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What is the matter, Archy? On thy face Thou wear'st a curious grin: what is the matter?

The baillie bid me to inform your honour, The country hucksters and the market wives Have quarrell'd, and are now at deadly strife, With all the brats and schoolboys of the town Shouting and bawling round them.

Join in the fray, the matter must be look'd to. I will be with them soon. [Exit Servant. To think now of those creatures! Ev'n at the time when death is in the city Doing his awful work, and our sad streets Blacken'd with funerals, that they must quarrel About their worldly fractions! Woe is me! For all our preachings and our Sabbath worship, We are, I fear, but an ungodly race.

And what has brought thee, too?