  THE SHOEMAKER’S HOLIDAY; OR A PLEASANT COMEDY OF THE GENTLE CRAFT. decoration The shoemaker’s holiday, or a Pleasant Comedy of the Gentle Craft, was first published in 1599, as we learn from a passage in Henslowe’s Diary; but the earliest known edition is the quarto of 1600, which describes the play as “acted before the Queen’s most excellent Maiestie New-years day at night last, by the right honourable the Earle of Nottingham, Lord High Admirall of England, his seruants.” Other editions followed in 1610, 1618, and 1657. Of modern editions, Germany has produced the only one which is at all reliable, and upon this edition, admirably collated and edited by Drs. Karl Warnke and Ludwig Proescholdt, and published at Halle in 1886, the present reprint is based, the excellence of text, notes and introduction, leaving little beyond the modernising and some elucidation here and there to be done. Dekker appears to have had a collaborator in the play in Robert Wilson, the actor, who is said to have created the part of Firk on its performance, but although Wilson may have provided some of the situations and dialogue, the credit of the play as a whole is undoubtedly Dekker’s. The Shoemaker’s Holiday is the first of Dekker’s plays, in order of publication, which has survived, although according to Henslowe he began to write for the stage in 1596. The conception of Simon Eyre, the Shoemaker, is taken from a real person of that name, who, according to Stow, was an upholsterer, and afterwards a draper. He built Leadenhall in 1419, as referred to by Dekker in Act V., decoration decoration TO ALL GOOD FELLOWS, PROFESSORS OF THE GENTLE CRAFT, |
| Rowland Lacy, otherwise Hans, | } | His Nephews. |
| Askew |
| Master Hammon | } | Citizens of London. |
| Master Warner | ||
| Master Scott |
| Roger, commonly called Hodge | } | Eyre’s Journeymen. |
| Firk | ||
| Ralph |
Dodger, Servant to the Earl of Lincoln.
A Dutch Skipper.
A Boy.
Courtiers, Attendants, Officers, Soldiers, Hunters, Shoemakers, Apprentices, Servants.
Sybil, her Maid.
Margery, Wife of Simon Eyre.
Jane, Wife of Ralph.
THE SHOEMAKER’S HOLIDAY
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I.—A Street in London.
Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of Lincoln.
Feasted myself and many courtiers more:
Seldom or never can we be so kind
To make requital of your courtesy.
But leaving this, I hear my cousin Lacy
Is much affected to your daughter Rose.
That I mislike her boldness in the chase.
To join a Lacy with an Oateley’s name?
Poor citizens must not with courtiers wed,
Who will in silks and gay apparel spend
More in one year than I am worth, by far:
Therefore your honour need not doubt my girl.
Than is my cousin; for I’ll tell you what:
’Tis now almost a year since he requested
To travel countries for experience;
I furnished him with coin, bills of exchange,
Letters of credit, men to wait on him,
Solicited my friends in Italy
Well to respect him. But to see the end:
Scant had he journeyed through half Germany,
But all his coin was spent, his men cast off,
His bills embezzled,
Ashamed to show his bankrupt presence here,
Became a shoemaker in Wittenberg,
A goodly science for a gentleman
Of 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 have,
One twelvemonth’s rioting will waste it all.
Then seek, my lord, some honest citizen
To wed your daughter to.
(Aside) Well, fox, I understand your subtilty.
As for your nephew, let your lordship’s eye
But 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 learned an occupation;
And yet I scorn to call him son-in-law.
I thank his grace, he hath appointed him
Chief colonel of all those companies
Mustered in London and the shires about,
To serve his highness in those wars of France.
See where he comes!—
Enter Lovell, Lacy, and Askew.
That presently your cousin ship for France
With all his powers; he would not for a million,
But they should land at Dieppe within four days.
Now, cousin Lacy, in what forwardness
Are all your companies?
The men of Hertfordshire lie at Mile-end,
Suffolk and Essex train in Tothill-fields,
The Londoners and those of Middlesex,
All gallantly prepared in Finsbury,
With frolic spirits long for their parting hour.
And, if it please your cousin Lacy come
To the Guildhall, he shall receive his pay;
And twenty pounds besides my brethren
Will freely give him, to approve our loves
We bear unto my lord, your uncle here.
Nephew, that twenty pound he doth bestow
For 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 eye
Upon so mean a project as the love
Of a gay, wanton, painted citizen.
Doth 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 spirit
Thou start from the true bias of my love.
Of land or livings, or to be your heir,
So guide my actions in pursuit of France,
As shall add glory to the Lacys’ name.
And, 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.
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 prefixÈd time,
Away for France; we’ll meet in Normandy.
The twenty pounds my lord mayor gives to me
You shall receive, and these ten Portuguese,
Part of mine uncle’s thirty. Gentle coz,
Have care to our great charge; I know, your wisdom
Hath tried itself in higher consequence.
To lodge in London with all secrecy;
Many a jealous eye, that in your face
Stares only to watch means for your disgrace.
Enter Simon Eyre, Margery his wife, Hodge, Firk, Jane, and Ralph with a pair of shoes.
Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! Away with this whimpering, this puling, these blubbering tears, and these wet eyes! I’ll get thy husband discharged, I warrant thee, sweet Jane; go to!
Hodge. Master, here be the captains.
Eyre. Peace, Hodge; hush, ye knave, hush!
Firk. Here be the cavaliers and the colonels, master.
Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! Stand by with your pishery-pashery,
Marg. Seven years, husband?
