The Porter of a royal palace was a real official position responsible for controlling access to the royal precincts. This Porter is earthy, profane, quick-witted, and completely overwhelmed. His speech rhythms are those of London street comedy — short jabs, insults, comic hyperbole. He and his Man are the only two characters in the play who speak entirely in a recognizable working-class London voice.
You’ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the court for
Parish Garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping.
You'll stop making that noise in a moment, you scoundrels. Do you think this is Parish Garden, some public amusement spot? You crude, ignorant people, stop gawking.
You're gonna stop that yelling soon, you jerks. Do you think this is some public fair? You rude people, shut your mouths.
shut up u rascals this ain't parish garden stop gaping
[_Within_.] Good master porter, I belong to th’ larder.
Good master porter, I belong to the kitchen staff.
Master porter, I'm one of the kitchen workers.
hey im from the kitchen.
Belong to th’ gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar
in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones. These are but
switches to ’em. I’ll scratch your heads. You must be seeing
christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?
PORTER’S MAN.
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 Paul’s as stir ’em.
You belong on the gallows and deserve to hang, you rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Get me a dozen hardwood sticks, and strong ones. These are just switches compared to them. I'll crack your skulls. Are you really here to see christenings? Are you looking for ale and cakes here, you rude scoundrels? PORTER'S MAN. Please, sir, be patient. It's just as impossible— Unless we sweep them out with cannons— To scatter them as it is to make them fall asleep On a May morning, which will never happen. We might as well try to push St. Paul's Cathedral as to move them.
You deserve to hang for this, you rogue! Is this supposed to be a quiet place or what? Get me a dozen thick wooden sticks, real sturdy ones. These little switches are nothing compared to them. I'll smash your heads in. Why are you guys even here just to see a christening? Looking for free ale and cake, you rude thugs? PORTER'S MAN. Come on, sir, just be patient. It's completely impossible— Unless we blast them out with cannons— To get rid of them any more than you'd make them sleep On a May morning, which just won't happen. We might as well try pushing the cathedral as moving this crowd.
u deserve 2 hang rogue isnt this supposed 2 b quiet get me thick sticks now these r nothing compared 2 em im gonna bash ur heads r u here just 2 see a christening looking 4 free ale n cake?? porter's man: chill sir be patient its totally impossible unless we use cannons u cant move em like making ppl sleep on a may morning might as well push the cathedral
When the Porter describes 'the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples,' he is describing the Globe Theatre's own standing audience — the groundlings in the yard who paid a penny, stood throughout the performance, and were notorious for noise, eating, and rowdy behavior. This is one of Shakespeare's most explicit metatheatrical moments: the play steps outside its historical fiction to acknowledge the living theatre in which it exists. The Elizabethan audience watching this scene in the Globe yard would have recognized themselves in the Porter's comic vilification. This creates a peculiar doubling — they are simultaneously watching a crowd besiege the palace gates and being told that they are exactly that crowd. The joke lands differently on them than it would in a modern theatre: it is affectionate, communal, and self-aware in a way that assumes the audience is in on it.
How got they in, and be hanged?
PORTER’S MAN.
Alas, I know not. How gets the tide in?
As much as one sound cudgel of four foot—
You see the poor remainder—could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.
How did they get in, damn them? PORTER'S MAN: I don't know. How does the tide get in? As much as one good cudgel of four feet—you see what's left—could do, I did without restraint, sir.
How the hell did they get in? PORTER'S MAN: No clue. How does the tide come in? I used my stick as much as I could—see what's left of it—and I didn't go easy, sir.
how'd they get in? i don't know i did all i could with my stick
You did nothing, sir.
PORTER’S MAN.
I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
To mow ’em down before me; but if I spared 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!
You did nothing, sir. PORTER'S MAN: I'm not Samson or Sir Guy or the giant Colbrand, able to mow them down before me. But if I spared anyone who had a head to hit, whether young or old, man or woman, let me never hope to have meat again—and I wouldn't give that up for a cow, God save her!
You did zip, sir. PORTER'S MAN: I'm not some superhero. But if I let anyone with a head get past me, whether young or old, man or woman, may I never have meat again—and I'd never give that up for anything!
u did nothing i'm not a superhero if i let anyone slide may i never eat meat i'd never give that up
[_Within_.] Do you hear, master porter?
Do you hear me, master porter?
Can you hear me, master porter?
yo porter u there?
I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.—
Keep the door close, sirrah.
PORTER’S MAN.
What would you have me do?
I'll deal with you in a moment, you cheeky youngster. Keep the door closed, you there. PORTER'S MAN: What do you want me to do?
