What should you do, but knock ’em down by th’ 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. PORTER’S 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 succour, which were the hope o’ th’ Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th’ broomstaff 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 Monologue from Henry VIII

Rehearse Porter's monologue