Eyre. Peace, midriff, peace! I know what I do. Peace!
Firk. Truly, master cormorant, 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
Jane. O let him stay, else I shall be undone.
Firk. Ay, truly, she shall be laid at one side like a pair of old shoes else, and be occupied for no use.
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 entered, but let that pass.
Eyre. Away with your pishery-pashery, your pols and your edipols!
Firk. Yea, and the horns too, master.
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. Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant
Firk. See, see, Hodge, how my master raves in commendation of Ralph!
Hodge. Ralph, th’art a gull, by this hand, an thou goest not.
To meet so resolute a soldier.
Trust me, for your report and love to him,
A common slight regard shall not respect him.
Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentleman.
Woman, be patient; God, no doubt, will send
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 will not have thee strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels; prick thine enemies, Ralph.
Enter Dodger.
Stays with the lord mayor and the aldermen,
And doth request you with all speed you may,
To hasten thither.
This Dodger is mine uncle’s parasite, [Exit Dodger.
The arrant’st varlet that e’er breathed on earth;
He sets more discord in a noble house
By one day’s broaching of his pickthank tales,
Than can be salved again in twenty years,
And he, I fear, shall go with us to France,
To pry into our actions.
It shall behove you to be circumspect.
But, gentle master and my loving dame,
As you have always been a friend to me,
So in mine absence think upon my wife.
Eyre. Peace, you cracked groats,
When he is gone?
Firk. Why, be doing with me or my fellow Hodge; be not idle.
Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This fine hand, this white hand, these pretty fingers must spin, must card, must work; work, you bombast-cotton-candle-quean;
Firk. Here, Ralph, here’s three twopences: two carry into France, the third shall wash our souls at parting, for sorrow is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa mon cues.
Hodge. Ralph, I am heavy at parting; but here’s a
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,
Stitched by my fellow Firk, seamed by myself,
Made up and pinked 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 so,
That I can know them from a thousand mo.
Drum sounds. Enter the Lord Mayor, the Earl of Lincoln, Lacy, Askew, Dodger, and Soldiers. They pass over the stage; Ralph falls in amongst them; Firk and the rest cry “Farewell,” etc., and so exeunt.
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.—A Garden at Old Ford.
Enter Rose, alone, making a garland.
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 lowered you so at my nativity,
To make me love, yet live robbed of my love?
Here as a thief am I imprisonËd
For my dear Lacy’s sake within those walls,
Which by my father’s cost were builded up
For better purposes; here must I languish
For him that doth as much lament, I know,
Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me; against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.
Rose. Sybil, what news at London?
Sybil. None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors’ Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most 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 here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,—O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford house, here in Master Belly-mount’s chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, looked 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!
My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb,
No dove was ever half so mild as he.
Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs.
And the hare’s foot against the goose giblets,
For if ever I sigh, when sleep I should take,
Pray God I may lose my maidenhead when I wake.
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;
Whether my Lacy go to France, or no.
Do this, and I will give thee for thy pains
My cambric apron and my Romish gloves,
My purple stockings and a stomacher.
Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my sake?
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.
Will sit and sigh for his lost company. [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Street in London.
Enter Lacy, disguised as a Dutch Shoemaker.
Thereby to compass their desired loves!
It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then,
To clothe his cunning with the gentle craft,
That, thus disguised, I may unknown possess
The only happy presence of my Rose.
For her have I forsook my charge in France,
Incurred the king’s displeasure, and stirred up
Rough hatred in mine uncle Lincoln’s breast.
O love, how powerful art thou, that canst change
High birth to baseness, and a noble mind
But thus it must be. For her cruel father,
Hating the single union of our souls,
Has secretly conveyed my Rose from London,
To bar me of her presence; but I trust,
Fortune and this disguise will further me
Once more to view her beauty, gain her sight.
Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoemaker
Mean I a while to work; I know the trade,
I learnt it when I was in Wittenberg.
Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not dismayed,
Thou canst not want: do Fortune what she can,
The gentle craft is living for a man. [Exit.
SCENE III.—An open Yard before Eyre’s House.
Enter Eyre, making himself ready.
Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels? They wallow in the fat brewiss
Enter Firk.
Firk. O master, is’t you that speak bandog
Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work! Wash thy face, and thou’lt be more blest.
Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat it. Good master, send for a souse-wife,
Enter Hodge.
Eyre. Away, sloven! avaunt, 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.
Firk. 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?
Enter Margery.
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!
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.
Firk. Yet, that’s but a dry beating; here’s still a sign of drought.
Enter Lacy disguised, singing.
Frolick sie byen;
He was als dronck he cold nyet stand,
Upsolce sie byen.
Tap eens de canneken,
Drincke, schone mannekin.
Firk. Master, for my life, yonder’s a brother of the gentle craft; if he bear not Saint Hugh’s bones,
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; 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, and he can catch them.
Firk. 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.
Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, you must take a journey to seek a new journeyman; if Roger remove, Firk follows. If 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.
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 gallimafry
Lacy. Goeden dach, meester, ende u vro oak.
Firk. Nails, if I should speak after him without drinking, I should choke. And you, friend Oake, are you of the gentle craft?
Lacy. Yaw, yaw, ik bin den skomawker.
Firk. Den skomaker, quoth a! And hark you, skomaker, 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. Ik hab all de dingen voour mack skooes groot and cleane.
Firk. 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. Ik weet niet wat yow seg; ich verstaw you niet.
Firk. Why, thus, man: (Imitating by gesture a shoemaker at work) Ick verste u niet, quoth a.
