¶LOVELL, a Courtier.otherwise HANS, >His Nephews.DODGER, Servant to the EARL OF LINCOLN.
Askew, J
¶SIR ROGER OATELEY, Lord Mayor ofLondon.Master HAMMON, "| ROSE, Daughter of SIR ROGER.Master WARNER, > Citizens of London. SYBIL, her Maid.Master SCOTT, ' MARGERY, Wife of SIMON EYRE.SIMON EYRE, the Shoemaker. JANE, Wife of RALPH.Courtiers, Attendants, Officers, Soldiers, Hunters, Shoemakers, Apprentices, Servants.
¶Enter the LORD MAYOR and the EARL OF LINCOLNLincolnY lord mayor, you have sundry timesMFeasted myself and many courtiers more;Seldom or never can we be so kindTo make requital of your courtesy.But leaving this, I hear my cousin LacyIs much affected to 1 your daughter Rose.L. Mayor. True, my good lord, and she loves him so wellThat I mislike her boldness in the chase.Lincoln. Why, my lord mayor, think you it then a shame,To join a Lacy with an Oateley's name?L. Mayor. Too mean is my poor girl for his high birth;Poor citizens must not with courtiers wed,
¶In love with.[470]Who will in silks and gay apparel spendMore in one year than I am worth, by far:Therefore your honour need not doubt 2 my girl.Lincoln. Take heed, my lord, advise you what you dolA verier unthrift lives not in the world,Than is my cousin; for I'll tell you what:'Tis now almost a year since he requestedTo travel countries for experience.I furnished him with coins, bills of exchange,Letters of credit, men to wait on him,Solicited my friends in ItalyWell to respect him. But to see the end:Scant had he journey'd through half Germany,But all his coin was spent, his men cast off,His bills embezzl'd, 3 and my jolly coz, 4Asham'd to show his bankrupt presence here,Became a shoemaker in Wittenberg,A goodly science for a gentlemanOf such descent! Now judge the rest by this:Suppose your daughter have a thousand pound,He did consume me more in one half year;And make him heir to all the wealth you haveOne twelvemonth's rioting will waste it all.Then seek, my lord, some honest citizenTo wed your daughter to.L. Mayor. I thank your lordship.[Aside.] Well, fox, I understand your subtilty.—As for your nephew, let your lordship's eyeBut watch his actions, and you need not fear,For I have sent my daughter far enough.And yet your cousin Rowland might do well,Now he hath learn'd an occupation;And yet I scorn to call him son-in-law.Lincoln. Ay, but I have a better trade for him.I thank his grace, he hath appointed him[471]Chief colonel of all those companiesMust'red in London and the shires about,To serve his highness in those wars of France.See where he comes!—
¶Lovell, what news with you?Lovell. My Lord of Lincoln, 'tis his highness' will,That presently 5 your cousin ship for FranceWith all his powers; he would not for a million,But they should land at Dieppe within four days.Lincoln. Go certify his grace, it shall be done. Exit LOVELL.NOW, cousin Lacy, in what forwardnessAre all your companies?Lacy. All well prepared.The men of Hertfordshire lie at Mile-end,Suffolk and Essex train in Tothill-fields,The Londoners and those of Middlesex,All gallantly prepar'd in Finsbury,With frolic spirits long for their parting hour.L. Mayor. They have their imprest, 6 coats, and furniture; 7And, if it please your cousin Lacy comeTo the Guildhall, he shall receive his pay;And twenty pounds besides my brethrenWill freely give him, to approve our lovesWe bear unto my lord, your uncle here.Lacy. I thank your honour.Lincoln. Thanks, my good lord mayor.L. Mayor. At the Guildhall we will expect your coming. Exit.Lincoln. To approve your loves to me? No subtilty!Nephew, that twenty pound he doth bestowFor joy to rid you from his daughter Rose.But, cousins both, now here are none but friends,I would not have you cast an amorous eyeUpon so mean a project as the love[472]Of a gay, wanton, painted citizen.I know, this churl even in the height of scornDoth hate the mixture of his blood with thine.I pray thee, do thou so! Remember, coz,What honourable fortunes wait on thee.Increase the king's love, which so brightly shines,And gilds thy hopes. I have no heir but thee,—And yet not thee, if with a wayward spiritThou start from the true bias 8 of my love.Lacy. My lord, I will for honour, not desireOf land or livings, or to be your heir,So guide my actions in pursuit of France,As shall add glory to the Lacys' name.Lincoln. Coz, for those words here's thirty Portuguese, 9And, nephew Askew, there's a few for you.Fair Honour, in her loftiest eminence,Stays in France for you, till you fetch her thence.Then, nephews, clap swift wings on your designs.Begone, begone, make haste to the Guildhall;There presently I'll meet you. Do not stay:Where honour beckons, shame attends delay. Exit.As\ew. How gladly would your uncle have you gone!Lacy. True, coz, but I'll o'erreach his policies.I have some serious business for three days,Which nothing but my presence can dispatch.You, therefore, cousin, with the companies,Shall haste to Dover; there I'll meet with you:Or, if I stay past my prefixed time,Away for France; we'll meet in Normandy.The twenty pounds my lord mayor gives to meYou shall receive, and these ten Portuguese,Part of mine uncle's thirty. Gentle coz,Have care to our great charge; I know, your wisdomHath tried itself in higher consequence.As\ew. Coz, all myself am yours: yet have this care,To lodge in London with all secrecy;[473]Our uncle Lincoln hath, besides his own,Many a jealous eye, that in your faceStares only to watch means for your disgrace.Lacy. Stay, cousin, who be these?
¶Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! Away with this whimpering, this puling, these blubbering tears, and these wet eyes! I'll get thy husband discharg'd, I warrant thee, sweet Jane; go to!
¶Fir\. Here be the cavaliers and the colonels, master.
¶Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! Stand by with your pishery-pashery," away! I am a man of the best presence; I'll speak to them, an 12 they were Popes.—Gentlemen, captains, colonels, commanders! Brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience. I am Simon Eyre, the mad shoemaker of Tower Street; this wench with the mealy mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I can tell you; here's Hodge, my man and my foreman; here's Firk, my fine firking 13 journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane. All we come to be suitors for this honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and asIa m a true shoemaker and a gentleman of the gentle craft, buy spurs yourselves, and I'll find ye boots these seven years.
¶Eyre. Peace, midriff, 14 peace! I know what I do. Peace!
¶Fir\. Truly, master cormorant, 15 you shall do God good service to let Ralph and his wife stay together. She's a young new-married woman; if you take her husband away from her a-night, you undo her; she may beg in the daytime; for he's as good a workman at a prick and an awl, as any is in our trade.
¶Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a corporal as a colonel, if you cannot discharge one good fellow; and I tell you true, I think you do more than you can answer, to press a man within a year and a day of his marriage.
¶Eyre. Well said, melancholy Hodge; gramercy, my fine foreman.
¶Marg. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done for such as you, to stand so stiffly against a poor young wife, considering her case, she is new-married, but let that pass. I pray, deal not roughly with her; her husband is a young man, and but newly ent'red, but let that pass.
¶Eyre. Away with your pishery-pashery, your pols and your edipols! 17 Peace, midriff; silence, Cicely Bumtrinket! Let your head speak.
¶Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon! Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? Captains, you will not release him? Well, let him go; he's a proper shot; let him vanish! Peace, Jane, dry up thy tears, they'll make his powder dankish. 18 Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant 19 scoundrels, Prince Arthur's Round-table—by the Lord of Ludgate—ne'er fed such a tall, such a dapper swordsman; by the life of Pharaoh, a brave, resolute swordsman! Peace, Jane! I say no more, mad knaves.
¶Fir\. See, see, Hodge, how my master raves in commendation of Ralph!
¶Hodge. Ralph, th'art a gull, 2 0 by this hand, an thou goest not.
p. 475¶Thy husband safe again; but he must go,His country's quarrel says it shall be so.Hodge. Th'art a gull, by my stirrup, if thou dost not go. I willnot have thee strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels; prick thineenemies, Ralph.Enter DODGER
¶Dodger. My lord, your uncle on the Tower-hillStays with the lord mayor and the aldermen,And doth request you with all speed you may,To hasten thither.Askew. Cousin, let's go.Lacy. Dodger, run you before, tell them we come.—This Dodger is mine uncle's parasite, Exit DODGER.The arrant'st varlet that e'er breath'd on earth;He sets more discord in a noble houseBy one day's broaching of his pickthank tales, 21Than can be salv'd 22 again in twenty years,And he, I fear, shall go with us to France,To pry into our actions.Askew. Therefore, coz,It shall behove you to be circumspect.Lacy. Fear not, good cousin.—Ralph, hie to your colours.[Exit LACY and ASKEW.]Ralph. I must, because there's no remedy;But, gentle master and my loving dame,As you have always been a friend to me,So in mine absence think upon my wife.Jane. Alas, my Ralph.Marg. She cannot speak for weeping.Eyre. Peace, you crack'd groats, 23 you mustard tokens, 24 disquietnot the brave soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph!Jane. Ay, ay, you bid him go; what shall I doWhen he is gone?Fir\. Why, be doing with me or my fellow Hodge; be not idle.[476]Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This fine hand, this white hand,these pretty fingers must spin, must card, must work; work, youbombast-cotton-candle-quean; work for your living, with a pox toyou.—Hold thee, Ralph, here's five sixpences for thee; fight forthe honour of the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoemakers, thecourageous cordwainers, the flower of St. Martin's, the mad knavesof Bedlam, Fleet Street, Tower Street and Whitechapel; crack me thecrowns of the French knaves; a pox on them, crack them; fight, bythe Lord of Ludgate; fight, my fine boy!Fir\. Here, Ralph, here's three twopences: two carry into France,the third shall wash our souls at parting, for sorrow is dry. For mysake, firk the Basa mon cues.Hodge. Ralph, I am heavy at parting; but here's a shilling forthee. God send 25 thee to cram thy slops 26 with French crowns, andthy enemies' bellies with bullets.Ralph. I thank you, master, and I thank you all.Now, gentle wife, my loving lovely Jane,Rich men, at parting, give their wives rich gifts,Jewels and rings, to grace their lily hands.Thou know'st our trade makes rings for women's heels:Here take this pair of shoes, cut out by Hodge,Stitch'd by my fellow Firk, seam'd by myself,Made up and pink'd 27 with letters for thy name.Wear them, my dear Jane, for thy husband's sake,And every morning, when thou pull'st them on,Remember me, and pray for my return.Make much of them; for I have made them soThat I can know them from a thousand mo.
¶Enter ROSE, alone, making a garlandRose. Here sit thou down upon this flow'ry bank,And make a garland for thy Lacy's head.These pinks, these roses, and these violets,These blushing gilliflowers, these marigolds,The fair embroidery of his coronet,Carry not half such beauty in their cheeks,As the sweet countenance of my Lacy doth.O my most unkind father! O my stars,Why lower'd you so at my nativity,To make me love, yet live robb'd of my love?Here as a thief am I imprisonedFor my dear Lacy's sake within those walls,Which by my father's cost were builded upFor better purposes. Here must I languishFor him that doth as much lament, I know,Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.
