what time it is.

Whit. Sleeping or waking: as well as the clock itself, or the Jack that strikes it.

Bri. Let's ask Master Leatherhead, or Joan Trash here. — Master Leatherhead, can you hear me, Master Leatherhead?

Whit. If it’s a Ledderhead, it’s a very tough Ledderhead, that so much noise will not scare him.

Leather. I have a small business to take care of right now, friends, so please don’t bother me.

Whit. Fat, because of your rough nightcap and your velvet jacket, man? Yikes! I've seen you in your leather jacket before, master of the hobby-horses, looking as bushy and grand as you seem to be.

Garbage. What do you have, Captain Whit? He can choose from his jackets, as you can see, and his hats too, I promise you, when he feels like being either sick or busy.

Leath. Oh my God, Joan, answer for me.

Whit. Go away, don’t shine in my company, there are gentlemen here, and men of respect.

[Haggise and Bristle exit.]

Join QUARLOUS and WINWIFE.

Fight. We had such bad luck to miss this introduction to the show, but the good thing is, we’ll get five acts of him before the night is over: he’ll be quite a sight, I promise.

Whit. Oh goodness, Duke Quarlous, how are you? You probably don’t recognize me, I’m afraid: I’m the most desirable man, just like Overdo, at all of Bartholomew Fair right now. Give me twelve pence from you, and I’ll help you find a wife worth forty marks for it.

Quar. Go away, rogue; pimp, leave.

White. And she'll show you a great cut of meat in her shop just as you can wish, I swear; will you have her, esteemed lady? I'll help you get her here, so come on, give me twelve pence from you.

Win. Why, here's twelve pence. Please, will you go away?

Whit. You are a worthy man, and still a respectable man.

Quar. Get lost, troublemaker.

White. I really mean it, man. Prince Quarlous, if you need me, you’ll find me here at Ursula’s. I’ll see what ale and punch are in the pigsty for you, bless your good self.

Exit.

Quar. Look! Who's coming here: John Littlewit!

[Pg 211]

Winw. And his wife, and my late wife, her mother: the whole family.

Quarantine. You have to give everyone gifts now.

Win. Not me, I won’t see them.

Quarantine. They’re going to a feast. Who’s that schoolteacher with them?

Win. I think that's my rival, the baker.

Enter Rabbi BUS Youth, Dame PURECRAFT, JOHN LLITTLEWIT, and Mrs. LLITTLEWIT.

Tied up. So, walk straight down the center path, slightly to the right, and don’t turn to the right or left; don’t let your eyes be distracted by vanity or your ears by noise.

Quar. Oh, I recognize him by that reaction.

Leather. What do you need, what do you want to buy, ma'am? A nice hobby horse to make your son a knight? A drum to turn him into a soldier? A fiddle to make him a party animal? What is it that you’re missing? Little dogs for your daughters? Or babies, boy or girl?

Occupied. Don't look at them, don't listen; this place is Smithfield, or the field of blacksmiths, the grove of carnival rides and trinkets. The products here are nothing but evil, and the whole Fair is like the shop of Satan: they have hooks and traps, real traps, hanging everywhere to catch you and hold you, just like a fisherman does; so you mustn't look or turn toward them. —Even the pagan could plug his ears with wax to avoid the siren of the sea; do the same with your fingers against the calls of temptation.

Winw. What sparks come from him!

Quar. Oh, he has his own group; a well-known hot baker, it was when he worked with the peel; he's guiding his crowd into the Fair now.

Win. Instead of taking them to the pens, he won't let them see anything.

Enter KNOCKEM and WHIT from URSULA’S booth.

Knock. Ladies, it's really hot outside; where are you headed? Watch out for your nice velvet caps, the Fair is dusty. Find a nice booth with some branches and cool off in the shade; you and your friends should relax. It's the best place for pig and bottle ale at the Fair, sir. Old Ursula is the cook; you can see that here. [points to the sign, a pig's head, with large text beneath it.] The pig’s head tells you. Poor thing, she used to have a leg issue, but she's gotten much better.

White. A delicate show pig, little mistress, with sweet sauce, and crackling, like the bay leaf in the fire, ha! You shall have the clean side of the tablecloth, and the glass washed with the feathers of Lady Anne’s Clear.

Lit. [gazing at the inscription.] This is really good. Here are the best pigs, and she cooks them just as well as she always has, the pig’s head says.

[Pg 212]

Knock. Great, great, my lady; with burning juniper and rosemary branches! That's the secret of the pig's head, sir.

Pure. Son, weren't you warned about the vanity of appearances? Have you forgotten that good advice already?

Fire. Good mother, how are we supposed to find a pig if we don’t look for it? Do you think it will just run off the spit into our mouths like in Lubberland and squeal, wee, wee!

Occupied. No, but your mother, in a religious sense, believes it can be perceived through other means, like steam, which I think is present here—huh, huh—yes, it is. [He sniffs after it like a hound.] And it would be a sin of stubbornness, a serious stubbornness, an extreme and terrible stubbornness, to ignore or resist the pleasant stimulation of the hungry sense, which is smell. So be bold—huh, huh, huh—follow the scent: go into the tents of the unclean just this once, and fulfill your wife's desire. Let your delicate wife be satisfied; your eager mother, and my suffering self, will also be satisfied.

Lit. Come on, Win, it's just as good to win here as to go farther and see nothing.