Lacy. Yaw, yaw, yaw; ick can dat wel doen.
Firk. 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. What is thy name?
Lacy. Hans—Hans Meulter.
Eyre. Give me thy hand; th’art welcome.—Hodge, entertain him; Firk, bid him welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid your maids, your trullibubs,
Hodge. Hans, th’art welcome; use thyself friendly, for we are good fellows; if not, thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger than a giant.
Firk. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou Gargantua. My master keeps no cowards, I tell thee.—Ho, boy, bring him an heel-block, here’s a new journeyman.
Enter Boy.
Lacy. O, ich wersto you; ich moet een halve dossen cans betaelen; here, boy, nempt dis skilling, tap eens freelicke.
Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away! Firk, scour thy throat, thou shalt wash it with Castilian liquor.
Enter Boy.
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.
Firk. Lo, dame, you would have lost a good fellow that will teach us to laugh. This beer came hopping in well.
Marg. Simon, it is almost seven.
Eyre. Is’t so, Dame Clapper-dudgeon?
Firk. 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.
SCENE IV.—A Field near Old Ford.
Holloaing within. Enter Master Warner and Master Hammon, attired as Hunters.
This way with wingÈd 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,
Affirming him to have been so embost
That long he could not hold.
’Tis best we trace these meadows by Old Ford.
A noise of Hunters within. Enter a Boy.
Ham. How now, boy? Where’s the deer? speak, saw’st thou him?
Boy. O yea; I saw him leap through a hedge, and
I hope we shall find better sport to-day. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—Another part of the Field.
Hunting within. Enter Rose and Sybil.
Rose. Why, Sybil, wilt thou prove a forester?
Sybil. Upon some, no; forester, go by; no, faith, mistress. The deer came running into the barn through the orchard and over the pale; I wot well, I looked as pale as a new cheese to see him. But whip, says Goodman Pin-close, up with his flail, and our Nick with a 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, unhorned him, and my lord mayor shall eat of him anon, when he comes. [Horns sound within.
They’ll have a saying to you for this deed.
Enter Master Hammon, Master Warner, Huntsmen, and Boy.
Our game was lately in your orchard seen.
It is not like that the wild forest-deer
Would come so near to places of resort;
You are deceived, he fled some other way.
But where’s your park? [She offers to go away.
Enter the Lord Mayor and Servants.
What gentleman is this?
Into my hands, you shall not part from hence,
Until you have refreshed your wearied limbs.
Go, Sybil, cover the board! You shall be guest
To no good cheer, but even a hunter’s feast.
For our lost venison I shall find a wife. [Exeunt.
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.
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE I.—A Room in Eyre’s House.
Enter Lacy otherwise Hans, Skipper, Hodge, and Firk.
Skip. Ick sal yow wat seggen, Hans; dis skip, dot comen from Candy, is al vol, by Got’s sacrament, van sugar, civet, almonds, cambrick, end alle 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?
Firk. Wat seggen de reggen de copen, slopen—laugh, Hodge, laugh!
Hans. Mine liever broder Firk, bringt Meester Eyre tot det signe vn Swannekin; daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me. Wat seggen yow, broder Firk? Doot it, Hodge.
Firk. Bring him, quoth you? Here’s no knavery, to bring my master to buy a ship worth the lading of two or
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,
Enter Eyre and Margery.
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 holiday.
I fear, for this your singing we shall smart.
Firk. Smart for me, dame; why, dame, why?
Hodge. Master, I hope you’ll not suffer my dame to take down your journeymen.
Firk. 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 bombast-cotton-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 called rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort of knaves.
Firk. 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.
Hodge. Nay, stay, Firk; thou shalt not go alone.
Marg. I pray, let them go; there be more maids than Mawkin, more men than Hodge, and more fools than Firk.
Firk. Fools? Nails! if I tarry now, I would my guts might be turned to shoe-thread.
Hodge. And if I stay, I pray God I may be turned to a Turk, and set in Finsbury
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;
Firk. And here’s a face for any lady in Christendom.
Eyre. Rip, you chitterling, avaunt! Boy, bid the
Firk. 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.
Firk. 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 kitchenstuff 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 and seam!
Firk. For yarking and seaming let me alone, an I come to’t.
Hodge. Well, master, all this is from the bias.
Firk. 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:
Enter Boy with a velvet coat and an Alderman’s gown. Eyre puts them on.
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
Firk. Ha, ha, my master will be as proud as a dog in a doublet, all in beaten
Eyre. Softly, Firk, for rearing
Hodge. Why, now you look like yourself, master. I warrant you, there’s few in the city, but will give you the wall, and come upon you with the right worshipful.
Firk. 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.
Re-enter Hans and Skipper.
Hans. Godden day, mester. Dis be de skipper dat heb de skip van marchandice; de commodity ben good; nempt it, master, nempt it.
Eyre. Godamercy, Hans; welcome, skipper. Where lies this ship of merchandise?
Skip. De skip ben in revere; dor be van Sugar, cyvet, almonds, cambrick, and a towsand towsand tings, gotz sacrament; nempt it, mester: ye sal heb good copen.
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?
Skip. Yaw, yaw, ic heb veale gedrunck.
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,
Firk. Rising in 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.
SCENE II.—London: a Room in Lincoln’s House.
Enter the Earl of Lincoln and Dodger.
The French and English were prepared to fight;
Each side with eager fury gave the sign
Of a most hot encounter. Five long hours
Both armies fought together; at the length
The lot of victory fell on our side.