I'll get to you soon, you smartass. Keep that door shut. PORTER'S MAN: What do you want me to do?
i'll deal with u soon keep door closed what u want me to do?
Scene 5-3 sits between two of the play's most intense moments: the Council confrontation and Cranmer's rescue (5-2), and the christening prophecy (5-4). Its placement is not accidental. Shakespeare consistently uses comic scenes not as mere light relief but as structural counterweights that reestablish a human scale before grand rhetorical climaxes. The crowd in the palace yard is literally the same event viewed from below — from the street — that Cranmer will view from above in his vision of England's future. Both perspectives are real. The thousand thousand blessings Cranmer promises belong to a world that also contains a haberdasher's wife calling 'Clubs!' and a man with a nose like a mortar. Shakespeare insists on the coexistence of these registers: the great prophecy is not less true because the crowd outside is raucous; the comedy is not less human because something beautiful is happening inside.
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.
What should you do but knock them down by the dozen? Is this Moorfields where people drill? Or has some strange foreigner with the big thing come to court that the women are besieging us so? God help me, what a mass of fornication is at the door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will produce a thousand bastards; there will be fathers, godfathers, and all kinds together. PORTER'S MAN: The spoons will be bigger, sir. There's a fellow near the door—he should be a metalworker by his face, because, honestly, twenty of the hottest dog-days reign in his nose. Everyone standing around him is under the equator; they need no other punishment. That fire-faced fellow I hit three times on the head, and three times his nose discharged against me. He stands there like a cannon, ready to blow at us. There was a milliner's wife with little sense near him who yelled at me till her fancy hat fell off her head from the commotion I was causing. I missed him once and hit that woman, who cried out 'Help!' when I could see from far off about forty soldiers draw to help her, who were stationed in the area where she lived. They came at me; I held my ground; at length they came at me with broomsticks; I defied them still, when suddenly a bunch of boys behind them, loose cannons, threw such a shower of pebbles that I had to give up and let them win. The devil was among them, I think.
What are you supposed to do but knock them down by the dozen? Is this some military drill ground? Or did some weird foreigner with a huge thing come to court that the women are attacking us like this? Lord, there's so many people trying to hook up at the door! I swear, this one christening will create a thousand illegitimate kids; fathers, godfathers, everybody together. PORTER'S MAN: The christening spoons will be bigger, sir. There's this guy by the door—looks like a metalworker from his face, because honestly his nose is bright red like it's on fire. Everyone around him is in the tropics; they don't need any other punishment. I hit that red-faced guy three times on the head, and three times his nose shot stuff at me. He's just standing there like a cannon, about to blast us. There was this shopkeeper's wife who wasn't very smart near him, yelling at me till her fancy hat fell off her head from all the chaos. I missed him once and hit her instead, and she screamed for help—I could see from far away about forty soldiers coming to save her, they were stationed where she lived. They came at me; I held the line; then they came with broomsticks; I kept fighting, when suddenly a bunch of kids behind them, running wild, threw so many rocks that I had to give up. The devil himself was in that crowd, I think.
knock em down by dozens why women attacking us? mass of hookups at door will make thousand bastards this red-faced guy hit him 3 times his nose shot back at me like a cannon that shopkeeper's wife yelling at me hat fell off her head i hit her instead soldiers came to help kids threw rocks at me devil was there
These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten
apples, that no audience but the tribulation of Tower Hill or the limbs
of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of
’em in _Limbo Patrum_, and there they are like to dance these three
days, besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.
These are the youths who roar at the playhouse and fight over half-eaten apples—the only audience that would tolerate them are prisoners at Tower Hill or the criminals of Limehouse, their dear brothers. I've got some of them in jail, and they're likely to dance there for three days, plus the whipping that two officers will give them.
These are the kids who yell at the theater and fight over rotten apples—they're so bad the only people who could stand them are prisoners at the Tower or the thugs from Limehouse, their relatives. I've locked some of them up, and they're going to be stuck there for three days, plus they're gonna get whipped by the officers.
these kids yell at playhouse fight over apples only prisoners could stand them locked some up they'll be in jail 3 days plus get whipped
Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still too. From all parts they are coming,
As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
These lazy knaves? You’ve made a fine hand, fellows!
There’s a trim rabble let in. Are all these
Your faithful friends o’ th’ suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christening.
Mercy, what a huge crowd is here! They keep growing too. From all directions they are coming, as if we were holding a fair here! Where are those gate keepers, those lazy men? You've done a fine job, fellows! There's a nice mob you've let in. Are all these your loyal friends from outside the city? We'll have plenty of room, no doubt, left for the ladies when they come back from the christening.