¶Enter SYBILSybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make thatgarland for me; against 1 I shall be Lady of the Harvest.Rose. Sybil, what news at London?Sybil. None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and masterPhilpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and MistressFrigbottom by Doctors' Commons, do all, by my troth, send youmost hearty commendations.Rose. Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?Sybil. O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here'a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and hereprecious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,—O, monstrous!like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford Househere, in Master Belly-mount's chamber. I stood at our door in
p. 478¶Cornhill, look'd at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion! 2 He passed by me as proud—Marry foh! are you grown humorous, 3 thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.
¶Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs. 4 He looked upon me as sour as verjuice. 5 Go thy ways, thought I; thou may'st be much in my gaskins, 6 but nothing in my nether-stocks. 7 This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he's done to; but if I were as you, I'd cry, 'Go by, Jeronimo, goby!' 8
¶Rose. Will my love leave me then, and go to France?
¶Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper man; but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up, 9 young mistress.
¶Sybil. Will I, quoth'a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes, I'll go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I'll sweat in purple, mistress, for you; I'll take anything that comes a' God's name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at 'up tails all.' I'll go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress. Exit.
p. 479¶Rose. Do so, good Sybil. Meantime wretched IWill sit and sigh for his lost company. Exit.
¶SCENE II. [A street in London]Enter LACY, disguised as a Dutch ShoemakerLacy. How many shapes have gods and kings devis'd,Thereby to compass their desired loves!It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then,To clothe his cunning with the gentle craft,That, thus disguis'd, I may unknown possessThe only happy presence of my Rose.For her have I forsook my charge in France,Incurr'd the king's displeasure, and stirr'd upRough hatred in mine uncle Lincoln's breast.0 love, how powerful art thou, that canst changeHigh birth to baseness, and a noble mindTo the mean semblance of a shoemaker!But thus it must be. For her cruel father, .Hating the single union of our souls,Has secretly convey'd my Rose from London,To bar me of her presence; but I trust,Fortune and this disguise will further meOnce more to view her beauty, gain her sight.Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoemakerMean I a while to work; I know the trade,I learnt it when I was in Wittenberg.Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not dismay'd,Thou canst not want: do Fortune what she can,The gentle craft is living for a man. Exit.
¶SCENE III. [Before Eyre's house]Enter EYRE, making himself ready 1Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels? They wallow in the fat brewiss 2 of my bounty, and lick up
p. 480¶the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed. Come out, you powder-beef 3 queans! What, Nan! what, Madge Mumble-crust. Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly-whores, and sweep me these kennels 4 that the noisome stench offend not the noses of my neighbours. What, Firk, I say; what, Hodge! Open my shop-windows! What, Firk, I say!
¶Fir\. O master, is't you that speak bandog 8 and Bedlam 6 this morning? I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the street so early. Have you drunk this morning that your throat is so clear?
¶Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work! Wash thy face, and thou't be more blest.
¶Fir\. Let them wash my face that will eat it. Good master, send for a souse-wife, 7 if you'll have my face cleaner.
¶Eyre. Away, sloven! a vaunt, scoundrel!—Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my fine foreman.
¶Hodge. O master, good-morrow; y'are an early stirrer. Here's a fair morning.—Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept this hour. Here's a brave day towards. 8
¶Eyre. Oh, haste to work, my fine foreman, haste to work.
¶Fir\. Master, I am dry as dust to hear my fellow Roger talk of fair weather; let us pray for good leather, and let clowns and ploughboys and those that work in the fields pray for brave days. We work in a dry shop; what care I if it rain?
¶Eyre. How now, Dame Margery, can you see to rise? Trip and go, call up the drabs, your maids.
¶Marg. See to rise? I hope 'tis time enough, 'tis early enough for any woman to be seen abroad. I marvel how many wives in Tower Street are up so soon. Gods me, 'tis not noon,—here's a yawling!'
p. 481¶Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace! Where's Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid ? She has a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. Call the quean up; if my men want shoe-thread, I'll swinge her in a stirrup.
¶Fir\. Yet, that's but a dry beating; here's still a sign of drought.
¶Fir\. Master, for my life, yonder's a brother of the gentle craft; if he bear not Saint Hugh's bones," I'll forfeit my bones; he's some uplandish workman: hire him, good master, that I may learn some gibble-gabble; 'twill make us work the faster.
¶Eyre. Peace, Firk! A hard world! Let him pass, let him vanish; we have journeymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk!
¶Marg. Nay, nay, y'are best follow your man's counsel; you shall see what will come on't. We have not men enow, but we must entertain every butter-box; 12 but let that pass.
¶Hodge. Dame, 'fore God, if my master follow your counsel, he'll consume little beef. He shall be glad of men an he can catch them. Fir\. Ay, that he shall.
¶Hodge. 'Fore God, a proper man, and I warrant, a fine workman. Master, farewell; dame, adieu; if such a man as he cannot find work, Hodge is not for you. Offers to go. Eyre. Stay, my fine Hodge.
¶Fir\. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, you must take a journey to seek a new journeyman; if Roger remove, Firk follows. If [482]Saint Hugh's bones shall not be set a-work, I may prick mine awl in the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, master; good-bye, dame.
p. 482¶Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk foreman! Stay, Firk! Peace, pudding-broth! By the Lord of Ludgate, I love my men as my life. Peace, you gallimaufry! 13 Hodge, if he want work, I'll hire him. One of you to him; stay,—he comes to us.
¶Fir\. Nails, 1 5 if I should speak after him without drinking, I should choke. And you, friend Oake, are you of the gentle craft? Lacy. Yaw, yaw, if^ bin den skpmawker} 6
¶Fir\. Den skpma\er, quoth 'a! And hark you, s\oma\er, have you all your tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stopper, a good dresser, your four sorts of awls, and your two balls of wax, your paring knife, your hand- and thumb-leathers, and good St. Hugh's bones to smooth up your work?
¶Lacy. Yaw, yaw; be niet vorveard. l\ hab all de dingen voour mac\ skooes groot and cleane."
¶FirJ^. Ha, ha! Good master, hire him; he'll make me laugh so that I shall work more in mirth than I can in earnest.
¶Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill in the mystery of cordwainers?
¶Lacy. 1 \ weet niet wat yow seg; ich verstaw you niet. a
¶Firk_. Why, thus, man: [Imitating by gesture a shoemaker at work^.] Ich verste u niet, quoth 'a.
¶Fir\. Yaw, yaw! He speaks yawing like a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with cheese-curds. Oh, he'll give a villanous pull at a can of double^beer; but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must drink first, because we are the eldest journeymen.
¶Eyre. Give me thy hand; th'art welcome.—Hodge, entertain him; Firk, bid him welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid your [483]maids, your trullibubs, 20 make ready my fine men's breakfasts. To him, Hodge!
¶Come, my last of the fives, give me a can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; here, Firk; drink, you mad Greeks, and work like true Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre, the shoemaker.—Here, Hans, and th'art welcome.
¶Fir\. Lo, dame, you would have lost a good fellow that will teach us to laugh. This beer came hopping in well.
¶Eyre. Is't so, Dame Clapper-dudgeon? 22 Is't seven a clock, and my men's breakfast not ready? Trip and go, you soused conger, 23 away! Come, you mad hyperboreans; follow me, Hodge; follow me, Hans; come after, my fine Firk; to work, to work a while, and then to breakfast! [Exit.
¶Fir\. Soft! Yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master have no more wit but to call you afore me, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder journeyman. [Exeunt.
¶Holloaing within. Enter Master WARNER and Master HAMMON,attired as HuntersHam. Cousin, beat every brake, the game's not far,This way with winged feet he fled from death,Whilst the pursuing hounds, scenting his steps,Find out his highway to destruction.Besides, the miller's boy told me even now,He saw him take soil, 1 and he holloaed him,Affirming him to have been so embost 2That long he could not hold.Warn. If it be so,'Tis best we trace these meadows by Old Ford.
¶A noise of Hunters within. Enter a BoyHam. How now, boy ? Where's the deer ? speak, saw'st thou him ?Boy. O yea; I saw him leap through a hedge, and then over aditch, then at my lord mayor's pale, over he skipp'd me, and in hewent me, and 'holla' the hunters cried, and 'there, boy; there, boy!'But there he is, a' mine honesty.Ham. Boy, Godamercy. Cousin, let's away;I hope we shall find better sport to-day. Exeunt.
¶[Hunting within.] Enter ROSE and SYBILRose. Why, Sybil, wilt thou prove a forester ?Sybil. Upon some, no. Forester? Go by; no, faith, mistress. Thedeer came running into the barn through the orchard and over thepale; I wot well, I looked as pale as a new cheese to see him. Butwhip, says Goodman Pin-close, up with his flail, and our Nick witha prong, and down he fell, and they upon him, and I upon them.By my troth, we had such sport; and in the end we ended him;his throat we cut, flayed him, unhorn'd him, and my lord mayorshall eat of him anon, when he comes. Horns sound within.[485]Rose. Hark, hark, the hunters come; y'are best take heed,They'll have a saying to you for this deed.
p. 485¶Enter Master HAMMON, Master WARNER, Huntsmen, and BoyHam. God save you, fair ladies.Sybil. Ladies! O gross! 1Warn. Came not a buck this way?Rose. No, but two does.Ham. And which way went they ? Faith, we'll hunt at those.Sybil. At -those? Upon some, no. When, can you tell?Warn. Upon some, ay.Sybil. Good Lord!Warn. Wounds! 2 Then farewell!Ham. Boy, which way went he?Boy. This way, sir, he ran.Ham. This way he ran indeed, fair Mistress Rose;Our game was lately in your orchard seen.Warn. Can you advise, which way he took his flight?Sybil. Follow your nose; his horns will guide you right.Warn. Th'art a mad wench.Sybil. O, rich!Rose. Trust me, not I.It is not like that the wild forest-deerWould come so near to places of resort;You are deceiv'd, he fled some other way.Warn. Which way, my sugar-candy, can you shew?Sybil. Come up, good honeysops, upon some, no.Rose. Why do you stay, and not pursue your game?Sybil. I'll hold my life, their hunting-nags be lame.Ham. A deer more dear is found within this place.Rose. But not the deer, sir, which you had in chase.Ham. I chas'd the deer, but this dear chaseth me.Rose. The strangest hunting that ever I see.But where's your park ? She offers to go away.Ham. 'Tis here: O stay!Rose. Impale me, and then I will not stray.[486]Warn. They wrangle, wench; we are more kind than they.Sybil. What kind of hart is that dear heart, you seek?Warn. A hart, dear heart.Sybil. Who ever saw the like?Rose. To lose your heart, is't possible you can?Ham. My heart is lost.Rose. Alack, good gentleman!Ham. This poor lost hart would I wish you might find.Rose. You, by such luck, might prove your hart a hind.Ham. Why, Luck had horns, so have I heard some say.Rose. Now, God, an't be his will, send Luck into your way.
p. 486¶Enter the LORD MAYOR and ServantsL. Mayor. What, Master Hammon? Welcome to Old Ford!Sybil. Gods pittikins,1 Hands off, sir! Here's my lord.L. Mayor. I hear you had ill luck, and lost your game.Ham. 'Tis true, my lord.L. Mayor. I am sorry for the same.What gentleman is this?Ham. My brother-in-law.L. Mayor. Y'are welcome both; sith Fortune offers youInto my hands, you shall not part from hence,Until you have refresh'd your wearied limbs.Go, Sybil, cover the board! You shall be guestTo no good cheer, but even a hunter's feast.Ham. I thank your lordship.—Cousin, on my life,For our lost venison I shall find a wife. Exeunt [all but MAYOR].L. Mayor. In, gentlemen; I'll not be absent long.—This Hammon is a proper gentleman,A citizen by birth, fairly allied;How fit an husband were he for my girl!Well, I will in, and do the best I can,To match my daughter to this gentleman. Exit.
