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Modern English
You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.
You’ll stop making noise soon, you troublemakers: do you think this is a public park? you rude idiots, stop your shouting.
Good master porter, I belong to the larder.
Good master porter, I work in the pantry.
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?
Work in the gallows, and get hanged, you fool! is this a place to make noise? Get me a dozen crab-tree sticks, and strong ones: these are just twigs to them. I’ll knock some sense into you: do you think you’re here to watch christenings? are you expecting beer and cakes here, you rude idiots?
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.
Please, sir, be patient: it’s as impossible-- Unless we chase them off with cannons-- To scatter them, as it is to make them sleep On May Day morning; which will never happen: We might as well try to move St. Paul’s, as move them.
How got they in, and be hang’d?
How did they get in, and get damned?
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.
I don’t know, sir; how does the tide come in? As much as one solid hit from a four-foot club-- You can see the poor remnants--could spread around, I didn’t hold back, sir.
You did nothing, sir.
You did nothing, sir.
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!
I’m not Samson, or Sir Guy, or Colbrand, To knock them down in front of me: but if I held back any That had a head to hit, whether young or old, He or she, cheater or cheatee, Let me never hope to see another day And I wouldn’t even wish that for a cow, God bless her!
Do you hear, master porter?
Do you hear me, master porter?
I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah.
I’ll be with you in a moment, good master puppy. Keep the door shut, buddy.
What would you have me do?
What do you want me to do?
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.
What should you do, but knock them down by the dozens? Is this Moorfields, where soldiers gather? Or have we some strange foreigner with a big weapon come to court, the women crowding us so? Good lord, what a mess of promiscuity is at the door! On my Christian conscience, this one baptism will lead to a thousand more; here will be fathers, godfathers, and all together.
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.
The spoons will be bigger, sir. There’s a guy near the door, he should be a blacksmith by his face, because, honestly, twenty of the hottest days seem to be ruling his nose; everyone around him is low-class, they don’t need any other punishment: I hit that fire-breather three times on the head, and three times his nose shot back at me; he stands there, like a cannon, ready to blow us up. There was a haberdasher’s wife with little sense near him, who cursed at me until her fancy bowl fell off her head, blaming me for starting such a mess in the city. I missed the fireball once, and hit that woman; who screamed out ‘Clubs!’ when I saw some forty club-wielding men run to help her, they were the hope of the Strand, where she lived. They charged at me; I stood my ground: eventually they reached the broomstick to get me; I kept defying them: then suddenly a group of boys behind them, like loose shots, fired such a shower of stones, that I had to draw back and let them win the fight: the devil was with them, I swear.
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.
These are the kids who cause chaos at a playhouse, and fight over stolen apples; no audience, except the trouble of Tower Hill, or the bad folks from Limehouse, their close friends, can stand them. I have some of them locked up in Limbo Patrum, and there they are likely to dance for three days; plus the running banquet of two police officers that’s about to start.
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.
Good heavens, what a crowd is here! And they keep growing; they’re coming from everywhere, It’s like we’re hosting a fair! Where are these porters, These lazy good-for-nothings? You’ve made a real mess, fellows: There’s a fine crowd let in: are all these Your loyal friends from the suburbs? We’ll have Plenty of room left, I’m sure, for the ladies, When they return from the christening.
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.
If it pleases your honor, We’re only men; and what so many can do, Without being torn to pieces, we’ve done: An army couldn’t control them.
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.
As I live, If the king blames me for this, I’ll throw you all In prison, and quickly; and you’ll pay fines For neglect: you’re lazy fools; And here you sit idly while you should be working. Listen! The trumpets sound; They’ve already come from the christening: Go, push through the crowd, and find a way to let The procession pass smoothly; or I’ll make sure You spend two months in jail.
Make way there for the princess.
Make way for the princess.
You great fellow, Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.
You big guy, Move aside, or I’ll make your head hurt.
You i’ the camlet, get up o’ the rail; I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.
You in the cloak, get off the rail; I’ll knock you over the fence if you don’t.