Swamped. We avoid so many of the other distractions by getting started early.

Pure. It's a valuable thought.

Mrs. Literature. This is ridiculous that we have to be at the Fair and not be able to look at it.

Lit. Win, be patient, Win, I’ll tell you more soon.

They exit into the booth: Littlewit, Mrs. Littlewit, Busy, and Purecraft.

Knock knock. Mooncalf, entertain inside, the best pig in the booth, a pig that looks like a pig. These are Banbury-bloods, from the genuine breed, here for pig hunting. Wait, wait, pay attention to your responsibility.

[Leave Whit.

Occupied. [within.] A pig is getting ready now, so let a pig be ready for us.

Enter MOONCALF and URSULA.

Moon. Who are these people?

Urs. Is this the kind of service you're offering me, Jordan?

Knock knock. Why, Urse, why, Urse? You're going to have cramps in your leg again soon, please go inside, or it might lead to worse problems.

Urs. Hang your smokes, they’re old, and smell just like you! Are these the guests for the game you promised to bring to my place today?

Knock. Hey, what's wrong, Urse?

Urs. Oh man! They’re all just sipping away, sipping on their city drinks; they look like they wouldn’t even finish a couple of drinks worth of cheap beer together.

Moon. A person might see that in their tiny printed collars.

Knock. Go away, you're a fool, Urse, and so is your Mooncalf: caught up in your ignorant nonsense now! Leave! Good guests, I say, total hypocrites, good eaters. Come on in, set a couple of pigs on the table, and put out half a dozen of the biggest bottles before them, and call[Pg 213] Whit. [Exit Mooncalf.] I don't like to hear innocents mistreated; such fine pretenders! And a strict puritan with a reddish head and beard! Good eaters; two for each pig, off you go.

Urs. Are you really sure they are like that?

Knock. Oh, the right kind, you'll test them by their teeth, Urse; where's this Whit?

Sign back in WHIT.

Knock knock. Well said, brave Whit! Come in, and pour the ale from the bottles into the bellies of the brothers, and . . . the sisters drink to the cause and good vibes.

[Exit Knockem, Whit, and Ursula.

Quar. My loud friend has become a bartender, it seems. Now would be a great time for you, Winwife, to go after your widow; you won’t find a better time or place. Anyone willing to put themselves out there at the Fair and in a pigpen will welcome any advances, trust me on that.

Win. I don't really like plans that come up so suddenly.

Quar. I bet you, then, there's not a single wife among that hundred widows: if I had even a tiny claim to her, just having breathed near that tight bodice of hers, I'd make sure to have her before she leaves Smithfield; or she could take me, which I admit would be a better sight. But you're a careful planner, taking it step by step; come on, it's a flaw in you, not a decision; I should just go for it all at once.—

Enter OVERDO.

Look, here’s the poor fool again who got stung by the wasp earlier.

Done. I won’t make any more speeches; I’m going to jump to these tragic conclusions. Now I’m starting to think that, in a way, Adam Overdo deserved this beating; because I, Adam, was partly to blame for the purse being lost, including my wife’s brother’s purse, which they still don’t know about. But I’ll have a good laugh about it at dinner; that will be the fun, and it will completely throw my little friend, Master Humphrey Waspe, off his game. While sitting at the head of my table, as I usually do, drinking to my brother Cokes and Mrs. Alice Overdo, my wife, for their kindness to old Bradley, I’ll tell them it was I who got beaten, and I’ll show them the marks. It’s funny how bad things can come from good intentions! My concern for that polite young man I fancied this morning (and still do) led me to that speech, which attracted the crowd; which attracted the pickpocket; which led to the money being stolen; which caused my brother Cokes to lose; which resulted in [Pg 214] Waspe’s anger; which led to my beating: quite a sequence! And they’ll hear about it at my dinner table tonight, I swear, because I love to keep things lighthearted. At one point, after one particularly hard blow, I almost revealed who I was; but then (thank you, courage) I remembered that a wise man, who contributes so much to society, should not abandon a public good for one personal disaster. The farmer shouldn’t give up farming for one bad year; the shepherd shouldn’t toss aside his tar box for one sick sheep; the pilot shouldn’t abandon the helm for one leak in the boat; nor should the alderman give up his cloak for one extra custard at a meal; the constable shouldn’t break his staff and stop watching over things for one loud night; nor should the village piper, ut parvis componere magna solebam, put away his pipes for one rainy Sunday. These are solid conclusions; and I’ve decided, no matter what happens—whether it’s me getting beaten, imprisoned, being shamed, exiled, or even tortured or executed (bring it on)—I won’t reveal who I am until the right time. And still, everything will proceed, as I’ve always said, in the name of justice, the king, and for the common good.

Exit Overdo.

Win. What is he mumbling to himself and acting so seriously for, poor guy!

Argument. No matter what. Here’s a better argument, consider that.

Enter COKES, Mistress OVERDO, and GRACING WELLBORN, followed by WASPE, carrying a bunch of toys.

Sodas. Come on, Grace, come on, sister, there are even more amazing sights to see, really. Gosh, where’s Numps?

Leather. What do you need, gentlemen? What are you buying? Fancy rattles, drums, toys for babies, little dogs, and birds for the ladies? What do you need?

Sodas. Good honest Numps, stay close, I’m really worried you’ll miss out on something; I nearly lost my breath when I couldn’t find you.