¶Skip. lc\ sal yow wat seggen, Hans; dis skip, dat comen from Candy, is al vol, by Got's sacrament, van sugar, civet, almonds, cambrick, end a^ e dingen, towsand towsand ding. Nempt it, Hans, nempt it vor v meester. Daer be de bils van laden. Your meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen. Wat seggen yow, Hans?1
¶Fir\. Wat seggen de reg gen de copen, slopen—laugh, Hodge, laugh!
¶Hans. Mine liever broder Firk, bringt Meester Eyre tot det signe vn Swannekjn; daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me. Wat seggen yow, broder Firk? Doot it, Hodge.2
¶Firk- Bring him, quoth you? Here's no knavery, to bring my master to buy a ship worth the lading of two or three hundred thousand pounds. Alas, that's nothing; a trifle, a bauble, Hodge.
¶Hodge. The truth is, Firk, that the merchant owner of the ship dares not shew his head, and therefore this skipper that deals for him, for the love he bears to Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargain in the commodities. He shall have a reasonable day of payment; he may sell the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer himself.
¶Firk. Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twenty porpentines as an earnest penny?
¶Hodge. Portuguese,3 thou wouldst say; here they be, Firk; hark, they jingle in my pocket like St. Mary Overy's bells.
¶Firk- Mum, here comes my dame and my master. She'll scold, on my life, for loitering this Monday: but all's one, let them all say what they can, Monday's our [488]holiday. Marg. You sing, Sir Sauce, but I beshrew your heart,
¶Hodge. Master, I hope you'll not suffer my dame to take down your journeymen.
¶Fir\. If she take me down, I'll take her up; yea, and take her down too, a button-hole lower.
¶Eyre. Peace, Firk; not I, Hodge; by the life of Pharaoh, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every hair whereof I value at a king's ransom, she shall not meddle with you.—Peace, you bombastcotton-candle-quean; away, queen of clubs; quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firk; I'll firk you, if you do.
¶Marg. Yea, yea, man, you may use me as you please; but let that pass.
¶Eyre. Let it pass, let it vanish away; peace! Am I not Simon Eyre? Are not these my brave men, brave shoemakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft ? Prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, as being the sole son of a shoemaker. Away, rubbish! vanish, melt; melt like kitchen-stuff.
¶Marg. Yea, yea, 'tis well; I must be call'd rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort 4 of knaves.
¶Fir\. Nay, dame, you shall not weep and wail in woe for me. Master, I'll stay no longer; here's an inventory of my shop-tools. Adieu, master; Hodge, farewell.
¶Marg. I pray, let them go; there be more maids than Mawkin, more men than Hodge, and more fools than Firk.
¶Fir\. Fools? Nails! if I tarry now, I would my guts might be turn'd to shoe-thread.
¶Hodge. And if I stay, I pray God I may be turn'd to a Turk, and set in Finsbury 5 for boys to shoot at.—Come, Firk.
¶Eyre. Stay, my fine knaves, you arms of my trade, you pillars of my profession. What, shall a tittle-tattle's words make you forsake Simon Eyre?—Avaunt, kitchen-stuff! Rip, you brown-bread Tannikin; out of my sight! Move me not! Have not I ta'en you [489]from selling tripes in East-cheap, and set you in my shop, and made you hail-fellow with Simon Eyre, the shoemaker? And now do you deal thus with my journeymen? Look, you powder-beef-quean, on the face of Hodge, here's a face for a lord.
p. 489¶Firl{. And here's a face for any lady in Christendom.
¶Eyre. Rip, you chitterling, avaunt! Boy, bid the tapster of the Boar's Head fill me a dozen cans of beer for my journeymen.
¶Fir\. A dozen cans? O, brave! Hodge, now I'll stay.
¶Eyre. [In a low voice to the Boy.] An the knave fills any more than two, he pays for them. [Exit Boy. Aloud.]—A dozen cans of beer for my journeymen. [Re-enter Boy.] Here, you mad Mesopotamians, wash your livers with this liquor. Where be the odd ten? No more, Madge, no more.—Well said. Drink and to work!—What work dost thou, Hodge? What work?
¶Hodge. I am a making a pair of shoes for my lord mayor's daughter, Mistress Rose.
¶Fir\. And I a pair of shoes for Sybil, my lord's maid. I deal with her.
¶Eyre. Sybil? Fie, defile not thy fine workmanly fingers with the feet of kitchen-stuff and basting-ladles. Ladies of the court, fine ladies my lads, commit their feet to our apparelling; put gross work to Hans. Yark and seam, yark 6 and seam!
¶Fir\. For yarking and seaming let me alone, an I come to't.
¶Hodge. Well, master, all this is from the bias. 7 Do you remember the ship my fellow Hans told you of? The skipper and he are both drinking at the Swan. Here be the Portuguese to give earnest. If you go through with it, you cannot choose but be a lord at least.
¶Fir\. Nay, dame, if my master prove not a lord, and you a lady, hang me.
¶Marg. Yea, like enough, if you may loiter and tipple thus.
¶Firk_- Tipple, dame? No, we have been bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag: 8 can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of silk Cyprus, laden with [490]sugar-candy. Enter Boy with a velvet coat and an Alderman's gown.
¶Eyre. Peace, Firk; silence, Tittle-tattle! Hodge, I'll go through with it. Here's a seal-ring, and I have sent for a guarded gown 9 and a damask cassock. See where it comes; look here, Maggy; help me, Firk; apparel me, Hodge; silk and satin, you mad Philistines, silk and satin.
¶Fir\. Ha, ha, my master will be as proud as a dog in a doublet, all in beaten 10 damask and velvet.
¶Eyre. Softly, Firk, for rearing 11 of the nap, and wearing threadbare my garments. How dost thou like me, Firk? How do I look, my fine Hodge?
¶Hodge. Why, now you look like yourself, master. I warrant you, there's few in the city but will give you the wall, 12 and come upon you with 1 3 the right worshipful.
¶Fir\. Nails, my master looks like a threadbare cloak new turned and dressed. Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment doth! Dame, dame, are you not enamoured ?
¶Eyre. How say'st thou, Maggy, am I not brisk? Am I not fine?
¶Marg. Fine? By my troth, sweetheart, very fine! By my troth, I never liked thee so well in my life, sweetheart; but let that pass. I warrant, there be many women in the city have not such handsome husbands, but only for their apparel; but let that pass too.
¶Hans. Godden day, mester. Dis be de shipper dat heb de s\ip van marchandice; de commodity ben good; nempt it, master, nempt it™
¶Eyre. Godamercy, Hans; welcome, skipper. Where lies this ship of merchandise ?
¶S\ip. De s\ip ben in revere; dor be van Sugar, cyvet, [491]almonds, cambrick_, and a towsand, towsand tings, gotz sacrament; nempt it, mester: ye sal heb good copen} s
p. 491¶Firk- To him, master! O sweet master! O sweet wares! Prunes, almonds, sugar-candy, carrot-roots, turnips, O brave fatting meat! Let not a man buy a nutmeg but yourself.
¶Eyre. Peace, Firk! Come, skipper, I'll go aboard with you.—Hans, have you made him drink?
¶Eyre. Come, Hans, follow me. Skipper, thou shalt have my countenance in the city. Exeunt.
¶Firk- Yaw heb veale gedrunck, quoth a. They may well be called butter-boxes, when they drink fat veal and thick beer too. But come, dame, I hope you'll chide us no more.
¶Marg. No, faith, Firk; no, perdy, 17 Hodge. I do feel honour creep upon me, and which is more, a certain rising in my flesh; but let that pass.
¶Firk. Rising m your flesh do you feel, say you? Ay, you may be with child, but why should not my master feel a rising in his flesh, having a gown and a gold ring on ? But you are such a shrew, you'll soon pull him down.
¶Marg. Ha, ha! prithee, peace! Thou mak'st my worship laugh; but let that pass. Come, I'll go in; Hodge, prithee, go before me; Firk, follow me.
¶Firk- Firk doth follow: Hodge, pass out in state. Exeunt.
¶Lincoln. How now, good Dodger, what's the news in France?Dodger. My lord, upon the eighteenth day of MayThe French and English were prepar'd to fight;Each side with eager fury gave the signOf a most hot encounter. Five long hoursBoth armies fought together; at the length[492]The lot of victory fell on our side.Twelve thousand of the Frenchmen that day died,Four thousand English, and no man of nameBut Captain Hyam and young Ardington,Two gallant gentlemen, I knew them well.Lincoln. But Dodger, prithee, tell me, in this fightHow did my cousin Lacy bear himself?Dodger. My lord, your cousin Lacy was not there.Lincoln. Not there?Dodger. No, my good lord.Lincoln. Sure, thou mistakest.I saw him shipp'd, and a thousand eyes besideWere witnesses of the farewells which he gave,When I, with weeping eyes, bid him adieu.Dodger, take heed.Dodger. My lord, I am advis'd1That what I spake is true: to prove it so,His cousin Askew, that supplied his place,Sent me for him from France, that secretlyHe might convey himself thither.Lincoln. Is't even so?Dares he so carelessly venture his lifeUpon the indignation of a king?Has he despis'd my love, and spurn'd those favoursWhich I with prodigal hand pour'd on his head?He shall repent his rashness with his soul;Since of my love he makes no estimate,I'll make him wish he had not known my hate.Thou hast no other news?Dodger. None else, my lord.Lincoln. None worse I know thou hast.—Procure the kingTo crown his giddy brows with ample honours,Send him chief colonel, and all my hopeThus to be dash'd! But 'tis in vain to grieve,One evil cannot a worse relieve.Upon my life, I have found out his plot;[493]That old dog, Love, that fawn'd upon him so,Love to that puling girl, his fair-cheek'd Rose,The lord mayor's daughter, hath distracted him,And in the fire of that love's lunacyHath he burnt up himself, consum'd his credit,Lost the king's love, yea, and I fear, his life,Only to get a wanton to his wife,Dodger, it is so.Dodger. I fear so, my good lord.Lincoln. It is so—nay, sure it cannot be!I am at my wits' end. Dodger!Dodger. Yea, my lord.Lincoln. Thou art acquainted with my nephew's haunts.Spend this gold for thy pains; go seek him out;Watch at my lord mayor's—there if he live,Dodger, thou shalt be sure to meet with him.Prithee, be diligent.—Lacy, thy nameLiv'd once in honour, now 'tis dead in shame.—Be circumspect. Exit.Dodger. I warrant you, my lord. Exit.
p. 493¶SCENE III. {London: a room in the Lord Mayor's house]
¶Enter the LORD MAYOR and Master SCOTTL. Mayor. Good Master Scott, I have been bold with you,To be a witness to a wedding-knotBetwixt young Master Hammon and my daughter.O, stand aside; see where the lovers come.