Twelve thousand of the Frenchmen that day died,
Four thousand English, and no man of name
But Captain Hyam and young Ardington,
Two gallant gentlemen, I knew them well.
How did my cousin Lacy bear himself?
I saw him shipped, and a thousand eyes beside
Were witnesses of the farewells which he gave,
When I, with weeping eyes, bid him adieu.
Dodger, take heed.
That what I spake is true: to prove it so,
His cousin Askew, that supplied his place,
Sent me for him from France, that secretly
He might convey himself thither.
Dares he so carelessly venture his life
Upon the indignation of a king?
Has he despised my love, and spurned those favours
Which I with prodigal hand poured on his head?
He shall repent his rashness with his soul;
I’ll make him wish he had not known my hate.
Thou hast no other news?
To crown his giddy brows with ample honours,
Send him chief colonel, and all my hope
Thus to be dashed! But ’tis in vain to grieve,
One evil cannot a worse relieve.
Upon my life, I have found out his plot;
That old dog, Love, that fawned upon him so,
Love to that puling girl, his fair-cheeked Rose,
The lord mayor’s daughter, hath distracted him,
And in the fire of that love’s lunacy
Hath he burnt up himself, consumed 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.
I am at my wits’ end. Dodger!
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 name
Lived once in honour, now ’tis dead in shame.—
Be circumspect. [Exit.
SCENE III.—London: a Room in the Lord Mayor’s House.
Enter the Lord Mayor and Master Scott.
To be a witness to a wedding-knot
Betwixt young Master Hammon and my daughter.
O, stand aside; see where the lovers come.
Enter Master Hammon and Rose.
No, no, within those eyeballs I espy
Apparent likelihoods of flattery.
Pray now, let go my hand.
Misconstrue not my words, nor misconceive
Of my affection, whose devoted soul
Swears that I love thee dearer than my heart.
Men love their hearts best when th’are out of sight.
If flesh be frail, how weak and frail’s your vow!
One quarrel loseth wife and life and all.
Is not your meaning thus?
Lovers are quickly in, and quickly out.
Nay, never turn aside, shun not my sight;
I am not grown so fond, to fond
If you will love me, so—if not, farewell.
Give me yours, daughter.—How now, both pull back!
What means this, girl?
If she can live an happy virgin’s life,
’Tis far more blessed than to be a wife.
Whoever be my husband, ’tis not you.
I bade you welcome to another end.
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 unhorsed—
Sweet, will this pleasure you?
What, love rhymes, man? Fie on that deadly sin!
(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 love
Before the world.—(Aloud.) My good lord mayor, adieu.
Old love for me, I have no luck with new. [Exit.
But you shall curse your coyness if I live.—
Who’s within there? See you convey your mistress
Straight to th’Old Ford! I’ll keep you straight enough.
Fore God, I would have sworn the puling girl
Would willingly accepted Hammon’s love;
But banish him, my thoughts!—Go, minion, in! [Exit Rose.
Now tell me, Master Scott, would you have thought
That Master Simon Eyre, the shoemaker,
Had been of wealth to buy such merchandise?
Grew partners with him; for your bills of lading
Shew that Eyre’s gains in one commodity
Rise at the least to full three thousand pound
Besides like gain in other merchandise.
For I have sent for him to the Guildhall.
Enter Eyre.
Enter Dodger.
I have some business with this gentleman;
I pray, let me entreat you to walk before
To the Guildhall; I’ll follow presently.
Master Eyre, I hope ere noon to call you sheriff.
King of Spain.—Come, Master Scott. [Exeunt Eyre and Scott.
And earnestly requests you, if you can,
Inform him, where his nephew Lacy keeps.
Lurks here in London.
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
So much I love his honour, hate his nephew.
And, prithee, so inform thy lord from me.
Lacy in London? I dare pawn my life,
My daughter knows thereof, and for that cause
Denied 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 my company. [Exit.
SCENE IV.—London: a Room in Eyre’s House.
Enter Firk, Margery, Hans, and Roger.
Marg. Thou goest too fast for me, Roger. O, Firk!
Firk. Ay, forsooth.
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.
Firk. 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.
Firk. 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
Marg. Nay, when? thou wilt make me melancholy.
Firk. God forbid your worship should fall into that humour;—I run. [Exit.
Marg. Let me see now, Roger and Hans.
Hodge. Ay, forsooth, dame—mistress I should say, but the old term so sticks to the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.
Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger; dame is a fair name for any honest Christian; but let that pass. How dost thou, Hans?
Hans. Mee tanck you, vro.
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; but let that pass. Hans, pray thee, tie my shoe.
Hans. Yaw, ic sal, vro.
Marg. Roger, thou know’st the size of my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so I thank God, it is handsome
Hodge. You shall.
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,
Hodge. As a cat out of a pillory:
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. 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.
Hans. Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo.
Hodge. Mistress, will you drink 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.
Enter Ralph, lame.
Roger. 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.
Hans. You be welcome, broder.
Marg. Perdy, I knew him not. How dost thou, good Ralph? I am glad to see thee well.
As when I went from London into France.
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 camest from France; but let that pass.
To hear that God hath blest my master so
Since my departure.
Marg. Yea, truly, Ralph, I thank my Maker; but let that pass.
Hodge. And, sirrah Ralph, what news, what news in France?
Ralph. Tell me, good Roger, first, what news in England? How does my Jane? When didst thou see my wife?