Waspe. You’d be better off with a whip in your hand to keep me in line.

Sodas. No, don’t get it wrong, Numps; you’re always misunderstanding! I just want to keep an eye on the goods. See, the triple fiddle was almost lost.

Wasps. Please be careful not to lose yourself; the best thing you can do is get up and ride for safety. Buy a few big safety pins to attach yourself to my shoulder.

Leather. What do you need, gentlemen? Nice wallets, bags, cases for your coins, pipes? What do you want? A couple of blacksmiths to wake you up in the morning? Or a beautiful whistling bird?

Sodas. Numps, there are nicer things here than anything we've bought before! And much more elegant horses, for sure; good Numps, wait, and come over here.

Waspe. Are you going to hang out with him? You're in Smithfield; you might as well get a nice, chill street horse for your saddle by the next term. Does he not have some quirky cart for you[Pg 215] to use in the countryside, maybe with four colorful hobby-horses? Why on earth are you standing here with your entourage, shopping for dogs, birds, and babies? You don’t have any kids to give them to, do you?

Sodas. No, but I have kids, Numps, and that’s all that matters.

Wasp. Do, do, do, do; how many do you think you’ll get? If I were you, I’d buy for all my tenants too; they’re like civilized savages who would trade their children for toys, pipes, and knives. You might as well buy a hatchet or two and deal with them.

Sodas. Good Numps, keep that little tongue of yours quiet and save us both some effort. I am determined, Bat, you know that.

Wasp. You're such a stubborn fool, I get it, and quite the flashy show-off; I mean it wholeheartedly;—actually, you've got it, man, if you're upset, deal with it, twice; if I didn’t say it once before, and I hope it serves you well.

Win. Was there ever such self-inflicted pain, and so bold?

Quarantine. Sadly, his worries are about to break him; let’s go in and support him.

They step forward.

Wasps. I wish I had been buried in the ground with just my head sticking out, so my brains could be knocked out or threshed when I first faced this awful burden!

Quarantine. Hey, Numps! Are you getting tired in your role as protector? Feeling overwhelmed?

Wasp. I’m not sure why, sir, but maybe I am; does that upset you?

Quarantine. No, I swear it doesn’t, Numps; to satisfy you.

Wasp. Wow! Seriously, it’s great to see you again: how long have we known each other, if you don’t mind me asking?

Quar. I think it can be remembered, Numps, that it was since morning, for sure.

Wasp. Well, I thought I knew it well enough, sir; I didn't ask to be informed.

Quar. No! Why is that?

Wasp. It doesn’t matter why; you can see with your own eyes now what I told you today: will you believe me next time?

Dispute. Are you getting rid of the Fair, Numps?

Waspe. That's an interesting and polite question! Yes, I have my load, as you can see, or will have it soon. You can tell whose animal I am by what I'm carrying. If the pannier-man’s donkey was ever recognized better by its load of mutton, then I'll be skinned alive and feed the dogs for him when his time comes.

Win. How sad mistress Grace looks over there! Please, let’s go win her favor.

Sodas. I’ll take those six horses, my friend—

Waspe. Wow!

Sodas. And the three cards, and half a dozen birds, and that drum—I already have one drum—and your blacksmiths; I really like that idea of your blacksmiths, it’s quite nice; and four halberds—and, [Pg 216]let me see, I’ll take that beautifully painted lady and her three attendants for show.

Wasp. No, the store; just buy out the whole store, it’ll be the best move, the store, the store!

Leath. If it pleases you.

Wasps. Yeah, and hold onto it during the Fair, Bobchin.

Sodas. Peace, Numps.—Friend, don’t get involved with him if you’re smart and want to keep your head above water; he’ll sting right through your fancy nightcap, trust me. I’d also buy a set of those violins for a delicate young one I have in the country, each one smaller than the last, just like your fiddles. I’d really like to have a nice young performer at my wedding, now that I think about it: But I need so many things!—And Numps won’t help me now, and I’m too afraid to talk to him.

Garbage. Will you buy some gingerbread, really good bread, nice and soft bread?

Cokes. Gingerbread! Yes, let's check it out.

Runs to her store.

Waspe. There’s the other trap.

Leather. Is this really okay, good Joan, to interrupt my market right in the middle and take my customers away? Can you explain this at the Pie-poudres?

Garbage. If his lordship wants to buy, I hope my goods are just as available as anyone else's; I can display my items just as well as you can yours.

Sodas. Be quiet; I’ll make you both happy: I’ll buy his shop and your basket.

Waspe. Will you, really?

Leather. Why would you keep him from it, friend?

Wasp. Excuse me! You’d be up for sale too, would you? What’s your price, clothes and all, just as you are? Do you have any special skills?

Waste. Yes, good man, angry man, you’ll see he has qualities if you undervalue him.

Wasps. Oh really, you’re the one selling him! So what’s the deal? Will they buy him for love or money?

Garbage. No way, sir.

Waspe. For what then, food?

Garbage. He looks down on food, man; he has bread and butter at home, thank God! And yet he will do anything for a good meal if it sparks his interest; but they shouldn’t expect him to work on lower tasks, because if they do, he’ll walk away, even if it means going hungry; but put him at the top of the table, where he belongs, and he’ll impress you with all sorts of amazing things. He hasn’t been called upon or sought out for anything at your fancy city dinners, just to outshine Coriat and Cokely, and been laughed at for his efforts; he will mimic all the performers in town, every acting troupe, and even his own group too; he holds back for no one.