Enter MASTER HAMMON and ROSE
¶Rose. Can it be possible you love me so?No, no, within those eyeballs I espyApparent likelihoods of flattery.Pray now, let go my hand.Ham. Sweet Mistress Rose,Misconstrue not my words, nor misconceive[494]Of my affection, whose devoted soulSwears that I love thee dearer than my heart.Rose. As dear as your own heart? I judge it right,Men love their hearts best when th'are out of sight.Ham. I love you, by this hand.Rose. Yet hands off now!If flesh be frail, how weak and frail's your vow!Ham. Then by my life I swear.Rose. Then do not brawl;One quarrel loseth wife and life and all.Is not your meaning thus?Ham. In faith, you jest.Rose. Love loves to sport; therefore leave love, y'are best.L. Mayor. What? square 1 they, Master Scott?Scott. Sir, never doubt,Lovers are quickly in, and quickly out.Ham. Sweet Rose, be not so strange in fancying me.Nay, never turn aside, shun not my sight:I am not grown so fond, to fond 2 my loveOn any that shall quit it with disdain;If you will love me, so—if not, farewell.L. Mayor. Why, how now, lovers, are you both agreed ?Ham. Yes, faith, my lord.L. Mayor. 'Tis well, give me your hand.Give me yours, daughter.—How now, both pull back!What means this, girl?Rose. I mean to live a maid.Ham. But not to die one; pause, ere that be said. Aside.L. Mayor. Will you still cross me, still be obstinate ?Ham. Nay, chide her not, my lord, for doing well;If she can live an happy virgin's life,'Tis far more blessed than to be a wife.Rose. Say, sir, I cannot: I have made a vow,Whoever be my husband, 'tis not you.L. Mayor. Your tongue is quick; but Master Hammon, know,I bade you welcome to another end.
¶'Quarrel. 2Found, set; a pun upon fond.[495]Ham. What, would you have me pule and pine and pray,With 'lovely lady,' 'mistress of my heart,''Pardon your servant,' and the rhymer play,Railing on Cupid and his tyrant's-dart;Or shall I undertake some martial spoil,Wearing your glove at tourney and at tilt,And tell how many gallants I unhors'd—Sweet, will this pleasure you?Rose. Yea, when wilt begin ?What, love rhymes, man? Fie on that deadly sin!L. Mayor. If you will have her, I'll make her agree.Ham. Enforced love is worse than hate to me.[Aside.] There is a wench keeps shop in the Old Change,To her will I; it is not wealth I seek,I have enough; and will prefer her loveBefore the world.—[Aloud.] My good lord mayor, adieu.Old love for me, I have no luck with new. Exit.L. Mayor. Now, mammet,1 you have well behav'd yourself,But you shall curse your coyness if I live.—Who's within there? See you convey your mistressStraight to th' Old Ford! I'll keep you straight enough.Fore God, I would have sworn the puling girlWould willingly accepted Hammon's love;But banish him, my thoughts!—Go, minion, in! Exit ROSE.Now tell me, Master Scott, would you have thoughtThat Master Simon Eyre, the shoemaker,Had been of wealth to buy such merchandise ?Scott. 'Twas well, my lord, your honour and myselfGrew partners with him; for your bills of ladingShew that Eyre's gains in one commodityRise at the least to full three thousand poundBesides like gain in other merchandise.L. Mayor. Well, he shall spend some of his thousands now,For I have sent for him to the Guildhall[496]Enter EYRESee, where he comes.—Good morrow, Master Eyre.Eyre. Poor Simon Eyre, my lord, your shoemaker.L. Mayor. Well, well, it likes 4 yourself to term you so.
¶Now, Master Dodger, what's the news with you ?Dodger. I'd gladly speak in private to your honour.L. Mayor. You shall, you shall.—Master Eyre and Master Scott,I have some business with this gentleman;I pray, let me entreat you to walk beforeTo the Guildhall; I'll follow presently.Master Eyre, I hope ere noon to call you sheriff.Eyre. I would not care, my lord, if you might call me King ofSpain.—Come, Master Scott. [Exeunt EYRE and SCOTT.]L. Mayor. Now, Master Dodger, what's the news you bring ?Dodger. The Earl of Lincoln by me greets your lordship,And earnestly requests you, if you can,Inform him where his nephew Lacy keeps.L. Mayor. Is not his nephew Lacy now in France?Dodger. No, I assure your lordship, but disguis'dLurks here in London.L. Mayor. London? Is't even so?It may be; but upon my faith and soul,I know not where he lives, or whether he lives:So tell my Lord of Lincoln.—Lurks in London?Well, Master Dodger, you perhaps may start him;Be but the means to rid him into France,I'll give you a dozen angels 5 for your pains:So much I love his honour, hate his nephew.And, prithee, so inform thy lord from me.Dodger. I take my leave. Exit DODGER.L. Mayor. Farewell, good Master Dodger.Lacy in London? I dare pawn my life,My daughter knows thereof, and for that cause[497]Deni'd young Master Hammon in his love.Well, I am glad I sent her to Old Ford.Gods Lord, 'tis late; to Guildhall I must hie;I know my brethren stay 6 my company. Exit.
¶Marg. I pray thee, run—do you hear?—run to Guildhall, and learn if my husband, Master Eyre, will take that worshipful vocation of Master Sheriff upon him. Hie thee, good Firk.
¶Fir\. Take it? Well, I go; an he should not take it, Firk swears to forswear him. Yes, forsooth, I go to Guildhall.
¶Marg. Nay, when? Thou art too compendious and tedious.
¶Fir\. O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence; how like a new cart-wheel my dame speaks, and she looks like an old musty ale-bottle 1 going to scalding.
¶Marg. Well, Hans and Roger, you see, God hath blest your master, and, perdy, if ever he comes to be Master Sheriff of London—as we are all mortal—you shall see, I will have some odd thing or other in a corner for you: I will not be your back-friend; 3 but let that pass. Hans, pray thee, tie my shoe.
p. 498¶Marg. Roger, thou know'st the length of my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so I thank God, it is handsome enough; prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, cork, good Roger, wooden heel too.
¶Marg. Art thou acquainted with never a farthingale-maker, nor a French hood-maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! How shall I look in a hood, I wonder! Perdy, oddly, I think.
¶Hodge. [Aside.] As a cat out of a pillory.—Very well, I warrant you, mistress.
¶Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and, Roger, canst thou tell where I may buy a good hair ?
¶Hodge. Yes, forsooth, at the poulterer's in Gracious Street.
¶Marg. Thou art an ungracious wag; perdy, I mean a false hair for my periwig.
¶Hodge. Why, mistress, the next time I cut my beard, you shall have the shavings of it; but they are all true hairs.
¶Marg. It is very hot, I must get me a fan or else a mask.
¶Hodge. [Aside.] So you had need, to hide your wicked face.
¶Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this world's calling is; perdy, but that it is one of the wonderful works of God, I would not deal with it.—Is not Firk come yet ? Hans, be not so sad, let it pass and vanish, as my husband's worship says.
¶Hodge. Mistress, will you drink1 a pipe of tobacco ?
¶Marg. Oh, fie upon it, Roger, perdy! These filthy tobacco-pipes are the most idle slavering baubles that ever I felt. Out upon it! God bless us, men look not like men that use them.
¶Hodge. What, fellow Ralph? Mistress, look here, Jane's husband! Why, how now, lame ? Hans, make much of him, he's a brother of our trade, a good workman, and a tall soldier.
p. 499¶Marg. Trust me, I am sorry, Ralph, to see thee impotent. Lord, how the wars have made him sunburnt! The left leg is not well; 'twas a fair gift of God the infirmity took not hold a little higher, considering thou earnest from France; but let that pass.
¶Marg. O Ralph, your wife,—perdy, we know not what's become of her. She was here a while, and because she was married, grew more stately than became her; I checked her, and so forth; away she flung, never returned, nor said bye nor bah; and, Ralph, you know, 'ka me, ka thee.' 7 And so, as I tell ye Roger, is not Firk come yet?
¶Marg. And so, indeed, we heard not of her, but I hear she lives in London; but let that pass. If she had wanted, she might have opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men; I am sure, there's not any of them, perdy, but would have done her good to his power. Hans, look if Firk be come.
¶Marg. And so, as I said—but, Ralph, why dost thou weep ? Thou knowest that naked we came out of our mother's womb, and naked we must return; and, therefore, thank God for all things.
¶Hodge. No, faith, Jane is a stranger here; but, Ralph, pull up a good heart, I know thou hast one. Thy wife, man, is in London; [500]one told me, he saw her a while ago very brave1 and neat; we'll ferret her out, an London hold her.
p. 500¶Marg. Alas, poor soul, he's overcome with sorrow; he does but as I do, weep for the loss of any good thing. But, Ralph, get thee in, call for some meat and drink, thou shalt find me worshipful towards thee.
¶Ralph. I thank you, dame; since I want limbs and lands, I'll trust to God, my good friends, and my hands. Exit.
¶Fir\. Run, good Hans! O Hodge, O mistress! Hodge, heave up thine ears; mistress, smug up2 0 your looks; on with your best apparel; my master is chosen, my master is called, nay, condemned by the cry of the country to be sheriff of the city for this famous year now to come. And time now being, a great many men in black gowns were asked for their voices and their hands, and my master had all their fists about his ears presently, and they cried 'Ay, ay, ay, ay,'—and so I came away—
¶Hans. Yaw, my mester is de groot man, de shrieve.
¶Hodge. Did not I tell you, mistress? Now I may boldly say: Good-morrow to your worship.
¶Marg. Good-morrow, good Roger. I thank you, my good people all.—Firk, hold up thy hand: here's a three-penny piece for thy tidings.
¶Firk_. 'Tis but three-half-pence, I think. Yes, 'tis three-pence, I smell the rose. 12
¶Hodge. But, mistress, be rul'd by me, and do not speak so pulingly.
¶Fir\. 'Tis her worship speaks so, and not she. No, faith, mistress, speak me in the old key: 'To it, Firk,' 'there, good Firk,' 'ply your business, Hodge,' 'Hodge, with a full mouth,' 'I'll fill your bellies with good cheer, till they cry twang.'
¶Hans. See, myn liever broder, heer compt my meester. 13
¶Marg. Welcome home, Master Shrieve; I pray God continue you in health and wealth.
¶Eyre. See here, my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre. I shall make thee a lady; here's a French hood for thee; on with it, on with it! dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, 14 to make thee look lovely. Where be my fine men ? Roger, I'll make over my shop and tools to thee; Firk, thou shalt be the foreman; Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for twenty. 15 Be as mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, and you shall live to be Sheriffs of London.—How dost thou like me, Margery? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. Firk, Hodge, and Hans!