Now I want limbs to get whereon to feed.
Hodge. Limbs? Hast thou not hands, man? Thou shalt never see a shoemaker want bread, though he have but three fingers on a hand.
Ralph. Yet all this while I hear not of my Jane.
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,
Hodge. No, forsooth.
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.
Hans. Yaw, ik sal, vro.
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; one told me, he saw her a while ago very brave and neat; we’ll ferret her out, an’ London hold her.
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.
I’ll trust to God, my good friends, and my hands. [Exit.
Enter Hans and Firk running.
Firk. Run, good Hans! O Hodge, O mistress! Hodge, heave up thine ears; mistress, smug up
I do salute you, Mistress Shrieve.
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 threepenny piece for thy tidings.
Firk. ’Tis but three-half-pence, I think. Yes, ’tis three-pence, I smell the rose.
Hodge. But, mistress, be ruled by me, and do not speak so pulingly.
Firk. ’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.’
Enter Eyre wearing a gold chain.
Hans. See, myn liever broder, heer compt my meester.
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,
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.
We’ll be with them for a morris-dance. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—A Room at Old Ford.
Enter the Lord Mayor, Rose, Eyre, Margery in a French hood, Sybil, and other Servants.
As I myself.
It does me good, and all my brethren,
That such a madcap fellow as thyself
Is entered into our society.
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 pound, 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.
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!
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.
See where she sitteth: come away, my joy;
Come away, I prithee: I do not like the cuckoo
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.”
So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!
And then did I unto my true love say:
“Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer’s queen!”
To my daughter.
Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the grace to take nothing that’s bad.
I would bestow upon that peevish girl
A thousand marks more than I mean to give her,
Upon condition she’d be ruled by me;
The ape still crosseth me. There came of late
A 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 ruled, sweet Rose: th’art ripe for a man. Marry not with a 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 silken fellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack; what, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world.
L. Mayor. What noise is this?
Eyre. O my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your honour are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, my Mesopotamians, 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!
Hans. (Aside.) O that I durst but speak unto my love!
L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to make these drink. You are all welcome.
All. We thank your lordship. [Rose takes a cup of wine and goes to Hans.
Good friend, I drink to thee.
Hans. Ic bedancke, good frister.
Marg. I see, Mistress Rose, you do not want judgment; you have drunk to the properest man I keep.
Firk. Here be some have done their parts to be as proper as he.
Good fellows, first go in and taste our cheer;
And to make merry as you homeward go,
Spend these two angels
Eyre. To these two, my mad lads, Sim Eyre adds another; then cheerily, 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?
Disguised 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 maidenhead to nothing, and that’s great odds, that Hans the Dutchman, when we come to London, shall not only see and speak with you, but in spite 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 your absence cause him to suspect something:
I’ll bind you prentice to the gentle trade. [Exeunt.
ACT THE FOURTH.
SCENE I.—A Street in London.
Jane in a Seamster’s shop, working; enter Master Hammon, muffled; he stands aloof.
She’s fair and lovely, but she is not mine.
O, would she were! Thrice have I courted her,
Thrice hath my hand been moistened with her hand,
Whilst my poor famished eyes do feed on that
Which made them famish. I am unfortunate:
I still love one, yet nobody loves me.
I muse, in other men what women see,
That I so want! Fine Mistress Rose was coy,
And this too curious! Oh, no, she is chaste,
And for she thinks me wanton, she denies
To cheer my cold heart with her sunny eyes.
How prettily she works, oh pretty hand!
Oh happy work! It doth me good to stand
Unseen to see her. Thus I oft have stood
In frosty evenings, a light burning by her,
Enduring biting cold, only to eye her.
One only look hath seemed as rich to me
As a king’s crown; such is love’s lunacy.
Whether she know me.
What is’t you lack, sir, calico, or lawn,
Fine cambric shirts, or bands, what will you buy?
How do you sell this handkerchief?
What are you better now? I love not you.
That means: come to me, when she cries: away!
In earnest, mistress, I do not jest,
A true chaste love hath entered 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 desires
Thirst not for gold. Sweet, beauteous Jane, what’s mine
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.
For ’tis a silly conquest, silly pride
For one like you—I mean a gentleman—
To boast that by his love-tricks he hath brought
Such 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 I
Do constantly believe, you constant have——
But yet, good sir, because I will not grieve you
With 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.
Pressed 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.
Whilst he lives, his I live, be it ne’er so poor,
And rather be his wife than a king’s whore.
Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me.
Thy husband, pressed for France, what was his name?
From France to me, from a dear friend of mine,
A gentleman of place; here he doth write
Their names that have been slain in every fight.
To my remembrance such a name I read
Amongst the rest. See here.
He’s dead! if this be true, my dear heart’s slain!
Make not poor sorrow proud with these rich tears.
I mourn thy husband’s death, because thou mourn’st.
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.
Forget the dead, love them that are alive;
His love is faded, try how mine will thrive.
Because your love lives not.
My love to him shall not be buried;
For God’s sake, leave me to myself alone.
Answer me to my suit, and I am gone;
Say to me yea or no.
One farewell will not serve, I come again;
Come, dry these wet cheeks; tell me, faith, sweet Jane,
Yea or no, once more.
Once more be gone, I pray; else will I go.
Until you change that cold “no”; here I’ll stand
Till by your hard heart——
My sorrows by your presence more increase.
Not that you thus are present, but all grief
Desires to be alone; therefore in brief
Thus much I say, and saying bid adieu:
If ever I wed man, it shall be you.