Cokes. Really?

Garbage. He was the first person, sir, who ever taunted that guy in the[Pg 217] bear’s skin, unlike you, your worship: no dog has approached him since. And as for those fancy moves!

Sodas. Is he good at those too? Can he organize a masquerade, I wonder?

Garbage. Oh Lord, master! I searched everywhere for his creations; and he takes everything, he controls all the puppets in the Fair.

Sodas. Do you, really, old velvet jacket? Give me your hand.

Garbage. No way, sir, you'll see him in his velvet jacket, and a scarf too at night, when you hear him explain master Littlewit’s suggestion.

Sodas. No need to say more, just close up your shop right now, buddy. I’ll buy both it and you to take with me, along with her basket. Your shop will provide the costumes, and hers the food: I can’t settle for anything less if I want to look good. What’s the price, in a nutshell, for your entire shop, everything as it is?

Leather. Sir, it costs me twenty-six shillings and seven and a half pence, plus three shillings for my land.

Sodas. Well, thirty shillings will cover everything, then! And how much do you owe?

Garbage. Four shillings and eleven pence, sir, ground and all, not like your highness.

Sodas. Yes, it really appreciates my worship, poor woman; that’s five more shillings: what kind of show should I put on for forty shillings, twenty pounds of Scotch, and a feast of gingerbread! That’s quite a thing! Numps? sister?—and my wedding gloves too! Something I hadn’t thought of before! All my wedding gloves in gingerbread? Oh no! What a trick it will be to make them eat their fingers off! And fancy brooches for the groomsmen and all! Then I’ll have this saying written on them, For the best grace, referring to Mistress Grace, my wedding saying.

Grace. I owe you a lot, sir, and to your cleverness.

Waspe. You can't be serious, right? Is this your first purchase?

Sodas. Yes, trust: and I believe, Numps, you'll agree, it was the smartest move I ever made in my guardianship.

Wasp. For sure! I'll say anything, I will!

Enter EDGWORTH, NNightingale and People, followed, at a distance, by OVERDO.

Done. I can't come up with a plan, even with all my political smarts: my plan is to get this decent young man away from his corrupt friends. I've followed him all over the Fair, and I still find him with this singer, and I'm starting to suspect their closeness; and the young man has a terrible flaw, poetry! If he catches that idle disease, there's no hope for him in a public role. It's over for him as a member of the community if he starts writing in rhyme. [Aside.

Edge. [to Nightingale.] There he is buying gingerbread; let's go quickly, before he spends too much of his money.

[Pg 218]

Nighttime. [moving forward and singing.] My masters, friends, and good people, come closer—

Sodas. [runs to the ballad-man.] Ballads! Hey! Wait a minute! Please, my friend, stick around for a bit; hey Numps, keep an eye on the stuff. What ballads do you have? Let me see, let me see for myself.

Waspe. Why is that! He’s gone to another lime bush, and he’ll keep flitting around there for a while longer; until he’s got no feathers left. Is there any frustration like this, gentlemen? Will you trust me now, later on, will I earn your confidence?

Quar. Yes, you definitely should, Numps, and you deserve it because you work hard for it. I’ve never seen a young hustler and his sidekick a better match.

Win. Faith, the sister, follows them closely as well.

Grace. No, if you saw the fairness of her husband, my guardian, you'd understand the situation; he’s such a wise person in his own way—

Win. I wonder why he’s not here.

Grace. Oh! He’s too serious for this place, and yet he’s better company than the other three, I promise you, gentlemen, no matter where he is, even if he’s sitting on the bench.

Sodas. How do you call it? A warning against pickpockets! That's a good joke, really; I would love to see that thief you're talking about, that smooth-handed devil. They say he lurks around here; I want to see him walk by now. Look, sister, here, here [he shows his purse proudly], let him come, sister, and welcome. Ballad-singer, do any pickpockets hang around here? Please, bring me one or two; start, and show me one.

Nighttime. Sir, this is a new spell against them; it’s made as if it were part of me, and I sing it for my own protection. But it will cost a penny on its own if you want to buy it.

Sodas. It doesn't matter about the price; you don't know me, I can see, I am a strange Bartholomew.

Mrs. Over. Is it a great picture, brother?

Sodas. Oh, sister, do you remember the songs above the nursery fireplace at home that I used to make? There are bold images, different kinds of images than these, my friend.

Wasp. But these will help you pull the pictures out of your pockets, you'll see.

Sodas. I heard them say it! Please don’t pay attention to him, buddy; he wants to be involved in everything.

Nighttime. It was meant, sir, that if a purse were to be cut in front of me, I could be blameless, as the following events will make clearer.

Sodas. Let’s get started on this topic: please go ahead.

Nighttime. To the sound of Paddington’s pound, sir.

Sodas. [sings.] Fa, la la la, la la la, fa, la la la! No, I’ll get you in the groove and everything; my own country dance! Please start.

Nighttime. It's a soft reminder, you should know, sir, for both the thief and the one being robbed.

[Pg 219]

Sodas. Not a word more out of tune, if you love me; Fa, la la la, la la la, fa, la la la. So, when?

Sodas. Ha, ha, that sounds great! Wise advice right at the start.

Coke. Awesome!

Sodas. Well said! He's the one to blame if he doesn't, I swear.

