Porter

Prose
 

 
 
[Knocking within. Enter a Porter]

Porter. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the key.
[Knocking within]
Knock, knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of Beelzebub? Here's a farmer, that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.
[Knocking within]
Knock, knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale; who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator.
[Knocking within]
Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.
[Knocking within]
Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.
[Knocking within]
Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.

[Opens the gate]

 


 

 








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