THE SHOMAKERS Holiday. OR The Gentle Craft.
With the humorous life of Simon Eyre, shoomaker, and Lord Maior of London.
As it was acted before the Queenes most excellent Maiestie on New yeares day at night last, by the right honourable the Earle of Notingham, Lord high Admirall of England, his seruants.
Printed by Valentine Sims dwelling at the foote of Adling hill, neere Bainards Castle, at the signe of the White Swanne, and are there to be sold. 1600.
KInde Gentlemen, and honest boone Companions, I present you here with a merrie conceited Comedie, called the Shoomakers Holyday, acted by my Lorde Admiralls Players this present Christmasse, before the Queenes most excellent Maiestie. For the mirth and pleasant matter, by her Highnesse graciously accepted; being indeede no way offensiue. The Argument of the play I will set downe in this Epistle: Sir Hugh Lacie Erle of Lincolne, had a yong Gentleman of his owne name, his nere kinsman, that loued the Lorde Maiors daughter of London; to preuent and crosse which loue, the Earle caused his kinsman to be sent Coronell of a companie into France: who resigned his place to another gentleman his friend, and came disguised like a Dutch Shoomaker, to the house of Symon Eyre in Tower streete, who serued the Maior and his houshold with shooes. The merriments that passed in Eyres house, his comming to be Maior of London, Lacies getting his loue, and other accidents; with two merry Three-mens songs. Take all in good worth that is well intended, for nothing is purposed but mirth, mirth lengthneth long life which, with all other blessings I heartily wish you.
The first Three-mans Song.
The Second Three-mans Song.
The Prologue as it was pronounced before the Queenes Maiestie.
A pleasant Comedie of the Gentle Craft.
True my good Lord, and she loues him so wel, That I mislike her boldnesse in the chace.
Why my lord Maior, think you it then a shame, To ioyne a Lacie with an Otleys name?
I thanke your honour.
Thankes my good Lord Maior.
At the Guild Hal we wil expect your comming,
How gladly would your vncle haue you gone?
Stay cosen, who be these?
Leaue whining, leaue whining, away with this whimpring, this pewling, these blubbring teares, and these wet eies, Ile get thy husband discharg'd, I warrant thee swéete Iane: go to.
Master, here be the captaines.
Peace Hodge, husht ye knaue, husht.
Here be the caualiers, and the coronels, maister.
Peace Firke, peace my fine Firke, stand by with your pishery pasherie, away, I am a man of the best presence, Ile speake to them and they were Popes, gentlemen, captaines, colonels, commanders: braue men, braue leaders, may it please you to giue me audience, I am Simon Eyre, the mad Shoomaster of Towerstréete, this wench with the mealy mouth that wil neuer tire, is my wife I can tel you, heres Hodge my man, and my foreman, heres Firke my fine firking iourneyman, and this is blubbered Iane, al we come to be suters for this honest Rafe kéepe him at home, and as I am a true shoomaker, and a gentleman of the Gentle Craft, buy spurs your self, and Ile find ye bootes these seuen yéeres.
Seuen yeares husband?
Peace Midriffe, peace, I know what I do, peace.
Truly master cormorant, you shal do God good seruice to let Rafe and his wife stay together, shées a yong new married woman, if you take her husband away from her a night, you vndoo her, she may beg in the day time, for hées as good a workman at a pricke & an awle, as any is in our trade.
O let him stay, else I shal be vndone.
I truly, she shal be laid atone side like a paire of old shooes else, and be occupied for no vse.
Why then you were as good be a corporall, as a colonel, if you cannot discharge one good fellow, and I tell you true, I thinke you doe more then you can answere, to presie a man within a yeare and a day of his mariage.
Wel said melancholy Hodge, gramercy my fine foreman.
Truly gentlemen, it were il done, for such as you, to stand so stiffely against a poore yong wife: considering her case, she is new married, but let that passe: I pray deale not roughly with her, her husband is a yong man and but newly entred, but let that passe.
Away with your pisherie pasherie, your pols and your edipolls, peace Midaffe, silence Cisly Bumtrincket, let your head speake.
Yea and the hornes too, master.
Too soone, my fine Firk, too soone: peace scoundrels, see you this man? Captaines, you will not release him, wel let him go, hée's a proper shot, let him vanish, peace Iane, drie vp thy teares, theile make his powder darkish, take him braue men, Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant scoundrelles, Prince Arthurs Round table, by the Lord of Lutgate, nere fed such a tall, such a dapper swordman: by the life of Pharo, a braue resolute swordman, peace Iane, I say no more, mad knaues.
Sée, see Hodge, how my maister raues in commendation of Rafe.
Raph, thart a gull by this hand, and thou goest.
Is thy name Raph?
Yes sir.
Thart a gull by my stirrop, if thou dost not goe, I wil not haue thée strike thy gimblet into these weake bessels, pricke thine enemies Rafe.
Cosin, lets go.
Feare not good cosen: Raph, hie to your colours.
Alas my Raph.
She cannot speake for wéeping.
Peace you crackt groates, you mustard tokens, disquiet not the braue souldier, goe thy waies Raph.
I I, you bid him go, what shal I do when he is gone?
Why be doing with me, or my felow Hodge, be not idle.
Let me sée thy hand Iane, this fine hand, this white hand, these prettie fingers must spin, must card, must worke, worke you bembast cotten-candle-queane, worke for your liuing with a pox to you: hold thée Raph, heres fiue sixpences for thée, fight for the honour of the Gentle Craft, for the gentlemen Shoomakers, the couragious Cordwainers, the flower of S. Martins, the mad knaues of Bedlem, Fléetstréete, Towerstréete, and white Chappell, cracke me the crownes of the French knaues, a pore on them, cracke them, fight, by the lord of Ludgate, fight my fine boy.
Here Rafe, here's thrée two pences, two carry into France, the third shal wash our soules at parting (for sorrow is drie) for my sake, Firke the Basa mon cues.
Raph, I am heauy at parting, but heres a shilling for thée, God send thée to cramme thy slops with French crownes, and thy enemies bellies with bullets.
Good morrow yong Mistris, I am sure you make that garland for me, against I shall be Lady of the Haruest.
Sibil, what news at London?
Noue but good: my lord Mayor your father, and maister Philpot your vncle, and maister Scot your coosin, and mistris Frigbottom by Doctors Commons, doe all (by my troth) send you most hearty commendations.
Did Lacy send kind gréetings to his loue?
O yes, out of cry, by my troth, I scant knew him, here a wore scarffe, and here a scarfe, here a bunch of fethers, [Page] and here pretious stones and iewells, and a paire of garters: O monstrous like one of our yellow silke curtains, at home here in Old-ford house, here in maister Bellymounts chamber, I stoode at our doore in Cornehill, lookt at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word, mary guy thought I with a wanion, he passt by me as prowde, mary foh, are you growne humorous thought I? and so shut the doore, and in I came.
Milde? yea, as a bushel of stampt crabs, he lookt vpon me as sowre as veriuice: goe thy wayes thought I, thou maist be much in my gaskins, but nothing in my neatherstockes: this is your fault mistris, to loue him that loues not you, he thinkes scorne to do as he's done to, but if I were as you, Ide cry, go by Ieronimo, go by, Ide set mine olde debts against my new driblets, and the hares foot against the goose giblets, for if euer I sigh when sléepe I shoulde take, pray God I may loose my mayden-head when I wake.
Will my loue leaue me then and go to France?
I knowe not that, but I am sure I see him stalke before the souldiers, by my troth he is a propper man, but he is proper that proper doth, let him goe snicke-vp yong mistris.