Sodas. Good, for real; what do you think, Numps, is there any problem with this?

Sodas. The more fools they were who did it, I guess.

Soda. Thank God for that! Why should they be more free, really?

Sodas. That again, good ballad-man, that again. [He sings the chorus with him.] Oh, amazing! I wish I could rub my elbow now, but I don’t dare take out my hand.—Come on, please; the one who made this ballad will be the poet for my masquerade.

Cokes. Is it possible?

Cokes. Really?

[Pg 220]

Colas. [sings after him.] Youth, youth, etc.—Please stay a moment, friend. Honestly, Numps, tell me, is there any harm in this?

Waspe. To be honest, it’s too good for you unless you have the grace to pursue it.

Done. It reveals something huge; I’ll emphasize it further: I haven't enjoyed a mediocre poem this much in quite some time. [Aside.

Sodas. Youth, youth, etc.; where is this youth now? A man must summon him for his own benefit, and yet he doesn’t show up. Look here, here’s for him; [shows his purse.] handy dandy, which hand will he choose? Come on, please, with the rest; I’ve heard about him, but I can’t see him, this master youth, the pickpocket.

Sodas. He was a great guy! I would want him now.

Sodas. But where's their cleverness now, when they need it? They're all tied down, I guarantee you. [Sings.] Youth, youth, you’d be better off—The rat-catchers’ tricks are nothing compared to this: curse them for not showing up! That a person should want something so badly and not get it!

Quar. I swear to God I’d give up half the fair if it were mine, just to get him a pickpocket to satisfy his desire.

Soda. Look, sister [shows his purse again], here, here, where is it now? Which pocket is it in, I bet?

Wasp. I urge you to put aside your bets and let him finish his business, if that's possible.

Cokes. Oh, are you enlightened, Numps!

Done. He really does interrupt him too much: Numps made a good point there. [Aside.

Sodas. Sister, I'm such a fool, I can't hold onto my wallet! [She shows it again, and puts it away.]—Come on, please, my friend.

[As Nightingale sings, Edgworth gets up to Cokes and tickles him in the ear with a straw twice to get him to pull his hand out of his pocket.]

Win. Will you watch the game? Look, there's a guy approaching him, see?

Quar. Good, indeed! Oh, he has chosen the wrong pocket.

Win. He has it! I swear, he is a brave guy: it’s a shame he should get caught.

[Pg 221]

Everything. What a great song! What a great song!

Edgy. Friend, please let me go first, I ask you.

As Nightingale hands over the ballad, Edgworth quietly puts the purse into his hand.

Sodas. Excuse me, sir; it's first come, first served; and I’ll take the whole bundle as well.

Winw. That ride was better than all the others, did you see it? He has handed the purse to the ballad singer.

Quar. Has he?

Edgy. Sir, I'm sorry, I won’t stand in the way of the poor man's earnings; please don’t misunderstand me.

Sodas. Sir, I see you as an honest man, if that's a mistake; I ran into you earlier today: ha! humph! Oh no! My wallet is gone, my wallet, my wallet, my wallet!

Wasp. Come on, don’t create a scene, and embarrass yourself at the Fair before it’s your turn.

Sodas. Why do you have it, Numps? Good Numps, how did you get it, I'm curious?

Waspe. Please find someone else to play the fool with; you’ll have plenty of time to lose it, no matter how clever you think you are.

Sodas. I swear, it's already lost if you don't have it; check again, and also grab Mistress Grace’s handkerchief from the other pocket.

Wasp. Well, that’s great, really great, super nice and good.

Edgy. Are you sure you've lost it, sir?

Sodas. Oh Lord! Yes; as I’m an honest man, I just had it at Youth, youth.

Nighttime. I hope you don't think it's me, sir?

Edge. You! now that would be a joke! Do you really think the guy is stupid? Where did you get that idea, I ask you? Go away, fool, go away!

Exit Nightingale.

Game over. I'll get beaten again if someone sees me. [Aside, retiring.

Edgy. Sir, I think that strange guy over there is sneaking away.

Mrs. Over. Brother, it’s that preacher guy: you should keep an eye on him. He was after your other purse, remember! [Grabs Overdo.]—Wait, sir, take a look at the mess you’ve caused; if you end up at the gallows and preach there, you can thank your own handiwork.

Sodas. Sir, you shouldn't take pride in your promotion; you'll be shut down fast.

They take Overdo.

[Pg 222]

Done. What do you mean, lovely flowers of kindness?

Sodas. To get my money's worth out of you, buddy. You carry no less than two purses a day! I thought you were just a simple guy when my buddy Numps beat you in the morning, and I felt sorry for you.

Mrs. O. So did I. I swear, brother; but now I see he is a wicked and harmful monster, just as Master Overdo calls him.

Done. My own words have come back to hurt me like swords! [Aside.

Sodas. Can’t a guy’s wallet settle down in the boss’s pocket without you trying to lure it out and waste it?

Overdo is taken away.

Wasp. Sir, keep your partying and fancy Bartholomew phrases to yourself, and enjoy them as much as you want. But in the meantime, please let me know if I can count on you for this.

Coke. Why, Numps?