Thy breath hath made me rich.
SCENE II. London: a Street before Hodge’s Shop.
Hodge, at his shop-board, Ralph, Firk, Hans, and a Boy at work.
All. Hey, down a down, down derry.
Hodge. Well said, my hearts; ply your work to-day,
Firk. Hey, down a down, derry.
Hodge. Well said, i’faith! How say’st thou, Hans, doth not Firk tickle it?
Hans. Yaw, mester.
Firk. Not so neither, my organ-pipe squeaks this morning for want of liquoring. Hey, down a down, derry!
Hans. Forward, Firk, tow best un jolly yongster. Hort, I, mester, ic bid yo, cut me un pair vampres vor Mester Jeffre’s boots.
Hodge. Thou shalt, Hans.
Firk. Master!
Hodge. How now, boy?
Firk. Pray, now you are in the cutting vein, cut me out a pair of counterfeits,
Hodge. Tell me, sirs, are my cousin Mrs. Priscilla’s shoes done?
Firk. 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.
Firk. 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?
Firk. How, merry? why, our buttocks went jiggy-joggy like a quagmire. Well, Sir Roger Oatmeal, if I thought
Ralph. Of all good fortunes my fellow Hans had the best.
Firk. ’Tis true, because Mistress Rose drank to him.
Hodge. Well, well, work apace. They say, seven of the aldermen be dead, or very sick.
Firk. I care not, I’ll be none.
Ralph. No, nor I; but then my Master Eyre will come quickly to be lord mayor.
Enter Sybil.
Firk. Whoop, yonder comes Sybil.
Hodge. Sybil, welcome, i’faith; and how dost thou, mad wench?
Firk. Syb-whore, welcome to London.
Sybil. Godamercy, sweet Firk; good lord, Hodge, what a delicious shop you have got! You tickle it, i’faith.
Ralph. Godamercy, Sybil, for our good cheer at Old Ford.
Sybil. That you shall have, Ralph.
Firk. Nay, by the mass, we had tickling cheer, Sybil; and how the plague dost thou and Mistress Rose and my lord mayor? I put the women in first.
Sybil. Well, Godamercy; but God’s me, I forget myself, where’s Hans the Fleming?
Firk. Hark, butter-box, now you must yelp out some spreken.
Hans. Wat begaie you? Vat vod you, Frister?
Sybil. Marry, you must come to my young mistress, to pull on her shoes you made last.
Hans. Vare ben your egle fro, vare ben your mistris?
Sybil. 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 sall meete yo gane.
Hodge. Go, Hans, make haste again. Come, who lacks work?
Firk. I, master, for I lack my breakfast; ’tis munching-time, and past.
Hodge. Is’t so? why, then leave work, Ralph. To breakfast! Boy, look to the tools. Come, Ralph; come, Firk. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—The Same.
Enter a Serving-man.
Serv. Let me see now, the sign of the Last in Tower Street. Mass, yonder’s the house. What, haw! Who’s within?
Enter Ralph.
Ralph. Who calls there? What want you, sir?
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
Ralph. Yes, sir, yes—I—I—I can do’t. By this shoe, you say? I should know this shoe. Yes, sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do’t. Four a clock, well. Whither shall I bring them?
Serv. To the sign of the Golden Ball in Watling Street; enquire for 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 be married?
Serv. At Saint Faith’s Church, under Paul’s.
At this strange accident! Upon my life,
This was the very shoe I gave my wife,
When I was pressed 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 Firk.
Firk. ’Snails,
Ralph. I care not; I have found a better thing.
Firk. A thing? away! Is it a man’s thing, or a woman’s thing?
Ralph. Firk, dost thou know this shoe?
Firk. No, by my troth; neither doth that know me! I have no acquaintance with it, ’tis a mere stranger to me.
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.
Firk. Ha, ha! Old shoe, that wert new! How a murrain came this ague-fit of foolishness upon thee?
By this shoe would he have a new pair made
Against to-morrow morning for his mistress,
That’s to be married to a gentleman.
And why may not this be my sweet Jane?
Firk. And why may’st not thou be my sweet ass? Ha, ha!
Against to-morrow morning I’ll provide
A lusty crew of honest shoemakers,
To watch the going of the bride to church.
If she prove Jane, I’ll take her in despite
From 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.
Firk. Thou lie with a woman to build nothing but Cripple-gates! Well, God sends fools fortune, and it may be, he may light upon his matrimony by such a device; for wedding and hanging goes by destiny. [Exit.
SCENE IV.—London: a Room in the Lord Mayor’s House.
Enter Hans and Rose, arm in arm.
Oh, I did fear such cross mishaps did reign,
That I should never see my Rose again.
Offers herself to further our escape,
Let not too over-fond esteem of me
Hinder that happy hour. Invent the means,
And Rose will follow thee through all the world.
Made happy by thy rich perfection!
But since thou pay’st sweet interest to my hopes,
Redoubling love on love, let me once more
Like to a bold-faced debtor crave of thee,
This night to steal abroad, and at Eyre’s house,
Who now by death of certain aldermen
Is 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 Sybil.
Sybil. 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 hither come, sweet Rose—what shall I do? Where shall 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.
Enter the Lord Mayor.
Hans. Mass, and that’s well remembered.
Sybil. Here comes your father.
Hans. Forware, metresse, ’tis un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.
Rose. 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 please thee well.
Hans. Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well; forware, ’tis un good skoo, ’tis gimait van neits leither; se euer, mine here.
