Pages and the Watch

Stand! who goes there?
We charge you appear
'Fore our constable here,
In the name of the Man in the Moon.
To us billmen relate,
Why you stagger so late,
And how you come drunk so soon.
What are ye, scabs?
The watch:
This the constable.
A patch!

Knock 'em down unless they all stand;
If any run away,
'Tis the old watchman's play,
To reach him a bill of his hand.
O gentlemen, hold,
Your gowns freeze with cold,
And your rotten teeth dance in your head.
Wine nothing shall cost ye;
Nor huge fires to roast ye;
Then soberly let us be led.
Come, my brown bills, we'll roar,
Bounce loud at tavern door.
And i' th' morning steal all to bed.