Wasp. Why! Because you're an idiot, sir, there's a reason it's the easiest way, and if you insist on it: now you've got the hang of losing, you'd lose your pants if they weren't already loose. I know you, sir, come on, hand it over [takes the box from him], are you going to go and brag about the pests you create now, huh? That's great; do you want the truth about it? They're as reckless as you are, causing trouble everywhere; your foolishness with money makes them. And if there were no one wiser than me, sir, the business would be wide open for you, it really would, I swear, sir. I would teach your brain to catch up with you, sir, just like your land to come into your possession, I assure you, sir.

Winw. Alas, good Numps!

Wasps. No, gentlemen, please don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not worth it: Lord, if I ever get back home to Harrow on the Hill, then if I travel again, just call me Coriat with all my heart.

[Waspe, Cokes, and Mrs. Overdo exit, followed by Edgworth.]

Quar. [stops Edgworth.] Wait a moment, I need to talk to you privately. Do you understand?

Edge. I'm here, sir! What can I do for you, good sir?

Quar. Don’t deny it, you’re a pickpocket, sir; this gentleman and I saw you. We don’t intend to expose you, even though we could easily find out the risks of hiding you. But you need to do us a favor.

Edge. Good gentlemen, please don’t ruin me; I’m a polite young man and just getting started.

Quar. Sir, your start will lead to your conclusion for us: we’re neither detectives nor police officers. What you need to do is this: did you see the old guy with the black box here?

Edg. The old governor, right?

Quar. Same here: I see you've already sent him off to a target. I want you to take that box away from him and bring it to us.

Edge. Would you like the box and everything inside it, sir, or just what’s in it? I can get that for you and leave him the box to keep playing with,[Pg 223] which will be more challenging for me since I want to earn your good opinion.

Win. He says, "Well, it's the greater skill, and it will be more fun when it's a mystery."

Edgy. Yeah, and it will be longer missing, to add to the excitement.

Argument. But listen, you need to do it now, kid, and stick to your promise, or—

Edge. Sir, if I ever go back on my word to a gentleman, may I never find the right words when I need them. Where can I find you?

Quar. Somewhere in the Fair, around here: get it done fast. [Exit Edgworth.] I would love to see the cautious fool tricked! Of all animals, I admire the serious donkey; he who works hard to be one and acts foolishly with all the effort he can muster.

Grace. Then you wouldn't choose, sir, but love my guardian, Justice Overdo, who fits that description perfectly in every detail.

Argument. So I've heard. But how did you, Mistress Wellborn, end up being his ward or connected to him in the first place?

Grace. Faith, due to a shared misfortune, he acquired me, sir; and now he plans to marry me to his wife’s brother, this clever gentleman that you see; or else I must pay for my land's worth.

Dispute. Damn it, is there no way to insult someone, or what? Talk to some clever guy, some legal loophole expert: I wish I had studied another year at the law school, it would have helped in your situation.

Win. Hey, Master Quarlous, are you offering something! [Aside.

Grace. You wouldn't be much help, sir.

Win. I’ll trust you, in faith, player. [Aside.]—You’ve ended up in a really unfortunate group, lady; I’m surprised you can handle them.

Gratitude. Sir, those who can’t break their chains have to wear them.

Win. Look at how much they care about you, leaving you like this.

Gratitude. Faith, it's the same faith they have in themselves, sir. I can't really complain if this is all I have against them.

Win. It’s true: but could you please step aside with us for a bit and make them think they’ve lost you? I hope our behavior and our words so far have been such that you have no reason to doubt yourself in our company.

Grace. Sir, I won’t give myself any reason to worry; I’m confident in my own behavior, so I don’t question yours.

Quar. Look, here comes John Littlewit.

Win. I'm leaving; he won't see me again.

Quar. No, you weren't the best, he'd tell his mom, the widow.

Winw. Heart! What do you mean?

Conflict. Excuse me, is the wind blowing? Shouldn't the widow be mentioned?

[Exit.

Enter LITTLEWIT from URSULA’S booth, followed by Mrs. LITTLEWIT.

Lit. Do you hear, Win?

Mrs. Lit. What do you think, John?

[Pg 224]

Lit. While they settle the bill, Win, let me tell you something, Win; we probably won’t see any attractions at the Fair, Win, unless you wait quietly, Win: dear Win, sweet Win, I can't wait to see some hobby-horses, drums, rattles, and dogs, and all the cool things, Win. The bull with five legs, Win; and the big pig. Now that you’ve started with pigs, you might start wanting anything, Win, so listen to my idea, Win.

Ms. Lit. But we won’t eat the bull and the pig, John; how long will I last then?

Lit. Oh yes, Win: you might really want to see it, as well as experience it, Win: how about the apothecary’s wife, Win, who wanted to see the anatomy, Win? Or the lady, Win, who wanted to spit in the great lawyer’s mouth after a powerful argument? I assure you, they were eager, Win; come on, Win, go inside and indulge that desire.

[Littlewit and Mrs. Littlewit exit.]

Garbage. I think we’re done with our new customer, brother Leatherhead; we won’t be hearing from him again.

Leather. Even better; let’s grab everything and get out of here before he finds us.

Trash. Wait a bit, here comes a group; we might be able to make some more money.

Enter KNOCKEM and BUSY.

Knock! Sir, I will take your advice, get my hair cut, and quit the smoke. I realize that tobacco, beer, pork, and even Whit, along with Ursla herself, are all just empty distractions.

