And I would have it made right notable.
Come, girls, bestir, bestir-fall in, we're ready-
Boys, walk on first-speak loud, that all may hear you,
And not like mice in a cheese.
Jerry.

Good Master Bridegroom,
Shall I screw up my strings, and help a bit ?

Peter. No, Jerry—'tisn't a song--that is, I mean
It isn't a singing song, like of your's;
But when they've finished, then strike up a tune.

(Twelve Boys come forward, and repeat the Epithalamion as they
pass by-after them twelve Girls strew flowers then come the

Bride and Bridegroom, with their attendants-a Crowd dispersedly accompanying them.'

THE EPITHALAMION.

1.
Lo! Judith comes, our master's lady dear;

No longer he a bachelor remains,
But takes a spinster fair, his heart to cheer:

She wears a muslin gown, all free from stains.
Pure white it is, for virgins always dress
In white, when they do bless
Their lovers, by appearing 'fore the priest.

Not only are her garments white enough,
But of that snowy hue is all the rest-

Her gloves, her shoes, her tippet, and her muff:
Of whitest satin is her tasty bonnet,
White are the feathers on it;
And all are types of spotless purity,

Of maiden modesty, and trustyhood;

And Peter oft has sworn, by all that's good!
That she's puremodesttrue, as well can be.
How rich the treasure, then, by us convey'd
To where sharp pins are made !
Loud in our progress we will shout and sing,
Till Brasswire Street respouds, and all its echoes ring.

2.
Tell us, ye tradesmen's daughters, have ye seen,

For a respectable pin-maker's wife,
One properer?-Has she not a milliner been,

And eke a mantua-maker, all her life?
For him, then, she--for her, then, has not he
Professional sympathy?
Do ironmongers, carpenters, or braziers,

Do butchers, druggists, brewers, mealmen, bakers-
Do grocers, vintners, publicans, or graziers,

Do coblers, or do leather-breeches-makers,
Of the pin-making art ask half the aid
As Judith's recent trade?
No, let the buxom widows and the daughters

Of such, with mates of their own kind consort;

Judith stuck Cupid's darts in Peter's heart.
Each time she used his pins about her matters,
How like a pincushion that heart we sing !
And Brasswire Street responds, and all its echoes ring.

3.
Ring ye the bells, ye young men of the town,

And leave your wonted business for the fun;
A half-a-guinea, or at least a crown,

You'll pouch, we warrant, when the peal is done.

It is the first of April, (not of May),
C: 'I'd after All-Fools day-
For May, they tell us, is an ominous tide,

For wooing good, for marrying held in scorn.
But though Al-Fools' day this, nor groom nor bride

Is made a fool of on this blessed morn.
On no fool's errand they approach'd the porch,
On none, came into church.
Nor, as we lead them in our triumph home,

Do we a pair of April fools convey;

In sober seriousness, but blithe array,
A real bride, and real bridegroom come.
Within their closet is a genuine cake,
Of it may we partake !
Or have a mystic piece drawn through the ring;
Then shout in Brasswire Street, and make its echoes sing.

4.
Now it is almost time our bridal song

Should cease, for we espy, down Brasswire Street,
The house which she, whom we conduct along,

Will enter, to assume the mistress' seat.
Good lack! what festal cheer is there a-making,
What roasting, boiling, baking!
Would it were ours to hold the envied station

Of those whose jaws and smacking lips will soon
Work on the dinner now in preparation,

At Peter's table, in the afternoon!
But never mind-content are we, if ale
Be sent us, mild or stale.
Soon, too, will marrow-bones and cleavers come,

And we shall hear how butchers can untie

The hidden soul of softening harmony,
And give the bride melodious welcome home;
And in the evening bonfires we shall light,
To celebrate the night-
And round them we shall dance, hurrah, and sing,

That Brasswire Street shall shine, and all its echoes ring,
Peter. Well, what d'ye think of that now?
Mrs M.

Nay, don't ask;
"I couldn't understand what they were babbling-
It seem'd impertinence. The lasses make
Sad litter on the pavement—what's it for?
I trust those bows upon the childrens' hats
Are only sham-not real ribbon favours?

Peter. They're paper ones—but I protest, I think
The boys spoke out as loud as the town-crier.
The Epithalamion (that's the name of it)
Is a fine thing—I am very glad we had one.