Wil I quoth a? at whose suite? by my troth yes, Ile go, a cambricke apron, gloues, a paire of purple stockings, [Page] and a stomacher, Ile sweat in purple mistris for you, ile take any thing that comes a Gods name, O rich, a Cambricke apron; faith then haue at vp tailes all, Ile go, Iiggy, Ieggy to London, and be here in a trice yong mistris.
Where be these boyes, these girles, these drabbes, [Page] these scoundrels, they wallow in the fat brewisse of my boū tie, and I locke vp the crums of my table, yet wil not rise to see my walkes cleansed: come out you powder-beefe-queanes, what Nan, what Madge-mumble-crust, come out you fatte Midriffe-swag, belly-whores, and swéepe me these kennels, that the noysome stench offende not the nose of my neighbours: what Firke I say, what Hodge? open my shop windowes, what Firke I say.
O master, ist you that speake bandog and bedlam this morning, I was in a dreame, and muzed what madde man was got into the streete so earlie, haue you drunke this morning that your throate is so cleere?
Ah well saide Firke, well said Firke, to worke my fine knaue, to worke, wash thy face, and thou t be more blest.
Let them wash my face that will eate it, good maister send for a sowce wife, if youle haue my face cleaner.
Away slouen, auaunt scoundrell, good morrow Hodge, good morrow my fine foreman.
O maister, good morrow, yare an earlie stirrer, heeres a faire morning, good morrow Firke, I could haue slept this howre, héeres a braue day towards.
O haste to worke my fine foreman, haste to worke.
Maister I am drie as dust, to heare my fellow Roger talke of faire weather, let vs pray for good leather, and let clownes and plowboyes, and those that worke in the fieldes, pray for braue dayes, wee worke in a drie shop, what care I if it raine?
How now dame Margery, can you sée to rise? trip and go, call vp the drabs your maides.
See to rise? I hope tis time inough, tis earlie inough for any woman to be séene abroad, I maruaile how manie wiues in Towerstréet are vp so soon? Gods me, tis not noone, [Page] heres a yawling.
Peace Margerie, peace, wheres Cisty Bumtrinket your maide? she has a priuie fault, she fartes in her sleepe, call the queane vp, if my men want shooethréed, ile swinge her in a stirrop.
Yet thats but a drie beating, heres still a signe of drought.
Maister, for my life yonders a brother of the Gentle Craft, if he beare not saint Hughes bones, Ile forfeit my bones, hées some vplandish workman, hire him good master, that I may learne some gibble, gabble, twill make vs worke the faster.
Peace Firke, a hard world, let him passe, let him vanish, we haue iourneymen enow, peace my fine Firke.
Nay, nay, y are best follow your mans councell, you shal sée what wil come on t: we haue not men enow, but we must entertaine euerie butter-boxe: but let that passe.
Dame, fore God if my maister follow your counsell, héele consume little béefe, he shal be glad of men and hee can catch them.
I that he shall.
Fore God a proper man, and I warrant a fine workman: maister farewell, dame adew, if such a man as he cannot find worke, Hodge is not for you.
Stay my fine Hodge.
Faith, and your foreman goe, dame you must take a iourney to séeke a new iorneyman, if Roger remoue, Firke followes, if S. Hughs bones shall not be set a worke, I may pricke mine awle in the wals, and goe play: fare ye wel master, God buy dame.
Carrie my fine Hodge, my briske foreman, stay Firke, peace pudding broath, by the lord of Ludgate I loue my men as my life, peace you gallimafrie, Hodge if he want worke Ile hire him, one of you to him, stay, he comes to vs.
Eoeden dach meester, ende v vro oak.
Nayis if I should speake after him without drinking, I shuld choke, and you frind Oake are you of the Gentle Craft?
Yaw yaw, Ik bin den skomawker.
Den skomaker quoth a, and heark you skomaker, haue you al your tooles, a good rubbing pinne, a good stopper, a good dresser, your foure sorts of awles and your two balles of waxe, your paring knife, your hand and thumb-leathers, and good S. Hughs bones to smooth vp your worke.
Yaw yaw be niet vor veard, Ik hab all de dingen, voour mack shoes groot and cleane.
Ha ha good maister hire him, héele make me laugh so that I shal worke more in mirth, then I can in earnest.
I care ye friend, haue ye any skill in the mistery of Cordwainers?
Ik wéet niet wat yow seg ich vestaw you niet.
Why thus man, Ich verste v niet quoth a.
Yaw, yaw, yaw, ick can dat wel doen.
Yaw, yaw, he speakes yawing like a Iacke daw, that gapes to be fed with chéese curdes, O héele giue a villanous pul at a Can of double Béere, but Hodge and I haue the vantage, we must drinke first, because wee are the eldest iourneyman.
What is thy name?
Hans, Hans, Meulter.
Giue me thy hand, th' art welcome, Hodge entertaine him, Fyrk bid him welcome, come Hans, runne wife, bid your maids, your Crullibubs, make readie my fine mens breakefasts: to him Hodge.
Hans, th'art welcome, vse thy selfe friendly, for we are good fellowes, if not thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger then a Giant.
Yea and drunke with, wert thou Gargantua, my maister keepes no cowards, I tel thee: hee, boy, bring him an heele-blocke, heers a new iourneyman.
Oich wersto, you Ich moet een halue dossen Cans betaelen: here boy nempt dis skilling, tap eens fréelicke.
Quicke snipper snapper, away Fyrk, scowre thy throate, thou shalt wash it with Casulian licour, come my last of the fiues, giue me a Can, haue to
thée Hans, here Hodge, here Fyrk, drinke you mad Gréeks, and worke like true Troians, and pray for Simon Eyre the Shoomaker: here Hans, and th'art welcome.
Lo dame you would haue lost a good fellow that wil teach vs to laugh, this béere came hopping in wel.
Simon it is almost seuen.
Is't so dame clapper dudgeon, is't seuen a clocke, and my mens breakefast not readie? trip and goe yow sowst cunger, away, come you madde Hiperboreans, follow me Hodge, follow me Hans, come after my fine Fyrk, to worke, to worke a while and then to breakfast.
Soft, yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master haue no more wit, but to call you afore mee, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder iourneyman.
How now boy, wheres the déere? speak, sawst thou him?
O, yea I saw him scape through a hedge, and then ouer a ditch, then at my Lord Maiors pale, ouer he skipt me and in he went me, and holla the hunters cride, and there boy there boy, but there he is a mine honestie.
Why Sibill wilt thou proue a forrester?
Upon some no, forrester, go by: no faith mistris, the deere came running into the barne through the orchard, and ouer the pale, I wot wel, I lookt as pale as a new chéese to sée him, but whip saies goodman pinne-close, vp with his fiaile, and our Nicke with a prong, and downe he fel, and they vpon him, and I vpon them, by my troth we had such sport, and in the end we ended him, his throate we cut, flead him, vnhornd him, and my lord Maior shal eat of him anon when he comes.
God saue you faire ladies.
Ladies, O grosse!
Came not a bucke this way?
No, but two Does.
And which way went they? faith wéel hunt at those
At those? vpon some no: when, can you tell?
Upon some, I.
Good Lord!
Wounds then farewell.
Boy, which way went he?
This way sir he ranne.
Can you aduise which way he tooke his flight?
Followe your nose, his hornes will guide you right.
Thart a mad wench.
O rich!
Which way my suger-candie, can you shew?
Come vp good honnisops, vpon some, no.
Why doe you stay, and not pursue your game?
Ile hold my life their hunting nags be lame.
A déere, more deere is found within this place.
But not the déere (sir) which you had in chace.
I chac'd the déere, but this déere chaceth me.
Tis here: O stay.
Impale me, and then I will not stray.
They wrangle wench, we are more kind then they
What kind of hart is that (déere hart) you séeke?
A hart, deare hart.