Occupied. Only the pig didn’t understand my warning; the others did. Long hair is a symbol of pride, a banner; and the world is full of those banners, really full of them. And beer is a drink of the devil, a drink meant to inflate us and make us arrogant in this age of vanity; like the smoke of tobacco, keeping us in confusion and error. But the seductive woman, whom you call Ursla, should be avoided at all costs, as she bears the marks of the three enemies of humanity: the world, since she’s in the Fair; the devil, because she’s in the fire; and the flesh, because she is the embodiment of it.

Enter Dame. PURECRAFT.

Clean. Brother Zeal-of-the-land! What should we do? My daughter Win-the-fight is having her longing again.

Occupied. For more pig! There's no more, is there?

Clean. To check out some attractions at the Fair.

Occupied. Sister, let her quickly escape the filth of this place, so she doesn’t get caught up in it. You are the nest of the beast, O Smithfield, and I will be leaving you! Idolatry is peeking out from every corner around you.

Moving ahead.

Knock. What a great hypocrite! Now that he's full, he starts complaining and acting out, that fool. What a show! I’ll go in and share the news with Ursla about how well her pig is doing; he ate two and a half portions, and he drank a whole bucket. He eats with his eyes as much as he does with his mouth.

Exit.

[Pg 225]

Leather. What do you need, gentlemen? What are you buying? Rattles, drums, babies—

Occupied. Peace, with your questionable goods, you shameless seller; your bells, your dragons, and your Tobie’s dogs. Your hobby-horse is an idol, a real idol, a fierce and disgusting idol; and you, the Nebuchadnezzar, the arrogant Nebuchadnezzar of the Fair, who sets it up for kids to bow down to and worship.

Leather. Excuse me, sir; are you going to buy a fiddle to make your noise?

Re-enter LITTLEWIT and his Wife.

Lit. Look, Win, just take a look for God's sake, and save your longing. There are amazing sights here.

Clean. Hey, kid, so you dislike them, just like our brother Zeal does, you can go ahead and look at them.

Leather. So, what do you say to a drum, sir?

Occupied. It’s the shattered belly of the beast, and your bellows are his lungs, these pipes are his throat, those feathers are from his tail, and your rattles are the sound of his teeth grinding.

Garbage. And what is my gingerbread, may I ask?

Occupied. The food that keeps him energized. So go on with your basket of fake beliefs, your collection of idols, and the whole story of gingerbread.

Leather. Sir, if you don't calm down soon, I’ll have you thrown out for causing a scene at the Fair.

Occupied. The wrongdoing of the Fair bothers me, I can't stay quiet.

Pure. Good bro Zeal!

Leather. Sir, I’ll make you quiet, trust me.

Fire. I’d bet a shilling you could, really, my friend. [Aside to Leatherhead.

Leather. Sir, give me your shilling, and I'll give you my shop if I don't. I'll leave it in pawn with you for now.

Lit. A match, for real; but do it fast then.

[Leave Leatherhead.

Occupied. [to Mrs. Purecraft.] Don’t hold me back, woman! I was inspired to be here today at this Fair—this wicked and disgusting Fair; it’s more fitting to call it a Foul than a Fair— to protest against the abuses happening here, the terrible abuses, regarding the suffering saints who are troubled, very much troubled, extremely troubled, with the reopening of Babylon's goods and the popery creeping onto the stalls here, in the high places. Can’t you see Goldylocks, the shameless woman over there, in her yellow dress and green sleeves? The profane music, the jingling tambourines? It’s a shop of relics!

Attempts to take the toys.

Fire. Please hold on, I have been entrusted with them.

Busy. And this worshipful grove of images, this collection of idols, which I will tear down—

Overturns the gingerbread basket.

Garbage. Oh my goodness, my goodness! Thank God for it!

Busy. In my excitement and pride to be so engaged.

[Pg 226]

Re-enter LEATHERHEAD, with BRISTLE, HAGGISE, and other Officers.

Leather. Here he is, please notice his enthusiasm; we can't sell a whistle for him that plays in tune. First, quiet him down.

Occupied. You can't; it's a sacred sound: I will make a loud and powerful noise until I have frightened the irreverent enemy. And for this reason—

Leather. Sir, there isn't a man here who's afraid of you or your cause. You'll take your oath in the stocks, sir.

Occupied. I will throw myself into the stocks, on the pikes of the land.

They grab him.

Leath. Take him away.

Clean. What do you mean, evil people?

Occupied. Let them be; I'm not afraid of them.

[Officers exit with Busy, followed by Dame Purecraft.]

Cool. Wasn't this shilling well spent, Win, for our freedom? Now we can go have fun and check out the Fair wherever we want: my mom has gone after him, and let her go ahead and lose us.

Ms. Lit. Yes, John; but I don’t know what to do.

Lit. For what, Win?

Ms. Lit. There's something I'm embarrassed to share with you, honestly; and it’s too far to go back home.

Lit. Please, don't be embarrassed, Win. Come on, I promise you won’t be embarrassed: is it something about the hobby-horse guy? If it is, just speak openly.

Ms. Lit. Hang him, worthless Bobchin, I disdain him; no, I have very strong what’s it called, John.

Whispers to him.

Awesome. Oh, is that it, Win? We'll head back to Captain Jordan's, to the pig-woman's place, Win. He'll help us, or she will, with a dripping-pan, or an old kettle, or something. The poor greasy soul cares about you, Win; and after that, we’ll check out the Fair together, Win, and see my puppet show, Win; you know it's a great thing, Win.

[Littlewit and Mrs. Littlewit exit.]