¶All Three. Ay forsooth, what says your worship, Master Sheriff?
¶Eyre. Worship and honour, you Babylonian knaves, for the gentle craft. But I forgot myself, I am bidden by my lord mayor to dinner to Old Ford; he's gone before, I must after. Come, Madge, on with your trinkets! Now, my true Trojans, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odd crotchets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers. Meet me at Old Ford, you know my mind. Come, Madge, away. Shut up the shop, knaves, and make holiday. Exeunt.
¶Fir\. O rare! O brave! Come, Hodge; follow me, Hans; We'll be with them for a morris-dance. Exeunt.
¶Marg. Ay, but, my lord, he must learn now to put on gravity.
¶Eyre. Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity! When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet gown, I'll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a justice of peace; but now I am here at Old Ford, at my good lord mayor's house, let it go by, vanish, Maggy, I'll be merry; away with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gulleries. What, honey? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. What says my lord mayor?
¶L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pounds, I ' had an heart but half so light as yours.
¶Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord ? A pound of care pays not a dram of debt. Hum, let's be merry, whiles we are young; old age, sack and sugar will steal upon us, ere we be aware.
The First Three-men's Song
¶O the month of May, the merry month of May,So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!O, and then did I unto my true love say:"Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's queen!
¶"Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,The sweetest singer in all the forest's choir,Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale;Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier.
¶"But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo;See where she sitteth: come away, my joy;Come away, I prithee: I do not like the cuckooShould sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy."
¶O the month of May, the merry month of May,So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green![503]And then did I unto my true love say:"Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer's queen!"
¶L. Mayor. It's well done; Mistress Eyre, pray, give good counselTo my daughter.Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the grace to take nothingthat's bad.L. Mayor. Pray God she do; for i' faith, Mistress Eyre,I would bestow upon that peevish girlA thousand marks more than I mean to give herUpon condition she'd be rul'd by me.The ape still crosseth me. There came of lateA proper gentleman of fair revenues,Whom gladly I would call son-in-law:But my fine cockney would have none of him.You'll prove a coxcomb for it, ere you die:A courtier, or no man must please your eye.Eyre. Be rul'd, sweet Rose: th'art ripe for a man. Marry not witha boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy cheeks.A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery: those silkenfellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their innerlinings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentlemangrocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade:plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of thegeneration and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack; what,the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through theworld. A noise within of a tabor and a pipe.L. Mayor. What noise is this ?Eyre. O my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love toyour honour are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, myMesopotamians, cheerily.
¶Enter HODGE, HANS, RALPH, FIRK, and other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a little dancing the LORD MAYOR speaks.L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these shoemakers?Eyre. All cordwainers, my good lord mayor.Rose. [Aside.] How like my Lacy looks yond shoemaker![504]Hans. [Aside.] O that I durst but speak unto my love!L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to make these drink. You areall welcome.All. We thank your lordship.ROSE takes a cup of wine and goes to HANS.Rose. For his sake whose fair shape thou represent'st,Good friend, I drink to thee.Hans. Ic bedancke, good frister. 1Marg. I see, Mistress Rose, you do not want judgment; you havedrunk to the properest man I keep.Firk. Here be some have done their parts to be as proper as he.L. Mayor. Well, urgent business calls me back to London.Good fellows, first go in and taste our cheer;And to make merry as you homeward go,Spend these two angels in beer at Stratford-Bow.Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim Eyre adds another; thencheerily, Firk; tickle it, Hans, and all for the honour of shoemakers.All go dancing out.L. Mayor. Come, Master Eyre, let's have your company. Exeunt.Rose. Sybil, what shall I do?Sybil. Why, what's the matter?Rose. That Hans the shoemaker is my love Lacy,Disguis'd in that attire to find me out.How should I find the means to speak with him?Sybil. What, mistress, never fear; I dare venture my maidenheadto nothing, and that's great odds, that Hans the Dutchman, whenwe come to London, shall not only see and speak with you, but inspite of all your father's policies steal you away and marry you.Will not this please you ?Rose. Do this, and ever be assured of my love.Sybil. Away, then, and follow your father to London, lest yourabsence cause him to suspect something:To-morrow, if my counsel be obey'd,I'll bind you prentice to the gentle trade. [Exeunt.]1 1 thank you, good maid I
¶SCENE I. [A street in London]JANE in a Seamster's shop, working; enter Master HAMMON, muffled;he stands aloofHam. Yonder's the shop, and there my fair love sits.She's fair and lovely, but she is not mine.O, would she were! Thrice have I courted her,Thrice hath my hand been moist'ned with her hand,Whilst my poor famish'd eyes do feed on thatWhich made them famish. I am unfortunate:I still love one, yet nobody loves me.I muse in other men what women seeThat I so want! Fine Mistress Rose was coy,And this too curious! Oh, no, she is chaste,And for she thinks me wanton, she deniesTo cheer my cold heart with her sunny eyes.How prettily she works, oh pretty hand!Oh happy work! It doth me good to standUnseen to see her. Thus I oft have stoodIn frosty evenings, a light burning by her,Enduring biting cold, only to eye her.One only look hath seem'd as rich to meAs a king's crown; such is love's lunacy.Muffled I'll pass along, and by that tryWhether she know me.Jane. Sir, what is't you buy ?What is't you lack, sir, calico, or lawn,Fine cambric shirts, or bands, what will you buy ?Ham. [Aside.] That which thou wilt not sell. Faith, yet I'll try:How do you sell this handkerchief?Jane. Good cheap.Ham. And how these ruffs?Jane. Cheap too.Ham. And how this band?Jane. Cheap too.[506]Ham. All cheap; how sell you then this hand?Jane. My hands are not to be sold.Ham. To be given then!Nay, faith, I come to buy.Jane. But none knows when.Ham. Good sweet, leave work a little while; let's play.Jane. I cannot live by keeping holiday.Ham. I'll pay you for the time which shall be lost.Jane. With me you shall not be at so much cost.Ham. Look, how you wound this cloth, so you wound me.Jane. It may be so.Ham. 'Tis so.Jane. What remedy?Ham. Nay, faith, you are too coy.Jane. Let go my hand.Ham. I will do any task at your command,I would let go this beauty, were I notIn mind to disobey you by a powerThat controls kings: I love you!Jane. So, now part.Ham. With hands I may, but never with my heart.In faith, I love you.Jane. I believe you do.Ham. Shall a true love in me breed hate in you?Jane. I hate you not.Ham. Then you must love?Jane. I do.What are you better now? I love not you.Ham. All this, I hope, is but a woman's fray,That means, "Come to me," when she cries, "Away!"In earnest, mistress, I do not jest,A true chaste love hath ent'red in my breast.I love you dearly, as I love my life,I love you as a husband loves a wife;That, and no other love, my love requires,Thy wealth, I know, is little; my desiresThirst not for gold. Sweet, beauteous Jane, what's mine[507]Shall, if thou make myself thine, all be thine.Say, judge, what is thy sentence, life or death?Mercy or cruelty lies in thy breath.Jane. Good sir, I do believe you love me well;For 'tis a silly conquest, silly prideFor one like you—I mean a gentleman—To boast that by his love-tricks he hath broughtSuch and such women to his amorous lure;I think you do not so, yet many do,And make it even a very trade to woo.I could be coy, as many women be,Feed you with sunshine smiles and wanton looks,But I detest witchcraft; say that IDo constantly believe, you constant haveHam. Why dost thou not believe me?Jane. I believe you;But yet, good sir, because I will not grieve youWith hopes to taste fruit which will never fall,In simple truth this is the sum of all:My husband lives, at least, I hope he lives.Press'd was he to these bitter wars in France;Bitter they are to me by wanting him.I have but one heart, and that heart's his due.How can I then bestow the same on you ?Whilst he lives, his I live, be it ne'er so poor,And rather be his wife than a king's whore.Ham. Chaste and dear woman, I will not abuse thee,Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me.Thy husband, press'd for France, what was his name?Jane. Ralph Damport.Ham. Damport?—Here's a letter sentFrom France to me, from a dear friend of mine,A gentleman of place; here he doth writeTheir names that have been slain in every fight.Jane. I hope death's scroll contains not my love's name.Ham. Cannot you read?Jane. I can.[508]Ham. Peruse the same.To my remembrance such a name I readAmongst the rest. See here.Jane. Ay me, he's dead!He's dead! If this be true, my dear heart's slain!Ham. Have patience, dear love.fane. Hence, hence!Ham. Nay, sweet Jane,Make not poor sorrow proud with these rich tears.I mourn thy husband's death, because thou mourn'st.Jane. That bill is forg'd; 'tis sign'd by forgery.Ham. I'll bring thee letters sent besides to many,Carrying the like report: Jane, 'tis too true.Come, weep not: mourning, though it rise from love,Helps not the mourned, yet hurts them that mourn.Jane. For God's sake, leave me.Ham. Whither dost thou turn?Forget the dead, love them that are alive;His love is faded, try how mine will thrive.Jane. 'Tis now no time for me to think on love.Ham. 'Tis now best time for you to think on love,Because your love lives not.Jane. Though he be dead,My love to him shall not be buried;For God's sake, leave me to myself alone.Ham. 'Twould kill my soul, to leave thee drown'd in moan.Answer me to my suit, and I am gone;Say to me yea or no.Jane. No.Ham. Then farewell!One farewell will not serve, I come again;Come, dry these wet cheeks; tell me, faith, sweet Jane,Yea or no, once more.Jane. Once more I say: no;Once more be gone, I pray; else will I go.Ham. Nay, then I will grow rude, by this white hand,Until you change that cold "no"; here I'll stand[509]Till by your hard heartJane. Nay, for God's love, peace!My sorrows by your presence more increase.Not that you thus are present, but all griefDesires to be alone; therefore in briefThus much I say, and saying bid adieu:If ever I wed man, it shall be you.Ham. O blessed voice! Dear Jane, I'll urge no more,Thy breath hath made me rich.Jane. Death makes me poor. Exeunt.
¶HODGE, at his shop-board, RALPH, FIRK, HANS, anda Boy at wor\All. Hey, down a down, down derry.Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your work to-day, we loit'redyesterday; to it pell-mell, that we may live to be lord mayors, oraldermen at least.Fir\. Hey, down a down, derry.Hodge. Well said, i' faith! How say'st thou, Hans, doth notFirk tickle it?Hans. Yaw, mester.Fir\. Not so neither, my organ-pipe squeaks this morning forwant of liquoring. Hey, down a down, derry!Hans. Forward, Fir\, tow best un jolly yongster. Hort, I, mester,ic bid yo, cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jeffre's boots.1Hodge. Thou shalt, Hans.Fir\. Master!Hodge. How now, boy ?Fir\. Pray, now you are in the cutting vein, cut me out a pair ofcounterfeits,2 or else my work will not pass current; hey, down adown!Hodge. Tell me, sirs, are my cousin Mrs. Priscilla's shoesdone ?
p. 510¶Fir\. Your cousin? No, master; one of your aunts, hang her; let them alone.
