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Monologues for Men


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.

I am not Sampson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,

To mow ’em down before me; but if I spar’d 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!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 discharg’d against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece to blow us. There was a haberdasher’s wife of small wit near him, that rail’d upon me till her pink’d porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss’d 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’ th’ Strond, where she was quarter’d. They fell on, I made good my place; at length they came to th’ broom-staff to me, I defied ’em still, when suddenly a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, deliver’d such a show’r of pibbles, that I was fain to draw mine honor in, and let ’em win the work. The devil was amongst ’em, I think, surely.

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