Leather. Let’s go; I told you to get ready earlier, Joan.

Garbage. A stain on his insane purity! He has ruined half my goods; but the best part is, we don't lose anything if we miss our first buyer.

Leather. It’s going to be difficult for him to find or recognize us when we’re changed, Joan.

[Exit.]

[Pg 227]

SCENE I.—The Fair.

Booths, stalls, a pair of stocks, etc.

Enter COKES, BRISTLE, HAGGISE, and POCHER, with OVERDO, followed by TROUBLEALL.

Tro. My masters, I have no doubt that you are officers.

Bri. What's next, sir?

Tro. And the king's devoted and loyal citizens.

Bri. Listen up, friend! Be careful with your words, I advise you; Oliver Bristle is giving you advice. His loyal subjects, sure; but not his obedient ones at the moment, if you don’t mind; we know ourselves a bit better than that; we are the ones in charge, sir, and people like you are meant to obey. Here’s one of his obedient subjects heading off to the stocks; and we’ll turn you into another one if you keep talking.

Tro. I know you're all smart in your own ways.

Bri. If you know it, sir, why are you questioning it?

Tro. I don’t question anything, excuse me. I just hope you have a good reason for what you’re doing, and that you can carry on and keep growing.

[Leave.

Witch. What is he?—Bring him to the stocks over there. Why aren’t you bringing him up?

Overdo is highlighted.

Re-enter TROUBLEALL.

Tro. If you have Justice Overdo’s warrant, that’s great; you’re all set: that’s the best warrant there is. I wouldn’t trade this button for anyone else’s warrant.

Bri. Probably, sir; but let me tell you, if you keep losing your buttons like this, you'll run out of them by tonight, since I don’t see many around you; you should hold onto them to save on pins, I guess.

Exit Troubleall.

Done. What should he be, who values and supports my integrity? He seems like a calm and sensible person: It's reassuring for a clear conscience to be accompanied by a good reputation during tough times. The world will get a sense of how I can handle adversity; it will create a sort of respect for me in the future, even from my enemies, when they see that I manage my struggles with dignity and that they neither break me nor change my character. [Aside.

Witch. Come on, sir, here's a spot for you to preach. Are you going to step in?

I will, happily.

They locked him in the stocks.

Bri. Oh my gosh, a seminary! He kisses the stocks.

Sodas. Alright, everyone, I’ll leave him with you; now that I see he’s settled, I’ll go search for my belongings and Numps.

Witch. You can, sir, I guarantee it; where's the other loudmouth? Bring him too, and you'll find them both easily enough.

[Quit drinking Cokes.]

[Pg 228]

Done. In the midst of all this chaos, I will still be the master of my own peace, and ignoring their rage, I will sit in the stocks with a calm that will be enough to disrupt a celebration. [Aside.

Log back in TROUBLEALL.

Tro. Do you really mean what you say? Can I promise for you, if someone asks, that you have this approval?

Witch. Who is this guy, for heaven's sake?

Tro. Just show me Adam Overdo, and I'm good.

[Leave.

Bri. He's a guy who's easily distracted, they say; a real Troubleall. He was an officer in the Pie-poudres court here last year but got fired by justice Overdo.

Over. Ha! [Aside.

Bri. Then he got this weird idea and totally lost it over it: ever since, he refuses to do anything unless it's authorized by Justice Overdo’s order. He won't eat a piece of bread, drink anything, or even change his clothes. His wife, bless her, can't get him to take a piss or change his shirt without that order.

Done. If this is true, then this is my biggest disaster. How can I possibly make this poor guy, who is so kind to me, happy when he’s completely lost his mind? There's no room left for pretending. [Aside.

Log back into TROUBLEALL.

Tro. If you can't show me Adam Overdo, I'm unsure about you; I'm afraid you won't be able to handle it.

Exit.

Witch. Before me, neighbor Bristle,—and now I think about it more—I realize that justice Overdo is a very pushy person.

Bri Oh, are you aware of that! And a strict judge, if you don't mind.

Done. Do I hear something bad coming from that side too? [Aside.

Bri. He will sit straight up on the bench, and if you notice him, like a candle in its holder, shining light on the entire court in every matter.

Witch. But he'll burn bright blue and swell up like a boil, God help us, if he's angry.

Bri. Yeah, and he’ll be mad too when he thinks about it, which is even more. And when he gets angry, whether he’s right or wrong, he always has the law on his side; I’ve noticed that too.

Done. I will be kinder from now on. I realize that compassion can be a form of justice, even though I admit it might be more of a flaw than a strength. [Aside.

Witch. Alright, take him out of the stocks again; we’ll go about this the right way, we’ll have the ace of hearts on our side, if we can.

They take Overdo out.

Enter POCHER, and Officers with BUSY, followed by Dame PURECRAFT.

Poch. Come on, take him over to his friend there.—Master Busy, we hope to control your legs, even if we can't control your mouth.

[Pg 229]

Occupied. No, dark minister, no; you can't control my tongue; it's mine, and with it, I will knock down and mock your Bartholomew horrors, until you become a joke to the neighboring parishes.

Witch. Leave him be, we’ve come up with something better.

Clean. So, is he not going to be put in stocks then?

Bri. No, ma'am, we’ll bring them both to justice, Overdo, and let him handle them as he sees fit: then I, along with my friend Haggise and my assistant Pocher, will be free.