¶Ralph. I am in hand with them; she gave charge that none but I should do them for her.
¶Fir\. Thou do for her? Then 'twill be a lame doing, and that she loves not. Ralph, thou might'st have sent her to me, in faith, I would have yearked and firked your Priscilla. Hey, down a down, derry. This gear will not hold.
¶Hodge. How say'st thou, Firk, were we not merry at Old Ford?
¶Fir\- How, merry! Why, our buttocks went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well, Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought all meal of that nature, I would eat nothing but bagpuddings.
¶Ralph. Of all good fortunes my fellow Hans had the best.
¶Fir\. 'Tis true, because Mistress Rose drank to him.
¶Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or very sick.
¶Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young mistress, to pull on her shoes you made last.
p. 511¶Hans. Vare ben your egle fro, vare ben your mistris?1Sybil. Marry, here at our London house in Cornhill.Firk_. Will nobody serve her turn but Hans?Sybil. No, sir. Come, Hans, I stand upon needles.Hodge. Why then, Sybil, take heed of pricking.Sybil. For that let me alone. I have a trick in my budget. Come,Hans.Hans. Yaw, yaw, ic sail meete yo gane.2 Exit HANS and SYBIL.Hodge. Go, Hans, make haste again. Come, who lacks work?Fir\. I, master, for I lack my breakfast; 'tis munching-time, andpast.Hodge. Is't so? Why, then leave work, Ralph. To breakfast!Boy, look to the tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk. Exeunt.
¶Serv. Marry, I would have a pair of shoes made for a gentlewoman against to-morrow morning. What, can you do them?
¶Ralph. Yes, sir, you shall have them. But what length's her foot?
¶Serv. Why, you must make them in all parts like this shoe; but, at any hand, fail not to do them, for the gentlewoman is to be married very early in the morning.
¶Ralph. How? by this shoe must it be made? By this? Are you sure, sir, by this ?
¶Serv. How, by this? Am I sure, by this? Art thou in thy wits? I tell thee, I must have a pair of shoes, dost thou mark me? A pair of shoes, two shoes, made by this very shoe, this same shoe, against to-morrow morning by four a clock. Dost understand me? Canst thou do't?
p. 512¶Ralph. Yes, sir, yes—I—I—I can do't. By this shoe, you say? Ishould know this shoe. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do't. Four aclock, well. Whither shall I bring them?Serf. To the sign of the Golden Ball in Watling Street; enquirefor one Master Hammon, a gentleman, my master.Ralph. Yea, sir; by this shoe, you say?Serv. I say, Master Hammon at the Golden Ball; he's the bridegroom, and those shoes are for his bride.Ralph. They shall be done by this shoe. Well, well, Master Hammon at the Golden Shoe—I would say, the Golden Ball; very well,very well. But I pray you, sir, where must Master Hammon bemarried ?Serv. At Saint Faith's Church, under Paul's. But what's that tothee? Prithee, dispatch those shoes, and so farewell. "Exit.Ralph. By this shoe, said he. How am I amaz'dAt this strange accident! Upon my life,This was the very shoe I gave my wife,When I was press'd for France; since when, alas!I never could hear of her. It is the same,And Hammon's bride no other but my Jane.
¶Enter FIRKFir\. 'Snails.1 Ralph, thou hast lost thy part of three pots, acountryman of mine gave me to breakfast.Ralph. I care not; I have found a better thing.Fir\. A thing? Away! Is it a man's thing, or a woman s thing?Ralph. Firk, dost thou know this shoe?Fir\. No, by my troth; neither doth that know mel I have noacquaintance with it, 'tis a mere stranger to me.Ralph. Why, then I do; this shoe, I durst be sworn,Once covered the instep of my Jane.This is her size, her breadth, thus trod my love;These true-love knots I pricked. I hold my life,By this old shoe I shall find out my wife.Fir\. Ha, ha! Old shoe, that wert new! How a murrain camethis ague-fit of foolishness upon thee ?[513]Ralph. Thus, Firk: even now here came a serving-man;By this shoe would he have a new pair madeAgainst to-morrow morning for his mistress,That's to be married to a gentleman.And why may not this be my sweet Jane?Fir\. And why may'st not thou be my sweet ass? Ha, ha!Ralph. Well, laugh and spare not! But the truth is this:Against to-morrow morning I'll provideA lusty crew of honest shoemakers,To watch the going of the bride to church.If she prove Jane, I'll take her in despiteFrom Hammon and the devil, were he by.If it be not my Jane, what remedy ?Hereof I am sure, I shall live till I die,Although I never with a woman lie. Exit.Fir\. Thou lie with a woman to build nothing but Cripple-gates!Well, God sends fools fortune, and it may be, he may light uponhis matrimony by such a device; for wedding and hanging goes bydestiny. Exit.
p. 513¶SCENE IV. [London: a room in the Lord Mayor's house]Enter HANS and ROSE, arm in armHans. How happy am I by embracing thee!Oh, I did fear such cross mishaps did reign,That I should never see my Rose again.Rose. Sweet Lacy, since fair opportunityOffers herself to further our escape,Let not too over-fond esteem of meHinder that happy hour. Invent the means,And Rose will follow thee through all the world.Hans. Oh, how I surfeit with excess of joy,Made happy by thy rich perfection!But since thou pay'st sweet interest to my hopes,Redoubling love on love, let me once moreLike to a bold-fac'd debtor crave of thee,This night to steal abroad, and at Eyre's house,[514]Who now by death of certain aldermenIs mayor of London, and my master once,Meet thou thy Lacy, where in spite of change,Your father's anger, and mine uncle's hate,Our happy nuptials will we consummate.
¶Enter SYBILSybil. Oh God, what will you do, mistress? Shift for yourself,your father is at hand! He's coming, he's coming! Master Lacy,hide yourself in my mistress! For God's sake, shift for yourselves!Hans. Your father come, sweet Rose—what shall I do? Whereshall I hide me? How shall I escape?Rose. A man, and want wit in extremity?Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoemaker,Pull on my shoe.
¶Hans. Mass, and that's well rememb'red.Sybil. Here comes your father.Hans. Forware, metresse, 'tis un good s\ow, it sal vel dute, or yesal neit betallen. 1Rose. Oh God, it pincheth me; what will you do?Hans. [Aside.] Your father's presence pincheth, not the shoe.L. Mayor. Well done; fit my daughter well, and she shall pleasethee well.Hans. Yaw, yaw, ic\ weit dat well; forware, 'tis un good s\oo,'tis gimait van neits leither; se euer, mine here}
¶Enter a PrenticeL. Mayor. I do believe it.—What's the news with you?Prentice. Please you, the Earl of Lincoln at the gateIs newly lighted, and would speak with you.L. Mayor. The Earl of Lincoln come to speak with me ?Well, well, I know his errand. Daughter Rose,[515]Send hence your shoemaker, dispatch, have done!Syb, make things handsome! Sir boy, follow me. Exit.Hans. Mine uncle come! Oh, what may this portend?Sweet Rose, this of our love threatens an end.Rose. Be not dismay'd at this; whate'er befall,Rose is thine own. To witness I speak truth,Where thou appoint'st the place, I'll meet with thee.I will not fix a day to follow thee,But presently1 steal hence. Do not reply:Love which gave strength to bear my father's hate,Shall now add wings to further our escape. Exeunt.
¶L. Mayor. Believe me, on my credit, I speak truth:Since first your nephew Lacy went to France,I have not seen him. It seem'd strange to me,When Dodger told me that he stay'd behind,Neglecting the high charge the king imposed.Lincoln. Trust me, Sir Roger Oateley, I did thinkYour counsel had given head to this attempt,Drawn to it by the love he bears your child.Here I did hope to find him in your house;But now I see mine error, and confess,My judgment wrong'd you by conceiving so.L. Mayor. Lodge in my house, say you? Trust me, my lord,I love your nephew Lacy too too dearly,So much to wrong his honour; and he hath done so,That first gave him advice to stay from France.To witness I speak truth, I let you know,How careful I have been to keep my daughterFree from all conference or speech of him;Not that I scorn your nephew, but in loveI bear your honour, lest your noble bloodShould by my mean worth be dishonoured.[516]Lincoln. [Aside.] How far the churl's tongue wanders from hisheart!Well, well, Sir Roger Oateley, I believe you,With more than many thanks for the kind loveSo much you seem to bear me. But, my lord,Let me request your help to seek my nephew,Whom if I find, I'll straight embark for France.So shall your Rose be free, my thoughts at rest,And much care die which now lies in my breast.
p. 516¶Enter SYBILSybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God's sake! My mistress; oh, myyoung mistress!L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? What's become of her?Sybil. She's gone, she's fled!L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled?Sybil. I know not, forsooth; she's fled out of doors with Hans theshoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace!L. Mayor. Which way ? What, John! Where be my men? Whichway?Sybil. I know not, an it please your worship.L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can this be true?Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God's in Heaven.Lincoln. Her love turn'd shoemaker ? I am glad of this.L. Mayor. A Fleming butter-box, a shoemaker!Will she forget her birth, requite my careWith such ingratitude? Scorn'd she young HammonTo love a honniken,1 a needy knave?Well, let her fly, I'll not fly after her,Let her starve, if she will; she's none of mine.Lincoln. Be not so cruel, sir.
¶Enter FIRK with shoesSybil. I am glad, she's scap'd.L. Mayor. I'll not account of her as of my child.Was there no better object for her eyes
¶Fir\. Yea, forsooth; 'tis a very brave shoe, and as fit as a pudding.
¶L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this? From whence comest thou?
¶Fir{. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoemaker, lusty Roger's chief lusty journeyman, and I have come hither to take up the pretty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, and thus hoping your worship is in as good health, as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk. L. Mayor. Stay, stay, Sir Knave!
¶Fir\. 'Tis happy the knave is put before the shoemaker, or else I would not have vouchsafed to come back to you. I am moved, for I stir.
¶L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us knaves by craft.
¶Fir\. Then 'tis by the gentle craft, and to call one knave gendy, is no harm. Sit your worship merry! Syb, your young mistress—I'll so bob 2 them, now my Master Eyre is lord mayor of London.
¶Fir\. I sing now to the tune of Rogero. Roger, my fellow, is now my master.
¶Lincoln. Sirrah, know'st thou one Hans, a shoemaker ?
¶Fir\. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak it in secret: Mistress Rose and he are by this time—no, not so, but shortly are to come over one another with "Can you dance the shaking of the sheets?" It is that Hans—[Aside.] I'll so gull 2 these diggers! 3
¶Fir\. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I care not for seeing, I love feeling; let me feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; and then Firk is your man—[aside] in a new pair of stretchers. 5
¶Fir\. No point. Shall I betray my brother? No! Shall I prove Judas to Hans? No! Shall I cry treason to my corporation? No, I shall be firked and yerked then. But give me your angel; your angel shall tell you.
¶Lincoln. Do so, good fellow; 'tis no hurt to thee.
¶Fir^- Pitchers have ears, and maids have wide mouths; but for Hans Prauns, upon my word, to-morrow morning he and young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to tan leather withal. L. Mayor. But art thou sure of this?