Enter a Prentice.
Is newly ’lighted, and would speak with you.
Well, well, I know his errand. Daughter Rose,
Send hence your shoemaker, dispatch, have done!
Syb, make things handsome! Sir boy, follow me. [Exit.
Sweet Rose, this of our love threatens an end.
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 presently steal hence. Do not reply:
Love which gave strength to bear my father’s hate,
Shall now add wings to further our escape. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—Another Room in the same House.
Enter the Lord Mayor and the Earl of Lincoln.
Since first your nephew Lacy went to France,
I have not seen him. It seemed strange to me,
When Dodger told me that he stayed behind,
Neglecting the high charge the king imposed.
Your 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 wronged you by conceiving so.
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 daughter
Free from all conference or speech of him;
Not that I scorn your nephew, but in love
I bear your honour, lest your noble blood
Should by my mean worth be dishonoured.
Well, well, Sir Roger Oateley, I believe you,
With more than many thanks for the kind love,
So 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.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God’s sake! my mistress; oh, my young 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 the shoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace!
L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! Where be my men? Which way?
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.
Will she forget her birth, requite my care
With such ingratitude? Scorned she young Hammon
To love a honniken,
Well, let her fly, I’ll not fly after her,
Let her starve, if she will; she’s none of mine.
Enter Firk with shoes.
Was there no better object for her eyes
But a foul drunken lubber, swill-belly,
A shoemaker? That’s brave!
Firk. 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?
Firk. 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!
Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker!
Firk. ’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.
Firk. Then ’tis by the gentle craft, and to call one knave gently, is no harm. Sit your worship merry!
L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, who’s man are you?
Firk. I am glad to see your worship so merry. I have no maw to this gear, no stomach as yet to a red petticoat. [Pointing to Sybil.
But only doth demand who’s man you are.
Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero. Roger, my fellow, is now my master.
Lincoln. Sirrah, know’st thou one Hans, a shoemaker?
Firk. 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 these diggers!
L. Mayor. Know’st thou, then, where he is?
Firk. Yes, forsooth; yea, marry!
Lincoln. Canst thou, in sadness——
Firk. No, forsooth; no, marry!
And thou shalt see what I’ll bestow on thee.
Firk. 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 in a new pair of stretchers.
Which I will give thee; tell me where he is.
Firk. 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.
Firk. Send simpering Syb away.
L. Mayor. Huswife, get you in. [Exit Sybil.
Firk. 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,
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,
In the disguise of this Dutch shoemaker.
Hans, no spirit.
Your honourable presence may, no doubt,
Refrain their headstrong rashness, when myself
Going alone perchance may be o’erborne.
Shall I request this favour?
Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to their hey-pass and repass, pindy-pandy, which hand will you have,
This night accept your lodging in my house,
The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint Faith’s
Prevent this giddy hare-brained nuptial.
This traffic of hot love shall yield cold gains:
They ban our loves, and we’ll forbid their banns. [Exit.
Lincoln. At Saint Faith’s Church thou say’st?
Firk. Yes, by their troth.
Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. [Exit.
Firk. Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, ha, here’s no craft in the gentle craft. I came hither of purpose with
Girls, hold out tack!
For now smocks for this jumbling
Shall go to wrack. [Exit.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—A Room in Eyre’s House.
Enter Eyre, Margery, Hans, and Rose.
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 pie crust-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 linked, 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.
Marg. Farewell, my lord.
Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than deer we’ll run. [Exeunt Hans, Rose, and Margery.
Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, 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 procured 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.
And prentices shall pray for Simon Eyre. [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Street near St. Faith’s Church.
Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and five or six Shoemakers, all with cudgels or such weapons.
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 stroked
Firk. 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.
All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to his cost.
Enter Hammon, his Serving-man, Jane and Others.
Hodge. Peace, my bullies; yonder they come.
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?
Firk. 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!
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, ’tis he in faith, though he be lamed by the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the neck and kiss him.
Let me embrace my Ralph.
(To Ralph.) ’Twas rumoured here in London, thou wert dead.
Firk. 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!
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 wench in the midst, and let her choose her man, and let her be his woman.
But him whom Heaven hath made to be my love?
Thou art my husband, and these humble weeds
Makes 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 in another man’s ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph; follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point
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’ll make 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 my brethren beat you to clouts.
Serv. Come, Master Hammon, there’s no striving here.
Whom I have injured most by loving Jane,
Mark what I offer thee: here in fair gold
Is twenty pound, I’ll give it for thy Jane;
If this content thee not, thou shall have more.
And let her be my wife?
Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thy gold, choke with it! Were I not lame, I would make thee eat thy words.
Firk. A shoemaker sell his flesh and blood? Oh indignity!
Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be packing.
Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane,
To Jane and thee I give that twenty pound.
Since I have failed of her, during my life,
I vow, no woman else shall be my wife.
Farewell, good fellows of the gentle trade:
Your morning mirth my mourning day hath made. [Exit.
Firk. (To the Serving-man.) Touch the gold, creature, if you dare! Y’are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let’s home, my hearts.
Hodge. Stay! Who comes here? Jane, on again with thy mask!
Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord Mayor and Servants.
Lincoln. 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?
Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.
This morning should be married at Saint Faith’s;
We have watched 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 bridegroom you look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar by your authority men from women, are you?
To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame.
Firk. Yea, truly; God help the poor couple, they are lame and blind.
Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh! My fellow Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all my knavery.
Nay, hide thy face, the horror of thy guilt
Can 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 conquered thee.