Who euer saw the like?
To loose your heart, is't possible you can?
My heart is lost.
Alacke good gentleman.
This poore lost hart would I with you might find.
You by such lucke might proue your hart a hind.
Why Lucke had hornes, so haue I heard some say.
Now God and't be his wil send Luck into your way.
What M. Hammon, welcome to old Ford.
Gods pittikins, hands off sir, héers my Lord.
I heare you had ill lucke, and lost your game.
Tis true my Lord.
My brother in law.
Ick sal yow wat seggen Hans, dis skip dat comen from Candy is al wol, by gots sacrament, van sugar, ciuet, [Page] almonds, cambrick, end alle dingen towsand towsand ding, nempt it Hans, nempt it voz v meester, daer be de bils van laden, your meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen, wat seggen yow Hans?
Wat seggen de reggen de copen, slopen, laugh Hodge laugh.
Mine lieuer broder Firk, bringt meester Eyre lot den signe vn swannekin, daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me, wat seggen yow broder Firk? doot it Hodge, come skipper.
Bring him qd. you, héers no knauerie, to bring me master to buy a ship, worth the lading of 2 or 3 hūdred thousand pounds, alas thats nothing, a trifle, a bable Hodge.
The truth is Firk, that the marchant owner of the ship dares not shew his head, and therefore this skipper that deales for him, for the loue he beares to Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargaine in the commodities, he shal haue a reasonable day of payment, he may sel the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer himselfe.
Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twentie porpentines as an earnest pennie.
Portegues thou wouldst say, here they be Firke, heark, they gingle in my pocket like S. Mary Queries bels.
Mum, here comes my dame and my maister, shéele scold on my life, for loytering this Monday, but al's one, let them al say what they can, Monday's our holyday.
Smart for me dame, why dame, why?
Maister I hope yowle not suffer my dame to take downe your iourneymen.
If she take me downe, Ile take her vp, yea and take [Page] her downe too, a button, hole lower.
Peace Firke, not I Hodge, by the life of Pharao, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, euery haire whereof I valew at a kings ransome, shee shal not meddle with you, peace you bumbast-cotten-candle Queane, away queene of Clubs, quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firke, Ile firke you if you do.
Yea, yea man, you may vse me as you please: but let that passe.
Let it passe, let it vanish away: peace, am I not Simon Eyre? are not these my braue men? braue shoomakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? prince am I none, yet am I noblie borne, as béeing the sole sonne of a Shoomaker, away rubbish, vanish, melt, melt like kitchin stuffe.
Yea, yea, tis wel, I must be cald rubbish, kitchin stuffe, for a sort of knaues.
Nay dame, you shall not wéepe and waile in woe for me: master Ile stay no longer, here's a vennentorie of my shop tooles: adue master, Hodge farewel.
Nay stay Firke, thou shalt not go alone.
I pray let them goe, there be mo maides then mawkin, more men then Hodge, and more fooles then Firke.
Fooles? nailes if I tarry nowe, I would my guts might be turnd to shoo-thread.
And if I stay, I pray God I may be turnd to a Turke, and set in Finsbury for boyes to shoot at: come Firk.
Stay my fine knaues, you armes of my trade, you pillars of my professiō. What, shal a tittle tattles words make you forsake Simon Eyre? auaunt kitchinstuffe, rip you brown bread tannikin, out of my sight, moue me not, haue not I tane you from selling tripes in Eastcheape, and set you in my shop, and made you haile fellowe with [Page] Simon Eyre the shoomaker? and now do you deale thus with my Iourneymen? Looke you powder béefe queane on the face of Hodge, heers a face for a Lord.
And heers a face for any Lady in Christendome.
Rip you chitterling, auaunt boy, bid the tapster of the Bores head fil me a doozen Cannes of béere for my iourneymen.
A doozen Cans? O braue, Hodge now Ile stay.
And the knaue fils any more then two, he payes for them: a doozen Cans of béere for my iourneymen, heare you mad Mesopotamians, wash your liuers with this liquour, where be the odde ten? no more Madge, no more, wel saide, drinke & to work: what worke dost thou Hodge? what work?
I am a making a paire of shooes for my Lord Maiors daughter, mistresse Rose.
And I a paire of shooes for Sybill my Lords maid, I deale with her.
Sybil? fie, defile not thy fine workemanly fingers with the féete of Kitchinstuffe, and basting ladies, Ladies of the Court, fine Ladies, my lads, commit their feete to our apparelling, put grosse worke to Hans; yarke and seame, yarke and seame.
For yarking & seaming let me alone, & I come toot.
Wel maister, al this is from the bias, do you remember the ship my fellow Hans told you of, the Skipper and he are both drinking at the swan? here be the Portigues to giue earnest, if you go through with it, you can not choose but be a Lord at least.
Nay dame, if my master prone not a Lord, and you a Ladie, hang me.
Yea like inough, if you may loiter and tipple thus.
Tipple dame? no, we haue béene bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag: can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of [Page] silke Cipresse, laden with sugar Candie.
Peace Firk, silence tittle tattle: Hodge, Ile go through with it, héers a seale ring, and I haue sent for a garded gown, and a damask Casock, see where it comes, looke here Maggy, help me Firk, apparreline Hodge, silke and satten you mad Philistines, silke and satten.
Ha, ha, my maister wil be as proud as a dogge in a dublet, al in beaten damaske and veluet.
Softly Firke, for rearing of the nap, and wearing thread-bare my garments: how dost thou like mee Firke? how do I looke, my fine Hodge?
Why now you looke like your selfmaster, I warrant you, ther's few in the city, but wil giue you the wal, and come vpon you with the right worshipful.
Nailes my master lookes like a thred-bare cloake new turn'd, and drest: Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment both? dame, dame, are you not enamoured?
How saist thou Maggy, am I not brisk? am I not fine?
Fine? by my troth sweet hart very fine: by my troth I neuer likte thée so wel in my life swéete heart. But let that passe, I warrant there be many women in the citie haue not such handsome husbands, but only for their apparell, but let that passe too.
Godden day mester, dis be de skipper dat heb de skip van marchandice de commodity ben good, nempt it master, nempt it.
Godamercy Hans, welcome skipper, where lies this ship of marchandice?
De skip ben in rouere: dor be van Sugar, Cyuet, Almonds, Cambricke, and a towsand towsand tings, gotz sacrament, nempt it mester, yo sal heb good copen.
To him maister, O swéete maister, O swéet wares, prunes, almons, suger-candy, carrat roots, turnups, O braue fatting meate, let not a man buye a nutmeg but your selfe.
Peace Firke, come Skipper, Ile go abroade with you, Hans haue you made him drinke?
Yaw, yaw, it heb veale ge drunck.
Come Hans follow me: Skipper, thou shalt haue my countenance in the Cittie.
Yaw heb veale ge drunck, quoth a: they may well be called butter-boxes, when they drinke fat veale, and thick beare too: but come dame, I hope you'le chide vs no more.
No faith Firke, no perdy Hodge, I do féele honour créepe vpon me, and which is more, a certaine rising in my flesh, but let that passe.
Rising in your flesh do you feele say you? I you may be with childe, but why should not my maister féele a rising in his flesh, hauing a gowne and a gold ring on, but you are such a shrew, youl'e soone pull him downe.
Ha, ha, prethée peace, thou mak'st my worshippe laugh, but let that passe: come Ile go in Hodge, prethée goe before me, Firke follow me.
Firke doth follow, Hodge passe out in state.
How now good Dodger, whats the newes in France?
My Lord, your cosen Lacie was not there.
Not there? Dog. No, my good Lord.
None else, my Lord.
I feare so, my good Lord.
Yea my Lord.
I warrant you my Lord.