¶Firk- Am I sure that Paul's steeple is a handful higher than London Stone, 6 or that the Pissing-Conduit 7 leaks nothing but pure Mother Bunch? 8 Am I sure I am lusty Firk? God's nails, do you think I am so base to gull you ?
¶Lincoln. Where are they married? Dost thou know the church?
¶Firk- I never go to church, but I know the name of it; it is a swearing church—stay a while, 'tis—ay, by the mass, no, no,—'tis—ay, by my troth, no, nor that; 'tis—ay, by my faith, that, that; 'tis, ay, by my Faith's Church under Paul's Cross. There they shall be knit like a pair of stockings in matrimony; there they'll be inconie. 9
¶Fir\. No, forsooth; I think Hans is nobody but Hans, no spirit.
p. 519¶L. Mayor. My mind misgives me now, 'tis so, indeed.Lincoln. My cousin speaks the language, knows the trade.L. Mayor. Let me request your company, my lord;Your honourable presence may, no doubt,Refrain their headstrong rashness, when myselfGoing alone perchance may be o'erborne.Shall I request this favour?Lincoln. This, or what else.Fir\. Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to theirhey-pass and repass, 10 pindy-pandy, which hand will you have, veryearly.L. Mayor. My care shall every way equal their haste.This night accept your lodging in my house,The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint Faith'sPrevent this giddy hare-brain'd nuptial.This traffic of hot love shall yield cold gains:They ban 11 our loves, and we'll forbid their banns. Exit.Lincoln. At Saint Faith's Church thou say'st?Fir\. Yes, by their troth.Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. Exit.Fir\. Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, ha, here's no craft in thegentle craft. I came hither of purpose with shoes to Sir Roger'sworship, whilst Rose, his daughter, be cony-catched by Hans. Softnow; these two gulls will be at Saint Faith's Church to-morrowmorning, to take Master Bridegroom and Mistress Bride napping,and they, in the mean time, shall chop up the matter at the Savoy.But the best sport is, Sir Roger Oateley will find my fellow lameRalph's wife going to marry a gentleman, and then he'll stop herinstead of his daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine tickling sport.Soft now, what have I to do? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoemakers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy Lane, to cozen 12 my gentlemanof lame Ralph's wife, that's true.Alack, alack!Girls, hold out tack!For now smocks for this jumblingShall go to wrack. Exit.
¶Eyre. This is the morning, then; stay, my bully, my honest Hans, is it not?
¶Hans. This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable; therefore, if you—
¶Eyre. Away with these ifs and ands, Hans, and these et caeteras! By mine honour, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor of London? Fear nothing, Rose: let them all say what they can; dainty, come thou to me—laughest thou ?
¶Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.
¶Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah! Fie, I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou had'st never covered thy Saracen's head with this French flap, nor loaden thy bum with this farthingale, ('tis trash, trumpery, vanity); Simon Eyre had never walked in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine journeyman's Portuguese.—And shall I leave him? No! Prince am I none, yet bear a princely mind.
¶Hans. My lord, 'tis time for us to part from hence.
¶Eyre. Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take two or three of my piecrust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at Simon Eyre's heels; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my delicate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy; see them link'd, countenance the marriage; and when it is done, cling, cling together, you Hamborow turtle-doves. I'll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou shalt eat minced-pies and marchpane.1 Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!
¶Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! A vaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate, it's a mad life to be a lord mayor; it's a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honour of Saint Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I'll do't, I'll do't, by the life of Pharaoh; by this beard, Sim Eyre will be no flincher. Besides, I have procur'd that upon every Shrove-Tuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads shall clap up their shop windows, and away. This is the day, and this day they shall do't, they shall do't.
¶Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong; were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure 'tis thy wife?
¶Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I stroked1 on her shoes, I looked upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, asked me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said she—tears standing in her eyes—and for thou art somewhat like [522]him, spend this piece of gold. I took it; my lame leg and my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she's mine.
p. 522¶Fir\. Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold! She's thine own, 'tis thy wife, and she loves thee; for I'll stand to't, there's no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks better of him than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London. Is not our old master Eyre, lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.
¶Ralph. Stand to't, my hearts. Firk, let me speak first.
¶Hodge. No, Ralph, let me.—Hammon, whither away so early ? Ham. Unmannerly, rude slave, what's that to thee?
¶Fir\. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how dost thou? Good Lord, how the world is changed with you! God be thanked!
¶Ham. Villains, hands off! How dare you touch my love?
¶All. Villains? Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices!1
¶Hodge. Hold, my hearts! Touch her, Hammon? Yea, and more than that: we'll carry her away with us. My masters and gentlemen, never draw your bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the back, men every inch of them, all spirit.
¶Those of Hammon's side. Well, and what of all this?
¶Hodge. I'll show you.—Jane, dost thou know this man? 'Tis Ralph, I can tell thee; nay, 'us he in faith, though he be lam'd by the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the neck and kiss him.
¶Jane. Lives then my husband? Oh God, let me go, Let me embrace my Ralph.
¶[To RALPH.] 'Twas rumour'd here in London, thou wert dead.
p. 523¶Firf^- Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack home with. him. Now,Master Hammon, where's your mistress, your wife?Serv. 'Swounds, master, fight for her! Will you thus lose her?All. Down with that creature! Clubs! Down with him!Hodge. Hold, hold!Ham. Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no wrong.Will my Jane leave me thus, and break her faith?Firk_. Yea, sir! She must, sir! She shall, sir! What then? Mend it!Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my counsel: set the wenchin the midst, and let her choose her man, and let her be his woman.Jane. Whom should I choose ? Whom should my thoughts affectBut him whom Heaven hath made to be my love?Thou art my husband, and these humble weedsMake thee more beautiful than all his wealth.Therefore, I will but put off his attire,Returning it into the owner's hand,And after ever be thy constant wife.Hodge. Not a rag, Jane! The law's on our side; he that sows inanother man's ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph;follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point1 fromthee.Firk- Stand to that, Ralph; the appurtenances are thine own.Hammon, look not at her!Serv. O, swounds, no!Firk_. Blue coat, be quiet, we'll give you a new livery else; we'llmake Shrove Tuesday Saint George's Day for you. Look not,Hammon, leer not! I'll firk you! For thy head now, one glance,one sheep's eye, anything, at her! Touch not a rag, lest I and mybrethren beat you to clouts.Serv. Come, Master Hammon, there's no striving here.Ham. Good fellows, hear me speak; and, honest Ralph,Whom I have injured most by loving Jane,Mark what I offer thee: here in fair goldIs twenty pound, I'll give it for thy Jane;If this content thee not, thou shalt have more.[524]Hodge. Sell not thy wife, Ralph; make her not a whore.Ham. Say, wilt thou freely cease thy claim in her,And let her be my wife ?All. No, do not, Ralph.Ralph. Sirrah, Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemakeris so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thygold, choke with it! Were I not lame, I would make thee eat thywords.Firk- A shoemaker sell his flesh and blood? Oh indignity!Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be packing.Ham. I will not touch one penny, but in lieuOf that great wrong I offered thy Jane,To Jane and thee I give that twenty pound.Since I have fail'd of her, during my life,I vow, no woman else shall be my wife.Farewell, good fellows of the gende trade:Your morning mirth my mourning day hath made. Exit.Fir\. [To the Serving-man.] Touch the gold, creature, if youdare! Y'are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let'shome, my hearts.Hodge. Stay! Who comes here? Jane, on again with thy mask!
p. 524¶Enter the EARL OF LINCOLN, the LORD MAYOR and ServantsLincoln. Yonder's the lying varlet mocked us so.L. Mayor. Come hither, sirrah!Firk- I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean me, do you not?Lincoln. Where is my nephew married?Firl{- ^ s n e married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. Theyhave a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.L. Mayor. Villain, thou toldst me that my daughter RoseThis morning should be married at Saint Faith's;We have watch'd there these three hours at the least,Yet see we no such thing.Firk- Truly, I am sorry for't; a bride's a pretty thing.Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder's the bride and bridegroomyou look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar byyour authority men from women, are you?[525]L. Mayor. See, see, my daughter's masked.Lincoln. True, and my nephew, True,To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame.Firl{. Yea, truly; God help the poor couple, they are lame andblind.L. Mayor. I'll ease her blindness.Lincoln. I'll his lameness cure.Firk^. Lie down, sirs, and laugh! My fellow Ralph is taken forRowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all myknavery.L. Mayor. What, have I found you, minion ?Lincoln. O base wretchNay, hide thy face, the horror of thy guiltCan hardly be washed off. Where are thy powers?What battles have you made? O yes, I see,Thou fought'st with Shame, and Shame hath conquer'd thee.This lameness will not serve.L. Mayor. Unmask yourself.Lincoln. Lead home your daughter.L. Mayor. Take your nephew hence.Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? Ihope you cannot enforce my wife from me. Where's Hammon?L. Mayor. Your wife?Lincoln. What, Hammon?Ralph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you thatlays hands on her first, I'll lay my crutch 'cross his pate.Firl^. To him, lame Ralph! Here's brave sport!Ralph. Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane.Look here else; do you know her now? [Unmaskjng JANE.]Lincoln. Is this your daughter ?L. Mayor. No, nor this your nephew.My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abus'dBy this base, crafty varlet.Fir\. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I ambut mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft.L. Mayor. Where is my daughter Rose ? Where is my child ?Lincoln. Where is my nephew Lacy married ?[526]Fir\. Why, here is good lac'd mutton, 4 as I promis'd you.Lincoln. Villain, I'll have thee punish'd for this wrong.Fir\. Punish the journeyman villain, but not the journeymanshoemaker.
¶Dodger. My lord, I come to bring unwelcome news.Your nephew Lacy and your daughter RoseEarly this morning wedded at the Savoy,None being present but the lady mayoress.Besides, I learnt among the officers,The lord mayor vows to stand in their defence'Gainst any that shall seek to cross the match.Lincoln. Dares Eyre the shoemaker uphold the deed ?Firk_. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a woman's quarrel, Iwarrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too.Dodger. Besides, his grace to-day dines with the mayor;Who on his knees humbly intends to fallAnd beg a pardon for your nephew's fault.Lincoln. But I'll prevent him! Come, Sir Roger Oateley;The king will do us justice in this cause.Howe'er their hands have made them man and wife,I will disjoin the match, or lose my life. Exeunt.Fir\. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Farewell, fools! Ha, ha! Oh,if they had stay'd, I would have so lamb'd 5 them with flouts! . . .But let that pass, as my lady mayoress says.Hodge. This matter is answer'd. Come, Ralph; home with thywife. Come, my fine shoemakers, let's to our master's, the newlord mayor, and there swagger this Shrove-Tuesday. I'll promiseyou wine enough, for Madge keeps the cellar.All. O rare! Madge is a good wench.Fir\. And I'll promise you meat enough, for simp'ring Susankeeps the larder. I'll lead you to victuals, my brave soldiers; followyour captain. O brave! Hark, hark! Bell rings.All. The pancake-bell 6 rings, the pancake-bell! Trilill, my hearts!Fir\. Oh brave! Oh sweet bell! O delicate pancakes! Open the
p. 527¶doors, my hearts, and shut up the windows! Keep in the house, let out the pancakes! Oh rare, my hearts! Let's march together for the honour of Saint Hugh to the great new hall 7 in Gracious Street-corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath Built.
