A TALE OF A TUB.
191
Hugh. Spur a free horse, he'll run himself to death.'
Sancti Evangelistæ! here comes Miles!
Sancti Evangelistæ! here comes Miles!
Enter Metaphor.
Pre. What news, man, with our new-made pursuivant?
Met. A pursuivant! would I were—or more pursie,
And had more store of money; or less pursie,
And had more store of hreath: you call me pursuivant,
But I could never vaunt of any purse
I had, sin' you were my godfathers and godmothers,
And gave me that nick-name.
And had more store of money; or less pursie,
And had more store of hreath: you call me pursuivant,
But I could never vaunt of any purse
I had, sin' you were my godfathers and godmothers,
And gave me that nick-name.
Pre. What's now the matter?
Met. Nay, 'tis no matter, I have been simply beaten.
Hugh. What is become of the 'squire and thy prisoner?
Met. The lines of blood run streaming from my head,
Can speak what rule the 'squire hath kept with me.
Can speak what rule the 'squire hath kept with me.
Pre. I pray thee, Miles, relate the manner how.
Met. Be't known unto you by these presents then,
That I, Miles Metaphor, your worship's clerk,
Have e'en been beaten to an allegory,
By multitude of hands. Had they been but
Some five or six, I had whipp'd them all, like tops
In Lent, and hurl'd them into Hobler's hole,
Or the next ditch; I had crack'd all their costards,
As nimbly as a squirrel will crack nuts.
That I, Miles Metaphor, your worship's clerk,
Have e'en been beaten to an allegory,
By multitude of hands. Had they been but
Some five or six, I had whipp'd them all, like tops
In Lent, and hurl'd them into Hobler's hole,
Or the next ditch; I had crack'd all their costards,
As nimbly as a squirrel will crack nuts.
