The Weakest Goeth to the Wall – Scene 11

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Oh Haere Godt, mine lieverkin, whore will ye from mie gane? [Oh Lord God, my little sweetheart, where will you go when you leave me?]

Farewell, mine host.  We are for England bound,
Out of your debt, for you are satisfied.

Yaw, yaw, ye heb well betalled. [Yes, yes, you have paid satisfactorily.]

So leave I you to seek my husband out,
Whom your uncivil usage forced hence.
Your imperfections, Yacob, are extreme:
Excess in diet; kindled fire of lust,
The smoke whereof unkindly chas’d away
My loving husband, whom I must pursue.
We owe ye nothing, not so much as love,
Since for your lust you have abus’d us all.
We hav not fall’n, though want did wrestle bard;
Our fingers’ ends, our honours have sustain’d.
Flanders, farewell, irksome without my lord;
And Newkirk, for his sake,  be thou abhorr’d.

Hore ye well, frow.  Ken ye whore to find you man? [Listen to me a moment, madam.  Do you know where to find your husband?]

I trust at London.

Mother, please ye go?
The air’s infected where this glutton breathes.
That makes us pigrims without devotion.
Amend thy manners, or let all refuse
To host with thee, that would thy guests abuse.   [Exeunt.  Manent YACOB.

Adiew, skone meskyn.  Adiew, zoota frow.  Ick will mine selva starven up de galligo bobbintow.  Ick sall be dode slone met dis meager love. [Adieu, beautiful maid.  Adieu sweet lady.  I shall myself die in jail.  I shall soon be struck dead with this meagre love.]

Enter BUNCH.

Sweg, Yacob, sweg.  Here comt Bunch, dat bove. [Keep still, Yacob, keep still.  Here comes Bunch, that scoundrel.]

Now, mine host rob pot, empty can, beer sucker, gudgeon, Smelt, I should say–have the women paid ye?

Yaw, yaw, all to mall.  [Yes, yes, the entire debt]

“All to mall.” drunken cannibal?  And where be they, I pray ye?

Ah, Bunch, Bunch, dey bene aweigh lopt.  Dey will niet langer met mie blieven. [Ah, Bunch, Bunch, they have gone away.  They would not stay with me any longer.]

“Blieven,” ye blockhead?  No, thou art such a drunken goat, that the devil will not dwell with thee, except he be in thy coat.  And whither are they gone, beer barrel?

Ick weat not.  For Englant, for Londres, dey segt.  [I do not know.  For England, for London, they set out.]

For England?  For London
Oh, Saint Kather’ne’s Dock!
And leave me behind them?
Yacob, dost thou not mock?

Niet for ware. [Not at all.]

“For Ware?,” drunkard?  Thou saidst for London even now.

Yaw, for Loundres; ’tis ware, ’tis true.

Then, gentle swill-bowl, I’ll bid Flanders adieu.  Oh, pitiless parcels of women’s flesh, that knew London is my country, and for all my good will would not call me to their company.  Well, Bunch will not ban them, nor yet follow them, nor yet tarry here; but take up my tools, my pressing iron and shears, my needle and thimble, and back again for France to learn more wee and wee daw; and so farewell, Yacob, with your great maw.
Adieu, mine host lick-spigot
At the Sign of the Slipper,
When you meet with the cat,
For my sake, whip her.

Ha, Bunch, mine hart if gebroke.  Ick mought niet lang leven.  Comt met mie.  At parting, Ick sall de twea stopes van beer geven. [Ha, Bunch, my heart is broken.  I cannot live longer.  Come with me.  At parting I shall give you two steins of beer.]          [Exeunt.

Proceed to the next scene

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