Jerry. 'Oons, Master Minikin, how can ye say so?
All that there squalling was’nt worth a farthing-
Now I'm your man.-I'll play you what's worth hearing-
None of your new fal-lals—but such a song
As I heard played at your good father's wedding;
Ay, and at that of your sweet lady-mother's.

Man in the Crowd. None of your lies, old Scrapegut; for, you know,
Peter and Judith are as old as you.
Jerry.

Well, well,
All's one for that;-d'ye think that I don't know
What suits a wedding?
Voice in Crowd.

Silence ! Jerry's tuning.

2d Voice. A ballad is worth hearing.
3d Voice.

Hush! be quiet.

JERRY'S GREETING.

Good luck to you, my worthy master! and good to you, any worthy mistress ! And good luck to you, bride's-men and bride’s-maids! and plenty of laughing

and kisses; And I hope the girls will all get good husbands, and the young men good wives, And live, as Peter and Judy are going to do, in happiness all their

lives ! Then here's success to Mister and Mistress Minikin!,

And to Mistress Minikin and Mister! And I hope that my worthy master will prove a husband good and true, And let his wife have her own way in all that she chooses to do ; And that he'll, twice a-year, give her silk for new gowns, without any scanty

measuring; And plenty of money in her purse, and leave to go out often a-pleasuring.

Then here's, &c. And I hope that my worthy mistress will prove a good and constant wife, And bring him a beautiful little family, for to be the joy and pride of his life; And that she'll keep a warm kitchen, and make her parlour snug and cozy, And let her husband enjoy himself, and not snub him when he happens to get

a little boozy.

Then here's, &c. And I wish them many a merry Christmas, with plenty of mince-pies and spicy

lamb's-wool; And every Midsummer a syllabub from the cow, all in a china bowl ; And plenty of pancakes, well toss'd and crisp, at every return of Shrovetide; And à fat goose every Michaelmas-day, full of onions and sage inside.

Then here's, &c. And I hope their cellar of a barrel of good ale may never be forsaken; And that their chimney-corner may never be without a good home-cured flitch

of bacon; And so, that it always may be ready to cut off a rasher from, for dressing ; And that they may never forget the old fiddler, who wished them such a plena

tiful blessing.

Then here's success to Mister and Mistress Minikin!
And to Mistress Minikin and Mister!

Mrs M. I won't deny, now, there's some sense in this,
For this thing bits my fancy.
Peter.

Does it, cherub?
Then I'll reward old Jerry with a shilling,
And leave to get his dinner in the kitchen.

Mrs M. Not both. If you invite such vagrants in,
You'll soon be eaten out of house and home. -
But who's this coming out from your back-gate ?

[A Man wheels forward a small Barrel on a Barrou.
Peter. I bade John Gubbins hoist from out my cellar
A kilderkin of ale, and mean to give it
In prudent quantities to the populace.
Their throats are doubtless sore athirst and parched
By giving us kindly greetings.
Mrs M.

You amaze me.-
Waste a whole kilderkin upon those fellows,
And let 'em guzzle it for hooting at us?
I will not stand it. Bid him wheel it back
Directly. Never heard I of such madness,
To throw good ale away in these dear times,

а

I could'nt have thought that you were such a numscull.
Thank Heaven! there's somebody, now, to keep together

Your little property. I'm sure there's need on't.
Enter Butchers' Boys, with marrow-bones and cleavers. They play and dance,

making a great clatter. Their Spokesman comes forward.
Butcher's Boy. Your servant, ma’am-your servant, sir-We hope
You won't forget the marrow-bones and cleavers,
Who are come to wish you, on this happy day,
All health and happiness! And we should like
To tap that ale-cask, which was moving off
Just as we entered.
Peter.

Sweetest, must it go?
I'll hollow after John, and have it back-

Mrs M. Do't at your peril.—As for you, rapscallions !
What business had you to come clattering here,
Disturbing honest folks? Go scrub your blocks,
And use your cleavers for a better purpose
Than deafening us with them.
Butcher.

A thorough skinflint!

[Boys and Men appear dragging in faggots.
Crowd. Room, room, the bonfire !
Mrs M.

Peter, what's all this?
Peter. Love, you don't seem to approve festivity.-
I thought to bring you honour and renown;
So, with your leave, I have permitted them
To take from my back-yard a faggot-stack-
The very smallest though—and pile it here,
To make a merry bonfire in the evening,
I trust, with your approval.
Mrs M.