¶Ralph. O the crew of good fellows that will dine at my lord mayor's cost to-day!
¶Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a most brave man. How shall prentices be bound to pray for him and the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers! Let's feed and be fat with my lord's bounty.
¶Fir^. O musical bell, still! O Hodge, O my brethren! There's cheer for the heavens: venison-pasties walk up and down piping hot, like sergeants; beef and brewess 8 comes marching in dry-vats, 9 fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheel-barrows; hens and oranges hopping in porters'-baskets, collops and eggs in scuttles, 10 and tarts and custards comes quavering in in malt-shovels.
¶I st Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why? The lord mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to breakfast this morning.
¶All. Oh brave shoemakers, oh brave lord of incomprehensible good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings.
¶Fir\. Nay, more, my hearts! Every Shrove-Tuesday is our year of jubilee; and when the pancake-bell rings, we are as free as my lord mayor; we may shut up our shops, and make holiday. I'll have it called Saint Hugh's Holiday.
¶All. Oh brave! Come, come, my hearts! Away, away!
¶Fir\. O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft! March fair, my hearts! Oh rare! . Exeunt.
¶7Leadenhall. 8 Beef broth. 9 Barrels. 1 0 Hods.[528]SCENE III. [A street in London]Enter the KING and his Train across the stageKing. Is our lord mayor of London such a gallant ?Nobleman. One of the merriest madcaps in your land.Your grace will think, when you behold the man,He's rather a wild ruffian than a mayor.Yet thus much I'll ensure your majesty.In all his actions that concern his state,He is as serious, provident, and wise,As full of gravity amongst the grave,As any mayor hath been these many years.King. I am with child, 1 till I behold this huff-cap. 2But all my doubt is, when we come in presence,His madness will be dashed clean out of countenance.Nobleman. It may be so, my liege.King. Which to prevent,Let some one give him notice, 'tis our pleasureThat he put on his wonted merriment.Set forward!All. On afore! Exeunt.
¶Enter EYRE, HODGE, FIRK, RALPH, and other Shoemakers, all withnapkins on their shouldersEyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers;soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers? Let themall walk and wait upon my brethren; for my meaning is, that nonebut shoemakers, none but the livery of my company shall in theirsatin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign.
¶Eyre. No more, Firk; come, lively! Let your fellow-prentices want no cheer; let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water. Hang these penny-pinching fathers, that cram wealth in innocent lambskins. Rip, knaves, a vaunt! Look to my guests!
p. 529¶Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits' end for room; those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them.
¶Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, Ralph! Frisk about, my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathom-healths to the honour of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk?
¶Fir\. Tickle it? Some of them have taken their liquor standing so long that they can stand no longer; but for meat, they would eat it, an they had it.
¶Eyre. Want they meat ? Where's this swag-belly, this greasy kitchenstuffcook? Call the varlet tome! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all East-cheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat ? Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge!
¶Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firk; he means, their bellies want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much, they can eat nothing.
The Second Three Men's Song
¶Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,Saint Hugh be our good speed:111 is the weather that bringeth no gain,Nor helps good hearts in need.
¶Trowl 1 the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,And here, kind mate, to thee:Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,And down it merrily.
¶Down a down heydown a down,(Close with the tenor boy)Hey derry derry, down a down!Ho, well done; to me let come!Ring, compass, gentle joy.
¶'Pass.[530]Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,And here, kind mate, to thee: etc.[Repeat as often as there be men to drin\; and atlast when all have drun\, this verse:
¶Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,Saint Hugh be our good speed:111 is the weather that bringeth no gain,Nor helps good hearts in need.
¶Marg. The king's most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me for thy honour; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass.
¶Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren; look to my guests, the prentices. Yet stay a little! How now, Hans? How looks my little Rose?
¶Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my honest journeyman; look cheerily! I'll fall upon both my knees, till they be as hard as horn, but I'll get thy pardon.
¶Marg. Good my lord, have a care what you speak to his grace.
¶Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot! 2 hence, you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled carbonado! 3 avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; meddle with your partlets 4 and your pishery-pashery, your flewes 5 and your whirligigs; go, rub, 6 out of mine alley! Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an he were here, [531]and shall I melt, shall I droop before my sovereign ? No, come, my Lady Madgy! Follow me, Hans! About your business, my frolic freebooters! Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London.
¶Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, shall set your sweet majesty's image cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this honour you have done poor Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace, pardon my rude behaviour; I am a handicraftsman, yet my heart is without craft; I would be sorry at my soul, that my boldness should offend my king.
¶King. Nay, I pray thee, good lord mayor, be even as merry
¶Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Dioclesian? Then, humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the Lord of Ludgate, my liege, I'll be as merry as a pie.1
¶King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how old thou art.
¶Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a younker; you see not a white hair on my head, not a gray in this beard. Every hair, I assure thy majesty, that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon's ransom, Tamar Cham's beard was a rubbing brush to't: yet I'll shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls with it, to please my bully king.
¶Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry [532]humph! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danc'd the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy nobles, it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born.
¶King. Lincoln, what news with you?Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto yourself,For there are traitors here.All. Traitors? Where? Who?Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid! Where be my officers?I'll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm.King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln ?Lincoln. Here he stands.King. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacy!—Lincoln, speak,What canst thou lay unto thy nephew's charge?Lincoln. This, my dear liege: your Grace, to do me honour,Heap'd on the head of this degenerate boyDesertless favours; you made choice of him,To be commander over powers in France.But heKing. Good Lincoln, prithee, pause a while!Even in thine eyes I read what thou wouldst speak.I know how Lacy did neglect our love,Ran himself deeply, in the highest degree,Into vile treasonLincoln. Is he not a traitor ?King. Lincoln, he was; now have we pard'ned him.'Twas not a base want of true valour's fire,That held him out of France, but love's desire.Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon my back.[533]King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln; I forgive you both.Lincoln. Then, good my liege, forbid the boy to wedOne whose mean birth will much disgrace his bed.King. Are they not married?Lincoln. No, my liege.Both. We are.King. Shall I divorce them then ? O be it far,That any hand on earth should dare untieThe sacred knot, knit by God's majesty;I would not for my crown disjoin their handsThat are conjoin'd in holy nuptial bands.How say'st thou, Lacy, wouldst thou lose thy Rose?Lacy. Not for all India's wealth, my sovereign.King. But Rose, I am sure, her Lacy would forego?Rose. If Rose were asked that question, she'd say no.King. You hear them, Lincoln?Lincoln. Yea, my liege, I do.King. Yet canst thou find i'th' heart to part these two ?Who seeks, besides you, to divorce these lovers?L. Mayor. I do, my gracious lord, I am her father.King. Sir Roger Oateley, our last mayor, I think ?Nobleman. The same, my liege.King. Would you offend Love's laws?Well, you shall have your wills, you sue to me,To prohibit the match. Soft, let me see—You both are married, Lacy, art thou not?Lacy. I am, dread sovereign.King. Then, upon thy life,I charge thee, not to call this woman wife.L. Mayor. I thank your grace.Rose. O my most gracious lord!Kneels.King. Nay, Rose, never woo me; I tell you true,Although as yet I am a bachelor,Yet I believe, I shall not marry you.Rose. Can you divide the body from the soul,Yet make the body live ?[534]King. Yea, so profound ?I cannot, Rose, but you I must divide.This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be your bride.Are you pleas'd, Lincoln? Oateley, are you pleas'd?Both. Yes, my lord.King. Then must my heart be eas'd;For, credit me, my conscience lives in pain,Till these whom I divorc'd, be join'd again.Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me thine!Be what you would be! Kiss now! So, that's fine.At night, lovers, to bed!—Now, let me see,Which of you all mislikes this harmony.L. Mayor. Will you then take from me my child perforce?King. Why, tell me, Oateley: shines not Lacy's nameAs bright in the world's eye as the gay beamsOf any citizen ?Lincoln. Yea, but, my gracious lord,I do mislike the match far more than he;Her blood is too too base.King. Lincoln, no more.Dost thou not know that love respects no blood,Cares not for difference of birth or state?The maid is young, well born, fair, virtuous,A worthy bride for any gentleman.Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoopTo bare necessity, and, as I hear,Forgetting honours and all courtly pleasures,To gain her love, became a shoemaker.As for the honour which he lost in France,Thus I redeem it: Lacy, kneel thee down!—Arise, Sir Rowland Lacy! Tell me now,Tell me in earnest, Oateley, canst thou chide,Seeing thy Rose a lady and a bride?L. Mayor. I am content with what your grace hath done.Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there's no remedy.King. Come on, then, all shake hands: I'll have you friends;Where there is much love, all discord ends.[535]What says my mad lord mayor to all this love?Eyre. O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacy, and all these favours which you haveshown to me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre livelonger by one dozen of warm summers more than he should.King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall be thy name;If any grace of mine can length thy life,One honour more I'll do thee: that new building,1Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected,Shall take a name from us; we'll have it call'dThe Leadenhall, because in digging itYou found the lead that covereth the same.Eyre. I thank your majesty.Marg. God bless your grace!King. Lincoln, a word with you!
¶Enter HODGE, FIRK, RALPH, and more ShoemakersEyre. How now, my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonderis the king.King. With the old troop which there we keep in pay,We will incorporate a new supply.Before one summer more pass o'er my head,France shall repent, England was injured.What are all those?Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege,Sometime my fellows; in their companiesI liv'd as merry as an emperor.King. My mad lord mayor, are all these shoemakers?Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft,true Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrineof holy Saint Hugh.All the Shoemakers. God save your majesty!King. Mad Simon, would they anything with us?Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! I'll do't; I warrant you.[536]They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them allon both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyreand the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace wouldvouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may belawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week.King. Mad Sim, I grant your suit, you shall have patentTo hold two market-days in Leadenhall,Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the times.Will this content you?All. Jesus bless your grace!Eyre. In the name of these my poor brethren shoemakers, I mosthumbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in thegiving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more.King. What is it, my lord mayor ?Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetlywaiting for your sweet presence.King. I shall undo thee, Eyre, only with feasts;Already have I been too troublesome;Say, have I not?Eyre. O my dear king,- Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a dayof shroving,1 which I promised long ago to the prentices of London.
p. 536¶For, an't please your highness, in time past,I bare the water-tankard/ and my coatSits not a whit the worse upon my back;And then, upon a morning, some mad boys,It was Shrove Tuesday, even as 'tis now,
¶gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of mytankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feastall the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had anhundred tables five times covered; they are gone home and vanished;Yet add more honour to the gentle trade,Taste of Eyre's banquet, Simon's happy made.[537]King. Eyre, I will taste of thy banquet, and will say,I have not met more pleasure on a day.Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to you all,Thanks, my kind lady mayoress, for our cheer.—Come, lords, a while let's revel it at home!When all our sports and banquetings are done,Wars must right wrongs which Frenchmen have begun.Exeunt.