I loue you, by this hand.
Then by my life I sweare.
In faith you iest.
Loue loues to sport, therfore leaue loue y'are best.
What? square they maister Scot?
Why how now louers, are you both agréede?
Yes faith my Lord.
I meane to liue a maide.
But not to die one, pawse ere that be said.
Wil you stil crosse me? still be obstinate?
If you wil haue her, Ile make her agrée.
Poore Simon Eyre, my Lord, your shoomaker.
Ide gladly speake in priuate to your honour.
I would not care (my Lord) if you might cal me king of Spaine, come master Scot.
Now maister Dodger, whats the newes you bring?
Is not his Nephew Lacie now in France?
No I assure your lordship, but disguisde Lurkes here in London.
I take my leaue.
Thou goest too fast for me Roger.
I forsooth.
I pray thée runne (doe you heare) runne to Guild Hall, and learne if my husband master Eyre wil take that worshipfull vocation of M. Shiriffe vpon him, hie thée good Firke.
Take it? well I goe, and he should not take it, Firk sweares to forsweare him, yes forsooth I goe to Guild Hall.
Nay when? thou art too compendious, and tedious.
O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence, how like a new cart whéele my dame speakes, and she lookes like an old musty ale-bottle going to scalding.
Nay when? thou wilt make me melancholy.
God forbid your worship should fall into that humour, I runne.
Let me see now Roger and Hans.
I forsooth dame (mistris I should say) but the old terme so stickes to the roofe of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.
Euen what thou wilt good Roger, dame is a faire name for any honest christian, but let that passe, how dost thou Hans?
Mée tanck you vro.
Wel Hans and Roger you sée God hath blest your master, and perdie if euer he comes to be M. Shiriffe of London (as we are al mortal) you shal sée I wil haue some odde thing or other in a corner for you: I wil not be your [Page] backe friend, but let that passe, Hans pray thée tie my shooe.
Yaw it sal vro.
Roger, thou knowst the length of my foote, as it is none of the biggest, so I thanke God it is handsome enough, prethée let me haue a paire of shooes made, corke good Roger, woodden héele too.
You shall.
Art thou acquainted with neuer a fardingale-maker, nor a French-hoode maker, I must enlarge my bumine, ha ha, how shall I looke in a hoode I wonder? perdie odly I thinke.
As a catte out of a pillorie, verie wel I warrant you mistresse.
Indéede all flesh is grasse, and Roger, canst thou tel where I may buye a good haire?
Yes forsooth, at the poulterers in Gracious stréet.
Thou art an vngratious wag, perdy, I meane a false haire for my periwig.
Why mistris, the next time I cut my beard, you shall haue the shauings of it, but they are all true haires.
It is verie hot, I must get me a fan or else a maske.
So you had néede, to hide your wicked face.
Fie vpon it, how costly this world's calling is, perdy, but that it is one of the wonderfull works of God, I would not deale with it: is not Firke come yet? Hans bée not so sad, let it passe and vanish, as my husbands worshippe saies.
Ick bin vrolicke, lot sée yow soo.
Mistris, wil you drinke a pipe of Tobacco?
O fie vppon it Roger, perdy, these silthie Tobacco pipes are the most idle slauering bables that euer I felt: out vppon it, God blesse vs, men looke not like men that vse thē.
What fellow Rafe? Mistres looke here, Ianes husband, why how, lame? Hans make much of him, hées a brother of our trade, a good workeman, and a tall souldier.
You be welcome broder.
Pardie I knew him not, how dost thou good Rafe? I am glad to sée thée wel.
Trust mee I am sorie Rafe to sée thée impotent, Lord how the warres haue made him Sunburnt: the left leg is net wel it was a faire gift of God the infirmitie tooke not hold a litle higher, considering thou camest from France: but let that passe.
Yea truly Rafe, I thanke my maker: but let that passe.
And sirra Rafe, what newes, what newes in France?
Limbs? hast thou not hands man? thou shalt neuer sée a shoomaker want bread, though he haue but thrée fingers on a hand.
Yet all this while I heare not of my Iane.
O Rafe your wife, perdie we knowe not whats become of her: she was here a while, and because she was married grewe more stately then became her, I checkt her, and so forth, away she flung, neuer returned, nor saide bih [Page] nor bah: and Rafe you knowe ka me, ka thée. And so as I tell ye. Roger is not Firke come yet?
No forsooth.
And so indeed we heard not of her, but I heare shée liues in London: but let that passe. If she had wanted, shee might haue opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men, I am sure theres not any of them perdie, but would haue done her good to his power. Hans looke if Firke be come.
Yaw it sal vro.
And so as I saide: but Rafe, why dost thou wéepe? thou knowest that naked wee came out of our mothers wombe, and naked we must returne, and therefore thanke God for al things.
No faith Iane is a straunger héere, but Rafe pull vp a good heart, I knowe thou hast one, thy wife man, is in London, one tolde mée hée sawe her a while agoe verie braue and neate, wéele ferret her out, and London holde her.
Alas, poore soule, hées ouercome with sorrowe, he does but as I doe, weepe for the losse of any good thing: but Rafe, get thee in, call for some meate and drinke, thou shalt find me worshipful towards thée.
Runne good Hans, O Hodge, O mistres, Hodge. heaue vp thine eares, mistresse smugge vp your lookes, on [Page] with your best apparell, my maister is chosen, my master is called nay condemn'd by the crie of the countrie to be shiriffe of the Citie, for this famous yeare nowe to come: and time now being, a great many men in blacke gownes were askt for their voyces, and their hands, and my master had al their fists about his eares presently, and they cried I, I, I, I, and so I came away, wherefore without all other grieue, I doe salute you mistresse shrieue.
Yaw, my mester is de groot man, de shrieue.
Did not I tell you mistris? nowe I may boldly say, good morrow to your worship.
Good morrow good Roger, I thanke you my good people all. Firke, hold vp thy hand, héer's a thrée-peny péece for thy tidings.
Tis but thrée halfe pence, I thinke: yes, tis thrée pence, I smel the Rose.
But mistresse, be rulde by me, and doe not speake so pulingly.
Tis her worship speakes so, and not she, no faith mistresse, speake mee in the olde key, too it Firke, there good Firke, plie your businesse Hodge, Hodge, with a full mouth: Ile fill your bellies with good cheare til they crie twang.
See myn lieuer broder, héer compt my meester.
Welcome home maister shrieue, I pray God continue you in health and wealth.
See here my Maggy, a chaine, a gold chaine for Simon Eyre, I shal make thee a Lady, heer's a French hood for thee, on with it, on with it, dresse thy browes with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, to make thée looke louely: where be my fine men? Roger, Ile make ouer my shop and tooles to thee: Firke, thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt [Page] haue an hundred for twentie, bee as mad knaues as your maister Sim Eyre hath bin, & you shall liue to be Sheriues of London: how dost thou like me Margerie? Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, Firke, Hodge, and Hans.
I forsooth, what saies your worship mistris Sherife?
Worship and honour you Babilonion knaues, for the Gentle Craft: but I forgot my selfe, I am bidden by my Lord Maior to [...]ner to old Foord, hees gone before, I must after: come Hodge, on with your trinkets: nowe my true [...], my fine Firke, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some deuice, some odde crochets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentle shooemakers, meete me at old Foord, you know my minde: come Madge, away shutte vp the shop knaues, and make holiday.
Trust mee you are as welcome to old Foord, as I my selfe.
Truely I thanke your Lordship.
Would our bad chéere were worth the thanks you giue.
Good chéere my Lord Maior, fine chéere, a fine house, fine walles, all fine and neat.
I but my Lord, hee must learne nowe to putte on grauitie.