My approval?
My leave? I'm sure you never had my leave,
And never shall, to waste your fuel so.-
Rascals, go carry every stake and twig
Back to their place, or you shall have a stick
Shall make your backs smart.
A Man, (aside,)

Since there's to be
No bonfire after all, I'll take mine home.

Mrs M. Hollo! that bandy-legged fellow, with the faggot,
Is going the opposite way!

Man. (throwing it down.) Nay, if you cast
Such base insinivations on my honour,
I will not carry it another inch.
Mrs M.

Fine talking, fellow!
One needs to look out

sharp-Peter, you dolt,
See what a set of villains you're encouraging.
Bonfires, forsooth! and all from our own brushwood !

Enter Sexton.

Sext. The ringers, with their duty, send me to you.
For they, as you can hear, are busy now
Up in the belfry; where, I'm bold to say,
Although I say't that shouldn't say't, there is
As pretty a peal of bells as ever chimed.-
Hark! how they celebrate your happy marriage.-
The ringers, with their service, wish you joy!
And humbly beg you'll send the usual fee.

Mrs M. A fee No, not a ha’penny of money,
There are six bells-six men, I trow, to pull 'em,
At a pint a-piece, it comes to just three quarts.

Three quarts of ale's a very handsome present ;
Which you may carry when you've brought a mug.

Secton. La, ma'am, folks never grudge to give a guinea
'Tis the old custom.
Mrs M.

And high time it is
Such customs should be broken.
Sexton. (Aside.)

I'll be bound,
The peal will be a short one, when they find
A pint of beer is all their recompence.
'Tis not worth while to argufy with her,
For she's a near one-Better this than nothing-
Perhaps I may wheedle something out of Peter,

I
If I can get his private ear, and find him
Without his squeezy rib at hand. I'll try.

(Exit Sexton.) (While the altercation between Mrs M.and the Sexton was going on,

the Fiddler, the Butchers' Boys, and others of the Crowd, confer in one corner The Beadle, the Children, and some others not

joining in the Conspiracy.), 1st Conspirator, (a Butcher's Boy.) Let's play a trick against the

stingy hussey; We'll say her kitchen chimney is on fire. Omnes.

Agreed, agreed. 1st Consp.

Well then, my contrivance Is to steal into the house behind, and then Come out of their front door, and raise the alarm But you must give me time. Keep them from entering. (Exit.)

(They come forward, and surround the bridal party.) Jerry. Ma'am, what a pitytis, the blacks are falling Upon your clean wash'd gown! and don't ye smell A sort of a kind of a smell, as 'twere, of soot?

2d Consp. My stars ! how thick that smoke is. 3d Consp.

Whereabouts ? Oh, mercy

-black as ink-Whose chimney's that? Peter. 'Which chimney? Why, that's ours. I canvot see There's aught amiss. 2d Consp.

See, see, there's sparks of fire.
Mrs M. Don't stand before me, in a body's way
Make room-break up the line and let me pass.
We'll have no more of this,'tis as I guess'd,
No good could come of this processioning
Such fiddle-faddle—let me go in-doors.
1st Consp. (Rushing out of the front-door.) Oh dear, the kitchen

chimney's all in a-blaze-
The dinner's spoilt, smother'd in soot and ashes
The cook-maid's burnt to a coal-fetch water, water
Ring out the fire-bell-drag the engine here
From underneath the steeple.
Peter.

Who'd have thought it?
Mrs M. Let me go in.

Omnes, (surrounding and detaining her.) Nay, nay, a bride to hazard Her self-destruction on her marriage day!

Peter, (weeping.) O spare me, Judith --what would be my feelings If I should have to see you scorch'd to cinders ; Besides, at least, your dress will all be smutch'd.

Mrs M. Unband me, sirs ; I will go in and see
The rights of this.

Bridemaids. Don't, Judy, dear; pray don't.
Bridesmen. We cannot suffer you to burn yourself.
Mrs M. I'll make his ears burn hot, who hinders me.

(She cuffs her way through, and enters the house.) Peter (sprawls after her, then lingers at the door, and looks ruefully

back.) Was ever such rashness ! O the force of love! l've half a mind to sacrifice myself