This lameness will not serve.
Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope 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 that lays hands on her first, I’ll lay my crutch ’cross his pate.
Firk. 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?
My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abused
By this base, crafty varlet.
Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft.
Firk. Why, here is good laced mutton, as I promised you.
Lincoln. Villain, I’ll have thee punished for this wrong.
Firk. Punish the journeyman villain, but not the journeyman shoemaker.
Enter Dodger.
Your nephew Lacy and your daughter Rose
Early 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, I warrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too.
Who on his knees humbly intends to fall
And beg a pardon for your nephew’s fault.
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.
Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Farewell, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had stayed, I would have so lambed
Hodge. This matter is answered. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my fine shoemakers, let’s to our master’s, the new lord mayor, and there swagger this Shrove-Tuesday. I’ll promise you wine enough, for Madge keeps the cellar.
All. O rare! Madge is a good wench.
Firk. And I’ll promise you meat enough, for simp’ring Susan keeps the larder. I’ll lead you to victuals, my brave soldiers; follow your captain. O brave! Hark, hark! [Bell rings.
All. The pancake-bell rings, the pancake-bell! Tri-lill, my hearts!
Firk. Oh brave! Oh sweet bell! O delicate pancakes! Open the 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
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.
Firk. 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
Enter more Prentices.
All. Whoop, look here, look here!
Hodge. How now, mad lads, whither away so fast?
1st 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 shoemaker, oh brave lord of incomprehensible good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings. [Cast up caps.
Firk. 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. Agreed, agreed! Saint Hugh’s Holiday.
Hodge. And this shall continue for ever.
All. Oh brave! Come, come, my hearts! Away, away!
Firk. O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft! March fair, my hearts! Oh rare! [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A Street in London.
Enter the King and his Train across the stage.
King. Is our lord mayor of London such a gallant?
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 any mayor hath been these many years.
But all my doubt is, when we come in presence,
His madness will be dashed clean out of countenance.
Let some one give him notice, ’tis our pleasure
That he put on his wonted merriment.
Set forward!
SCENE IV.—A Great Hall.
Enter Eyre, Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and other Shoemakers, all with napkins on their shoulders.
Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers? Let them all walk and wait upon my brethren; for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the livery of my company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign.
Firk. O my lord, it will be rare!
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 lamb-skins. Rip, knaves, avaunt! Look to my guests!
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.
Firk. 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 kitchenstuff cook? Call the varlet to me! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, 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.
Saint Hugh be our good speed:
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.
And here, kind mate, to thee:
Let’s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh’s soul,
And down it merrily.
Hey derry derry, down a down! (Close with the tenor boy)
Ho, well done; to me let come!
Ring, compass, gentle joy.
And here, kind mate, to thee: etc.
[Repeat as often as there be men to drink; and at last when all have drunk, this verse:
Saint Hugh be our good speed:
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.
Enter Hans, Rose, and Margery.
Marg. Where is my lord?
Eyre. How now, Lady Madgy?
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?
I know, your honour easily may obtain
Free pardon of the king for me and Rose,
And reconcile me to my uncle’s grace.
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!
Firk. Hey, for the honour of the shoemakers. [Exeunt.
SCENE V.—An Open Yard before the Hall.
A long flourish, or two. Enter the King, Nobles, Eyre, Margery, Lacy, Rose. Lacy and Rose kneel.
Of your revolting from our kingly love
And your own duty, yet we pardon you.
Rise both, and, Mistress Lacy, thank my lord mayor
For your young bridegroom here.
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.
As if thou wert among thy shoemakers;
It does me good to see thee in this humour.
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.
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
King. But all this while I do not know your age.
Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry humph! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danced 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.
Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like?
Enter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord Mayor.
For there are traitors here.
Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid! Where be my officers? I’ll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm.
What canst thou lay unto thy nephew’s charge?
Heaped on the head of this degenerate boy
Desertless favours; you made choice of him,
To be commander over powers in France.
But he——
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 treason——
’Twas not a base want of true valour’s fire,
That held him out of France, but love’s desire.
One whose mean birth will much disgrace his bed.
That any hand on earth should dare untie
The sacred knot, knit by God’s majesty;
I would not for my crown disjoin their hands,
That are conjoÏned in holy nuptial bands.
How say’st thou, Lacy, wouldst thou lose thy Rose?
Who seeks, besides you, to divorce these lovers?
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?
I charge thee, not to call this woman wife.
Although as yet I am a bachelor,
Yet I believe, I shall not marry you.
Yet make the body live?
I cannot, Rose, but you I must divide.
This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be your bride.
Are you pleased, Lincoln? Oateley, are you pleased?
For, credit me, my conscience lives in pain,
Till these whom I divorced, be joined 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.
As bright in the world’s eye as the gay beams
Of any citizen?
Her blood is too too base.
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 stoop
To 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?
Where there is much love, all discord ends.
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 have shown to me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should.
If any grace of mine can length thy life,
One honour more I’ll do thee: that new building,
Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected,
Shall take a name from us; we’ll have it called
You 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 Shoemakers.
Eyre. How now, my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king.
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 shrine of 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. They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week.
To 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 most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving 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 sweetly waiting for your sweet presence.
Already have I been too troublesome;
Say, have I not?
Eyre. O my dear king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving,
I bare the water-tankard, and my coat
Sits 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 my tankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feast all the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered; they are gone home and vanished;
Taste of Eyre’s banquet, Simon’s happy made.
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.