Peace Maggy, a fig for grauitie, when I go to Guildhal in my scarlet gowne, Ile look as demurely as a saint, and [Page] speake as grauely as a Justice of peace, but now I am here at old Foord, at my good Lord Maiors house, let it go by, vanish Maggy, Ile be merrie, away with flip flap, these fooleries, these gulleries: what hunnie? prince am I none, yet am I princly borne: what sayes my Lord Maior?
Why what should I do my Lord? a pound of care paies not a dram of debt: hum, lets be merry whiles we are yong, olde age, sacke and sugar will steale vpon vs ere we be aware.
Its wel done mistris Eyre, pray giue good counsell to my daughter.
I hope mistris Rose wil haue the grace to take nothing thats bad.
Be rulde swéete Rose, th'art ripe for a man: marrie not with a boy, that has no more haire on his face then thou hast on thy chéekes: a courtier, wash, go by, stand not vppon pisherie pasherie: those silken fellowes are but painted Images, outsides, outsides Rose, their inner linings are torne: no my fine mouse, marry me with a Gentleman Grocer like my Lord Maior your Father, a Grocer is a swéete trade, Plums, Plums: had I a sonne or Daughter should marrie [Page] out of the generation and bloud of the shoe-makers, he should packe: what, the Gentle trade is a liuing for a man through Europe, through the world.
What noyse is this?
O my Lord Maior, a true of good fellowes that for loue to your honour, are come hither with a morrisdance, come in my Mesopotamians chéerely.
Maister Eyre, are al these shoe-makers?
Al Cordwainers my good Lord Maior.
How like my Lacie lookes yond shooe-maker.
O that I durst but speake vnto my loue!
For his sake whose faire shape thou representst, Good friend I drinke to thée.
It be dancke good frister.
I see mistris Rose you do not want iudgement, you haue drunke to the properest man I kéepe.
Here bee some haue done their parts to be as proper as he.
To these two (my madde lads) Sim Eyre ads another, [Page] then chéerely Firke, tickle it Haunce, and al for the honour of shoemakers.
Come maister Eyre, lets haue your companie.
Sibil What shal I do?
Why whats the matter?
What mistris, neuer feare, I dare venter my maidenhead to nothing, and thats great oddes, that Haunce the Dutchman when we come to London, shal not onely sée and speake with you, but in spight of al your Fathers pollicies, steale you away and marrie you, will not this please you?
Do this, and euer be assured of my loue.
Good cheape.
And how these ruffes?
Cheape too.
And how this band?
Cheape too.
All cheape, how sell you then this hand?
My handes are not to be solde.
To be giuen then: nay faith I come to buy.
But none knowes when.
Good swéete, leaue worke a little while, lets play.
I cannot liue by keeping holliday.
Ile pay you for the time which shall be lost.
With me you shall not be at so much cost.
Look how you wound this cloth, so you wound me.
It may be so.
Tis so.
What remedie?
Nay faith you are too coy.
Let goe my hand.
So, now part.
I beleeue you doe.
Shall a true loue in me bréede hate in you?
I hate you not.
Then you must loue.
I doe, what are you better now? I loue not you,
Why dost thou not beléeue me?
Rafe Damport.
I hope deaths scroll containes not my loues name
Cannot you reade?
I can.
Haue patience, deare loue.
Hence, hence.
That bil is forgde; tis signde by forgerie.
For Gods sake leaue me.
Tis now no time for me to thinke on loue,
Tis now best time for you to thinke on loue, because your loue liues not.
No.
Then farewell, one farewel wil not serue, I come again, come drie these wet chéekes, tel me faith sweete Iane, yea, or no, once more.
Once more I say no, once more be gone I pray, else wil I goe.
Death makes me poore.
Hey downe, a downe, downe derie.
Well said my hearts, plie your worke to day, we loytred yesterday, to it pell mel, that we may liue to be Lord Maiors, or Aldermen at least.
Hey downe a downe derie.
Well said yfaith, how saist thou Hauns, doth not Firke tickle it?
Yaw mester.
Not so neither, my organe pipe squeakes this morning for want of licoring: hey downe a downe derie.
Forward Firk, tow best vn iolly yongster hort I mester it bid yo cut me vn pair vāpres vor mester ieffres bootes.
Thou shalt Haims.
Master.
How now, boy?
Pray, now you are in the cutting vaine, cut mée out a paire of counterfeits, or else my worke will not passe currant, hey downe a downe.
Tell me sirs, are my coosin M. Priscillaes shooes done?
Your coosin? no maister, one of your auntes, hang her, let them alone.
I am in hand with them, she gaue charge that none [Page] but I should doe them for her. [...]
Thou do for her? then [...] that she loues not: Rafe, thou n [...] in faith I would haue yearkt and [...] downe a downe derry, this géere w [...]
How saist thou Firke? were [...] Ford?
How merry? why our buttockes went Iiggy ioggy like a quagmyre: wel sir Roger Oatemeale, if I thought all meale of that nature, I would eate nothing but bag puddings.
Of all good fortunes, my fellow Hance had the best.
Tis true, because mistris Rose dranke to him.
Wel, wel, worke apace, they say seuen of the Aldermen be dead, or very sicke.
I care not, Ile be none.
No nor I, but then my M. Eyre will come quickly to be L. Mayor.
Whoop, yonder comes Sibil.
Sibil, welcome yfaith, and how dost thou madde wench?
Sib whoore, welcome to London.
Godamercy sweete Firke: good Lord Hodge, what a delitious shop you haue got, you tickle it yfaith.
God a mercy Sibil for our good chéere at old Ford.
That you shal haue Rafe.
Nay by the masse, we hadde tickling chéere Sibil, and how the plague dost thou and mistris Rose, and my L. Mayor? I put the women in first.
Wel Godamercy: but Gods me, I forget my self, wheres Haunce the Fleming?
Why then Sibil, take héede of pricking.
For that let me alone, I haue a tricke in my budget, come Hans.
Yaw, yaw, ic sall méete yo gane.
Go Hans, make haste againe: come, who lacks worke?
I maister, for I lacke my breakfast, tis munching time, and past
Ist so? why then leaue worke Raph, to breakfast, boy looke to the tooles, come Raph, come Firke.
Let me sée now, the signe of the last in Towerstréet, mas yonders the house: what haw, whoes within?
Who calles there, what want you sir?
Marrie I would haue a paire of shooes made for a Gentlewoman against to morrow morning, what can you do them?
Yes sir, you shall haue them, but what lengths her foote?
Why you must make them in all parts like this shoe, but at any hand faile not to do them, for the Gentlewoman is to be married very early in the morning.
How? by this shoe must it be made? by this, are you sure sir by this?
How, by this am I sure, by this? art thou in thy wits? I tell thée I must haue a paire of shooes, dost thou marke me? a paire of shooes, two shooes, made by this verie shoe, this same shoe, against to morrow morning by foure a clock, dost vnderstand me, canst thou do't?
Yes sir, yes, I, I, I can do't, by this shoe you say: I should knowe this shoe, yes sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do t, foure a clocke, well, whither shall I bring them?
To the signe of the golden ball in Watlingstréete, enquire for one maister Hamon a gentleman, my maister.
Yea sir, by this shoe you say.
I say maister Hammon at the golden ball, hée's the Bridegroome, and those shooes are for his bride.
They shal be done by this shoe: wel, well, Maister Hammon at the golden shoe, I would say the golden Ball, verie well, verie well, but I pray you sir where must maister Hammon be married?
At Saint Faiths Church vnder Paules: but whats that to thée? prethee dispatch those shooes, and so farewel.
Snailes Raph thou hast lost thy part of thrée pots, a countrieman of mine gaue me to breakfast.
I care not, I haue found a better thing.
