SCENE IV. The palace yard. The Life of King Henry the Eighth  Shakespeare homepage  |  Henry VIII  | Act 5, Scene 4 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene  SCENE IV. The palace yard. 

 Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man  Porter  You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you 

 take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, 

 leave your gaping. 



 Within  Good master porter, I belong to the larder. 

 Porter  Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is 

 this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree 

 staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to 

 'em. I'll scratch your heads: you must be seeing 

 christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here, 

 you rude rascals? 

 Man  Pray, sir, be patient: 'tis as much impossible-- 

 Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons-- 

 To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep 

 On May-day morning; which will never be: 

 We may as well push against Powle's, as stir em. 

 Porter  How got they in, and be hang'd? 

 Man  Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in? 

 As much as one sound cudgel of four foot-- 

 You see the poor remainder--could distribute, 

 I made no spare, sir. 

 Porter  You did nothing, sir. 

 Man  I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, 

 To mow 'em down before me: but if I spared any 

 That had a head to hit, either young or old, 

 He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, 

 Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again 

 And that I would not for a cow, God save her! 



 Within  Do you hear, master porter? 

 Porter  I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. 

 Keep the door close, sirrah. 

 Man  What would you have me do? 

 Porter  What should you do, but knock 'em down by the 

 dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have 

 we some strange Indian with the great tool come to 

 court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a 

 fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian 

 conscience, this one christening will beget a 

 thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together. 

 Man  The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a 

 fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a 

 brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty 

 of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand 

 about him are under the line, they need no other 

 penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on 

 the head, and three times was his nose discharged 

 against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to 

 blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small 

 wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked 

 porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a 

 combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once, 

 and hit that woman; who cried out 'Clubs!' when I 

 might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to 

 her succor, which were the hope o' the Strand, where 

 she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my 

 place: at length they came to the broom-staff to 

 me; I defied 'em still: when suddenly a file of 

 boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower 

 of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, 

 and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst 

 'em, I think, surely. 

 Porter  These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse, 

 and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but 

 the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of 

 Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. 

 I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they 

 are like to dance these three days; besides the 

 running banquet of two beadles that is to come. 



 Enter Chamberlain  Chamberlain  Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! 

 They grow still too; from all parts they are coming, 

 As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, 

 These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows: 

 There's a trim rabble let in: are all these 

 Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have 

 Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, 

 When they pass back from the christening. 

 Porter  An't please 

 your honour, 

 We are but men; and what so many may do, 

 Not being torn a-pieces, we have done: 

 An army cannot rule 'em. 

 Chamberlain  As I live, 

 If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all 

 By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads 

 Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves; 

 And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when 

 Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; 

 They're come already from the christening: 

 Go, break among the press, and find a way out 

 To let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find 

 A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. 

 Porter  Make way there for the princess. 

 Man  You great fellow, 

 Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. 

 Porter  You i' the camlet, get up o' the rail; 

 I'll peck you o'er the pales else. 



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