My God, there's so many people here! And more keep coming. They're arriving from everywhere like we're having a carnival! Where are those gate guys, those lazy jerks? You did a great job, guys! Nice mob you let through. Are these all your buddies from the suburbs? We're gonna have tons of space left for the women when they come back from the christening, right?
so many people more keep coming like a carnival lazy porters nice mob u let in space for ladies later?
The Porter's Man's account is dense with specific London place names — Moorfields, Tower Hill, Limehouse, the Strand, the Marshalsea. These are not decorative local color. Each name carries a precise social meaning for the original audience. Moorfields was a scrubby area north of London used for military drill and also for the dispossessed. Tower Hill was where public executions drew the roughest crowds. Limehouse was a dockside slum notorious for sailors, violence, and foreigners. The Strand was a prosperous commercial street, making the haberdasher's wife 'quartered' there a comic detail about middle-class respectability thrown into street chaos. The Marshalsea in Southwark — which the Chamberlain threatens to send the porters to — was a real prison the audience would have known. Shakespeare is not writing generic comedy; he is writing specifically for a London audience who could mentally map the scene's entire social geography.
An’t please your honour,
We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a-pieces, we have done.
An army cannot rule ’em.
If it please your honor, we are only men; and we have done what any men could without being torn to pieces. No army could control them.
Sir, we're just regular guys; we did everything we could without getting ripped apart. Even an army couldn't stop them.
we're just men did all we could without getting killed even army couldn't stop em
As I live,
If the King blame me for’t, I’ll lay ye all
By th’ heels, and suddenly, and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect. You’re lazy knaves,
And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when
Ye should do service. Hark, the trumpets sound!
They’re come already from the christening.
Go break among the press, and find a way out
To let the troops pass fairly, or I’ll find
A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.
As I live, if the King blames me for this, I'll put you all in chains, immediately, and on your heads slap heavy fines for neglect. You're lazy men, and here you sit stuffing yourselves while you should be working. Listen, the trumpets are sounding! They've come already from the christening. Go break through the crowd and find a way out to let the procession pass smoothly, or I'll find a jail that will hold you playing for two months.
I swear, if the King blames me for this, I'm locking you all up right now and hitting you with huge fines for screwing up. You're lazy guys, and here you are stuffing your faces when you should be working. Hear those trumpets! They're back from the christening. Get out there, push through the crowd and make a path for them to pass, or I'm throwing you all in jail for two months.
if king blames me i'm locking u all up giant fines u're lazy trumpets sound they're back get them through the crowd or jail for 2 months
Make way there for the Princess!
PORTER’S MAN.
You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.
Make way for the Princess! PORTER'S MAN: You, big fellow, stand tight against the wall, or I'll make your head hurt.
Clear the way for the Princess! PORTER'S MAN: Hey you, big guy, press against the wall or I'll smack you.
make way princess! stand back or i'll hurt u
You i’ th’ camlet, get up o’ th’ rail!
I’ll peck you o’er the pales else.
You there in the fabric, get up on the rail! I'll push you over the fence otherwise.
You in the fancy cloth, get up on the railing! Or I'll throw you over.
u in fancy clothes get on rail or i'll throw u over
The Reckoning
This is the play's only purely comic scene, and it is perfectly placed. We have just witnessed the near-destruction of Cranmer, a scene of intense political danger. We are about to witness the christening of Elizabeth I, the play's culminating visionary moment. Between them, Shakespeare drops fifteen minutes of rowdy crowd comedy — a Porter and his assistant trying to beat back a mob of Londoners who have flooded the palace yard for a glimpse of the new princess. The contrast is deliberate and Shakespearean in its structural intelligence: the same event (Elizabeth's birth) that produces a prophetic vision from Cranmer produces a riot of common Londoners. The grand and the vulgar are inseparable. The 'thousand thousand blessings' Cranmer will pronounce belong to a world that also contains a haberdasher's wife who loses her hat in a street brawl and calls for reinforcements. This scene is also one of the play's most direct addresses to its own audience — the Porter's jibes at theatregoers ('These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples') are jokes about the Globe's own groundlings, standing in the yard watching exactly this scene.
If this happened today…
Two security guards at a stadium gate try to control the crowd flooding in before a major concert. One guard describes the chaos over radio: 'There's this guy with a face so red it looks like a brake light, and every time I hit him he blows his nose at me like a cannon. And there was this woman from the suburbs who screamed for her friends and thirty of them piled in.' The venue manager arrives and threatens to dock their pay and bar them from working for two months. Trumpets sound inside the stadium — the show is starting. The guards tell the crowd to move back and let the VIP guests through.