A thing? away, is it a mans thing, or a womans thing?
Firke, dost thou know this shooe?
No by my troth, neither doth that know me? I haue no acquaintance with it, tis a méere stranger to me.
Ha ha old shoo, that wert new, how a murren came this ague fit of foolishnes vpon thee?
And why maist not thou be my swéete Asse? ha, ha.
Thou he with a woman to builde nothing but Cripple-gates! Well, God sends fooles fortune, and it may be he may light vpon his matrimony by such a deuice, for wedding and hanging goes by destiny.
Oh God, what will you doe mistris? shift for your selfe, your father is at hand, hées comming, hées comming, master Lacie hide your selfe in my mistris, for Gods sake shift for your selues.
Mas, and thats well remembred.
Here comes your father.
Forware metresse, tis vn good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.
Oh God it pincheth me, what will you do?
Your fathers presence pincheth, not the shoo.
Well done, fit my daughter well, and shee shall please thee well.
Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well, for ware tis vn good shoo, tis gi mait van neits leither, se ener mine here.
I do beléeue it, whats the newes with you?
Please you, the Earle of Lincolne at the gate is newly lighted, and would speake with you.
Oh Lord, help for Gods sake, my mistris, oh my yong mistris.
Where is thy mistris? whats become of her?
Shées gone, shées fled.
Gone? whither is she fled?
I know not forsooth, shées fled out of doores with Hauns the Shoomaker, I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace.
Which way? what Iohn, where be my men? which way?
I know not, and it please your worship.
Fled with a shoomaker, can this be true?
Oh Lord sir, as true as Gods in heauen.
Her loue turnd shoomaker? I am glad of this.
Be not so cruell sir.
I am glad shées scapt.
Yea forsooth, tis a very braue shooe, and as fit as a padding.
How now, what knaue is this, from whence commest thou?
No knaue sir, I am Firke the shoomaker, lusty Rogers cheefe lustie iorneyman, and I come hither to take vp the prettie legge of sweete mistris Rose, and thus hoping your worshippe is in as good health as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours Firke.
Stay stay sir knaue.
Come hither shoomaker.
Tis happie the knaue is put before the shoomaker, or else I would not haue vouchsafed to come backe to you, I am moued, for I stirre.
My Lorde, this villaine calles vs knaues by craft.
Then tis by the Gentle Craft, and to cal one knaue gently, is no harme: sit your worship merie: Sib your yong mistris Ile so bob then, now my maister M. Eyre is Lorde Maior of London.
Tell me sirra, whoes man are you?
I am glad to see your worship so merrie, I haue no maw to this geere, no stomacke as yet to a red peticote.
I sing now to the tune of Rogero▪ Roger my felow is now my master.
Sirra, knowst thou one Hauns a shoomaker?
Hauns shoomaker, oh yes, stay, yes I haue him, I tel you what, I speake it in secret, mistris Rose, and he are by this time: no not so, but shortly are to come ouer one another with, Can you dance the shaking of the shéetes? it is that Hauns, Ile so gull these diggers.
Knowst thou then where he is?
Yes forsooth, yea marry.
Canst thou in sadnesse?
No forsooth, no marrie.
Honest fellow, no sir, not so sir, my profession is the Gentle Craft, I care not for séeing, I loue feeling, let me feele it here, aurium tenus, ten peeces of gold, genuum tenus, ten peeces of siluer, and then Firke is your man in a new paire of strechers.
No point: shal I betray my brother? no, shal I proue Iudas to Hans? no, shall I crie treason to my corporation? no, I shall be firkt and yerkt then, but giue me your angell, your angell shall tel you.
Doe so good fellow, tis no hurt to thée.
Send simpering Sib away.
Huswife, get you in.
Pitchers haue eares, and maides haue wide mouthes: but for Hauns prauns, vpon my word to morrow morning, he and yong mistris Rose goe to this géere, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else tourne Firke to a firkin of butter to tanne leather withall.
But art thou sure of this?
Am I sure that Paules stéeple is a handfull higher then London stone? or that the pissing conduit leakes nothing but pure mother Bunch? am I sure I am lustie Firke, Gods nailes doe you thinke I am so base to gull you?
Where are they married? dost thou know the church?
I neuer goe to church, but I know the name of it, it is a swearing church, stay a while, tis: I by the mas, no, no, tis I by my troth, no nor that, tis I by my faith, that that, tis I by my Faithes church vnder Paules crosse, there they shall be knit like a paire of stockings in matrimonie, there theile be in conie.
Yes forsooth.
Doth he not honest fellow?
No forsooth, I thinke Hauns is no bodie, but Hans no spirite.
My mind misgiues me now tis so indéede.
My cosen speakes the language, knowes the trade.
This, or what else.
Then you must rise betimes, for they meane to fal to their hey passe, and repasse, pindy pandy, which hand will you haue, very earely.
At Saint Faithes church thou saist.
Yes, by their troth.
Be secret on thy life.
Yes, when I kisse your wife, ha, ha, heres no craft in the Gentle Craft, I came hither of purpose with shooes to sir Rogers worship, whilst Rose his daughter be coniecatcht by Hauns: soft nowe, these two gulles will be at Saint Faithes church to morrow morning, to take master Bride-groome, and mistris Bride napping, and they in the meane time shal chop vp the matter at the Sauoy: but the best sport is, sir Roger Otly wil find my felow lame, Rafes wife going [Page] to marry a gentleman, and then heele stop her in stéede of his daughter; oh braue, there wil be fine tickling sport: [...]t now, what haue I to doe? oh I know now a messe of shoomakers meate at the wooll sack in I vie lane, to cozen my gentleman of lame Rafes wife, thats true, alacke, alacke girles, holde out tacke, for nowe smockes for this tumbling shall goe to wracke.
This is the morning then, stay my bully my honest Hauns, is it not?
This is the morning that must make vs two happy, or miserable, therefore if you
Away with these iffes and ands Hauns, and these et caeteraes, by mine honor Rowland Lacie none but the king shall wrong thée: come, feare nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre Lord mayor of London? feare nothing Rose, let them al say what they can, dainty come thou to me: laughest thou?
Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.
Why my swéete lady Madgy, thincke you Simon Eyre can forget his fine dutch Iourneyman? No vah. Fie I scorne it, it shall neuer be cast in my teeth, that I was vnthankeful. Lady Madgy, thou hadst neuer couerd thy Saracens head with this french flappe, nor loaden thy bumme with this farthingale, tis trash, trumpery, vanity, Simon Eyre had neuer walkte in a redde petticoate, nor wore a chaine of golde, but for my fine Iourneymans portigues, and shall I leaue him? No: Prince am I none, yet beare a princely minde.
My Lorde, tis time for vs to part from hence.
Lady Madgy, lady Madgy, take two or thrée of my pie-crust eaters, my buffe-ierkin varlets, that doe walke in blacke gownes at Simon Eyres héeles, take them good lady Madgy, trippe and goe, my browne Quéene uf Perriwigs, with my delicate Rose, and my iolly Rowland to the Sauoy, see them linckte, countenaunce the marriage, and when it is done, cling, cling together, you [...]amborow Turtle Doues, Ile beare you out, come to Simon Eyre, come dwell with me Hauns, thou shalt eate minede pies, and marchpane. Rose, away cricket, trippe and goe, my Lady Madgy to the Sauoy, Hauns, wed, and to bed, kisse and away, go, vanish.
Farewel my lord.
Make haste sweet loue.
Shéede faine the deede were done.
Come my swéete Rose, faster than Déere wéele runne.
Goe, vanish, vanish, auaunt I say: by the lorde of Ludgate, its a madde life to be a lorde Mayor, its a stirring life, a fine life, a veluet life, a carefull life. Well Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honor of sainct Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings, his maiesty is welcome, he shal haue good chéere, delicate cheere, princely cheere. This day my felow prentises of London come to dine with me too, they shall haue fine cheere, gentlemanlike cheere. I promised the mad Cappidosians, when we all serued at the Conduit together, that if euer I came to be Mayor of London, I woould feast them al, and Ile doot, Ile doot by the life of Pharaoh, by this beard Sim Eire wil be no flincher. Besides, I haue procurd, that vpon [Page] euery Shrouetuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell: my fine dapper Allyrian lads, shall clap vp their shop windows, and away, this is the day, and this day they shall doot, they shall doot: boyes, that day are you frée, let masters care, and prentises shall pray for Simon Eyre.
Come Rafe, stand to it Firke: my masters, as we are the braue bloods of the shooemakers, heires apparant to saint Hugh, and perpetuall benefactors to all good fellowes▪ thou shalt haue no wrong, were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delue in thy close without thy sufferaunce: but tell me Rafe, art thou sure tis thy wife?
Am I sure this is Firke? This morning when I strokte on her shooes, I lookte vpon her, and she vpon me, and sighed, askte me if euer I knew one Rafe. Yes sayde I: for his sake saide she (teares standing in her eyes) and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this péece of golde: I tooke it: my lame leg, and my trauel beyond sea made me vnknown, all is one for that, I know shées mine.
Did she giue thée this gold? O glorious glittering gold; shées thine owne, tis thy wife, and she loues thée, for Ile stand toot, theres no woman will giue golde to any man, but she thinkes better of him than she thinkes of them shee giues siluer to: and for Hamon, neither Hamon nor Hangman shall wrong thée in London: Is not òur olde maister Eire lord Mayor? Speake my hearts.
Yes, and Hamon shall know it to his cost.
Peace my bullies, yonder they come.
Stand toot my hearts, Firke, let me speake first.
No Rafe, let me: Hammon, whither away so earely?
Unmannerly rude slaue, whats that to thée?
To him sir? yes sir, and to me, and others: good morow Iane, how dost thou? good Lord, how the world is changed with you, God be thanked.
Villaines, handes off, howe dare you touch my loue?
villaines? downe with them, cry clubs for prentises.
How, my hearts touch her Hamon? yea and more than that, wéele carry her away with vs. My maisters and gentlemen, neuer draw your bird spittes, shooemakers are steele to the backe, men euery inch of them, al spirite.
Wel, and what of all this?
Ile shew you: Iane, dost thou know this man? tis Rafe I can tell thee: nay, tis he in faith, though he be lamde by the warres, yet looke not strange, but run to him, fold him about the necke and kisse him.
What meanes my Iane?
Nay, what meant yon to tell me he was slaine?
Thou séest he liues: Lasse, goe packe home with him: now M. Hamon, wheres your mistris your wife?
Swounds M. fight for her, will you thus lose her?
Downe with that creature, clubs, downe with him.
Hold, hold.
Yea sir, she must sir, she shal sir, what then? mend it.
Hearke fellow Rafe, folowe my counsel, set the wench in the midst, and let her chuse her man, and let her be his woman.
Not a ragge Iane, the law's on our side, he that sowes in another mans ground forsets his haruest, get thée home Rafe, follow him Iane, he shall not haue so much as a buske point from thée.
Stand to that Rafe, the appurtenances are thine owne, Hammon, looke not at her.
O swounds no.
Blew coate be quiet, wéele giue you a new liuerie else, wéele make Shroue Tuesday Saint Georges day for you: looke not Hammon, leare not, Ile Firke you, for thy head now, one glance, one shéepes eie, any thing at her, touch not a ragge, least I and my brethren beate you to clowtes.
Come master Hammon, theres no striuing here.
Sell not thy wife Rafe, make her not a whore.
No, do not Rafe.
Sirra Hammon Hammon, dost thou thinke a Shooe-maker is so base, to bee a bawde to his owne wife for commoditie, take thy golde, choake with it, were [Page] I not lame, I would make thée eate thy words.
A shoomaker sell his flesh and bloud, oh indignitie!
Sirra, take vp your pelfe, and be packing.
Touch the gold creature if you dare, ya're best be trudging: here Iane take thou it, now lets home my hearts.
Stay, who comes here? Iane, on againe with thy maske.
Yonders the lying varlet mockt vs so.
Come hither sirra.
I sir, I am sirra, you meane me, do you not?
Where is my Nephew married?
Is he married? God giue him ioy, I am glad of it: they haue a faire day, and the signe is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.
Truly I am sorie for't, a Bride's a prettie thing.
Come to the purpose, yonder's the Bride and Bridegroome you looke for I hope: though you be Lordes, you are not to barre, by your authoritie, men from women, are you?
Sée sée my daughters maskt.
Yea truely god helpe the poore couple, they are lame and blind.
Ile ease her blindnes.
Ile his lamenes cure.
Lie downe sirs, and laugh, my felow Rafe is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Iane for mistris damaske rose, this is al my knauery.
What, haue I found you minion?
Unmaske your selfe.
Leade home your daughter.
Take your Nephew hence.
Hence, swounds, what meane you? are you mad? I hope you cannot inforce my wife from me, wheres Hamon?
Your wife.
What Hammon?
Yea my wife, and therfore the prowdest of you that laies hands on her first, Ile lay my crutch crosse his pate.
To him lame Rafe, heres braue sport.
Rose call you her? why her name is Iane, looke here else, do you know her now?
Is this your daughter?
Yea forsooth no varlet, forsooth no base, forsooth I am but meane, no crattie neither, but of the Gentle Craft.
Where is my daughter Rose? where is my child?
Where is my nephew Lacie married?
Why here is good laide mutton as I promist you.
Villaine, Ile haue thée punisht for this wrong.
Punish the iornyman villaine, but not the iorneyman shoomaker.
Dares Eyre the shoomaker vphold the deede?
Yes sir, shoomakers dare stand in a womans quarrel I warrant you, as deepe as another, and deeper too.
Adue monsieur Dodger, farewel fooles, ha ha, Oh if they had staide I would haue so lambde them with [...]outes, O heart, my codpéece point is readie to flie in péeces euery time I thinke vpon mistris Rose, but let that passe, as my Ladie Mairesse saies.
This matter is answerd: come Rafe, home with thy wife, come my fine shoomakers, lets to our masters the new lord Maior and there swagger this shroue Tuesday, ile promise you wine enough, for Madge kéepes the seller.
O rare! Madge is a good wench.
And Ile promise you meate enough, for simpring [Page] Susan kéepes the larder, Ile leade you to victuals my braue souldiers, follow your captaine, O braue, hearke, hearke.
The Pancake bell rings, the pancake bel, tri-lill my hearts.
Oh braue, oh swéete bell, O delicate pancakes, open the doores my hearts, and shut vp the windowes, kéepe in the house, let out the pancakes: oh rare my heartes, lets march together for the honor of saint Hugh to the great new hall in Gratious streete corner, which our Maister the newe lord Maior hath built.
O the crew of good fellows that wil dine at my lord, Maiors cost to day!
By the lord, my lord Maior is a most braue man, how shal prentises be bound to pray for him, and the honour of the gentlemen shoomakers? lets feede and be fat with my lordes bountye.
O musical be stil! O Hodge, O my brethren! theres chéere for the heauens, venson pastimes walke vp and down piping hote, like sergeants, beefe and brewesse comes marching in drie fattes, fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in whéele barrowes, hennes and orenges hopping in porters baskets, colloppes and egges in scuttles, and tartes and custardes comes quauering in in mault shouels.
Whoop, looke here, looke here.
How now madde laddes, whither away so fast?
Whither, why to the great new hall, know you not why? The lorde Maior hath bidden all the prentises in London to breakfast this morning.
Oh braue shoomaker, oh braue lord of incomprehensible good fellowship, whoo, hearke you, the pancake bell rings.
Nay more my hearts, euery Shrouetuesday is our yéere of Jubile: and when the pancake bel rings, we are as free as my lord Maior, we may shut vp our shops, and make holiday: Ile haue it calld, Saint Hughes Holiday.
Agreed, agreed, Saint Hughes Holiday.
And this shal continue for euer.
Oh braue! come come my hearts, away, away.
O eternall credite to vs of the gentle Craft, march faire my hearts, oh rare.
Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant?
It may be so, my Liege.
On afore.
Come my fine Hodge, my iolly gentlemen shooemakers, soft, where be these Caniballes, these varlets my officers, let them al walke and waite vpon my brethren, for my meaning is, that none but shoomakers, none but the liuery [Page] of my Company shall in their sattin hoodes waite vppon the trencher of my soueraigne.
O my Lord, it will be rare.
No more Firke, come liuely, let your fellowe prentises want no cheere, let wine be plentiful as béere, and beere as water, hang these penny pinching fathers, that cramme wealth in innocent lamb skinnes, rip knaues, anaunt, looke to my guests
My Lord, we are at our wits end for roome, those hundred tables wil not feast the fourth part of them.
Then couer me those hundred tables againe, and againe, til all my iolly prentises be feasted: auoyde Hodge, runne Rafe, friske about my numble Firke, carowse me fadome healths to the honor of the shoomakers: do they drink liuely Hodge? do they tickle it Firke?
Tickle it? some of them haue taken their licour standing so long, that they can stand no longer: but for meate, they would eate it and they had it.
Want they meate? wheres this swag-belly, this greasie kitchinstuffe cooke, call the varlet to me: want meat! Firke, Hodge, lame Rafe, runne my tall men, beleager the shambles, beggar al East-Cheape, serue me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheepe whine vpon the tables like pigges for want of good felowes to eate them. Want meate! vanish Firke, auaunt Hodge.
Your lordship mistakes my man Firke, he means their bellies want meate, not the boords, for they haue drunk so much they can eate nothing.
Where is my Lord.
How now lady Madgy.
The kings most excelent maiesty is new come, hée sends me for thy honor: one of his most worshipful Péeres, [Page] bade me tel thou must be mery, and so forth: but let that passe.
Is my Soueraigne come? vanish my tall shoomakers, my nimble brethren, looke to my guests the prentises: yet stay a little, how now Hans, how lookes my little Rose?
Haue done my good Hans, my honest iorneyman, looke chéerely, Ile fall vpon both my knees till they be as hard as horne, but Ile get thy pardon.
Good my Lord haue a care what you speake to his grace.
Away you I slington whitepot, hence you happerarse, you barly pudding ful of magots, you broyld carbonado, auaunt, auaunt, auoide Mephostophilus: shall Sim Eyre leaue to speake of you Ladie Madgie? vanish mother Miniuer cap, vanish, goe, trip and goe, meddle with your partlets, and your pishery pasherie, your flewes and your whirligigs, go, rub, out of mine alley: Sim Eyre knowes how to speake to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine and he were here: and shal I melt? shal I droope before my Soueraigne? no, come my Ladie Madgie, follow me Hauns, about your businesse my frolicke frée-booters: Firke, friske about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre Lord Maior of London.
Hey for the honour of the shoomakers.
So my déere liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren the gentlemen shoomakers shal set your swéete maiesties image, cheeke by iowle by Saint Hugh, for this honour you haue done poore Simon Eyre, I beséeth your grace pardon my rude behauiour, I am a handicrafts man, yet my heart is without craft, I would be sory at my soule, that my boldnesse should offend my king.
Nay, I pray thée good lord Maior, be euen as mery as if thou wert among thy shoomakers, It does me good to see thee in this humour.
Saist thou me so my swéete Dioclesian? then hump, Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, by the Lord of Ludgate my Liege, Ile be as merrie as a pie.
Tel me infaith mad Eyre, how old thou art.
My Liege a verie boy, a stripling, a yonker, you sée not a white haire on my head, not a gray in this beard, euerie haire I assure thy maiestie that stickes in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the king of Babilons ransome, Tama Chams beard was a rubbing brush toot: yet Ile shaue it off, and stuffe tennis balls with it to please my bully king.
But all this while I do not know your age.
My liege, I am sixe and fiftie yeare olde, yet I can crie humpe, with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh: marke this olde wench, my king, I dauncde the shaking of the sheetes with her sixe and thirtie yeares agoe, and yet I hope to get two or three yong Lorde Maiors ere I die: I am lustie still, Sim Eyre still: care, and colde lodging brings white haires. My swéete Maiestie, let care vanish, cast it vppon thy Nobles, it will make thée looke alwayes young like Apollo, and crye humpe: Prince am I none, yet am [Page] I princely borne.
Ha ha: saye Cornewall, didst thou euer sée his like?
Not I, my Lorde.
Lincolne, what newes with you?
Traytors, where? who?
Traitors in my house? God forbid, where be my officers? Ile spend my soule ere my king féele harme.
Where is the traytor? Lincolne.
Here he stands.
Is he not a traytor?
I wil not beare his shame vpon my backe.
Nor shalt thou Lincolne, I forgive you both.
Are they not married?
No my Liege.
We are.
Not for all Indians wealth, my soueraigne.
But Rose I am sure her Lacie would forgoe.
If Rose were askt that question, sheed say, no.
You heare them Lincolne.
Yea my liege, I do.
I do (my gracious Lord) I am her father.
Sir Roger Oteley, our last Maior I thinke,
The same my liege.
I am, dread Soueraigne.
I thanke your grace.
O my most gratious Lord!
Yes my Lord.
Wil you then take from me my child perforce?
I am content with what your Grace hath done.
And I my liege, since theres no remedie.
O my liege, this honour you haue done to my fine iourneyman here, Rowland Lacie, and all these fauours which you have showne to me this daye in my poore house, will make Simon Eyre liue longer by one dozen of warme summers more then he should.
I thanke your Maiestie.
God blesse your Grace.
Lincolne, a word with you.
How now my mad knaues? Peace, speake softly, yonder is the king.
My mad lord Mayor, are all these shoomakers?
All Shooemakers, my Liege, all gentlemen of the Gentle Craft, true Troians, couragious Cordwainers, they all knéele to the shrine of holy saint Hugh.
God saue your maiesty all shoomakers
Mad Simon, would they any thing with vs?
Mum mad knaues, not a word, Ile doot, I warrant you. They are all beggars, my Liege, all for themselues: and I for them all, on both my knées do intreate, that for the honor of poore Simon Eyre, and the good of his brethren these mad knaues, your Grace would vouchsafe some priuilege to my new Leden hall, that it may be lawfull for vs to buy and sell leather there two dayes a wéeke.
Iesus blesse your Grace.
In the name of these my poore brethren shoomakers, I most humbly thanke your Grace. But before I rise, séeing you are in the Giuing vaine, and we in the Begging, graunt Sim Eyre one boone more.
What is it my Lord Maior?
Vouchsafe to taste of a poore banquet that standes swéetely waiting for your sweete presence.
O my deere king, Sim Eyre was taken vnawares vpon a day of shrouing which I promist long ago to the pren tises of London: for andt please your Highnes, in time past
Gaue me my breakefast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankerd, if euer I came to be Lord Maior of London, I would feast al the prentises, This day (my liege) I did it, and the slaues had an hundred tables fiue times couered, they are gone home and vanisht: yet adde more honour to the Gentle Trade, taste of Eyres banquet, Simon's happie made.