SCENE A Forest.

DUDGEON, dost thou hear? look well to Brock, my mare, drive Dun and her fair and softly down the hill, and take heed the thorns tear not my cow-hides, as thou goest near the hedges.

Master, the bull's hide is down.

Ha! what say'st thou knave? is the bull's hide down? why then hoist it up again. I'll meet thee at the stile, and help to set all strait.

And yet, heaven help us, it is a crooked world, and an unthrifty; for some that have ne'er a shoe had rather go barefoot, than buy clout-leather to mend the old, when they can get no new; well, heaven mend them, tho' they will not mend their shoes. Let me see by my executor here, my leather pouch, what I have taken, what I have spent, what I have gained, what I have lost, and what I have laid out: My taking is more than my spending, for here's store left. I have spent but a groat, a penny for my two jades, a penny to the poor, a penny pot of ale, and a penny cake, for my man and me.—A dicker of cow-hides cost me —'snails, who comes here? Dame Ploughshare, or Mistress what d'ye call her? put up, John Hobbs, money tempts beauty.

Well met, good fellow, saw'st thou not the hart?

My heart? heaven bless me from seeing my heart?

Thy heart? the deer, man, we demand the deer.

Do you demand what's dear? marry, corn and cow-hides.—Mass! a good smug lass. Well like my daughter Nell.

Camest thou not down the wood?

Yes, mistress, that I did.

And saw'st thou not the deer imbost?

By the rood ye make me laugh, ha! ha! ha! what the dickens is it, love! that makes ye prate to me so fondly?

Why how now, Hobbs, so saucy with the Dutchess and the Queen?

*Much Dutchess, and much Queen, I trow! these be but women; and one of them is as like my wench as a raw hide is to one that's not tann'd: I would Nell had her cloaths, I would give a load of hair and horns, and a fat of leather, to match her to some Justice, by the meg-holly.

Be silent, Tanner, and ask pardon of the Queen.

And ye be the Queen, I cry ye mercy, good Mistress Queen!

Madam, let's take our bows, and in the standing seek to get a shoot.

Come bend our bows, and bring the herd of deer.

Heaven send you good striking, and fat flesh.— See if all women, high or low, be not alike. I took the Queen for Dame Ploughshare, as I am a true Tanner.

Soft, who comes here? more knaves yet!

Ho! good-fellow! saw'st thou not the king?

No, good-fellow! I saw no King.—Which King dost thou ask for?

Why, King Edward, what King is there else?

There's another King, and ye could hit on him; one Harry, one Harry! and by our Lady they say he's the honester man of the two.

Sirrah, beware you speak not treason.

What if I do?

Then you'll be hang'd.

That's a dog's death, I'll not meddle with it. But by my troth I know not when I do speak treason, and when I don't; there's such halting betwixt two Kings, that a man cannot go upright but he shall offend one of them: I would heaven had them both for me.

Well, thou saw'st not the King?

No; is he in the Country?

He's hunting here at Drayton-Basset. ^*

The devil he is, God bless his mastership! I saw a woman here, that they said was the Queen. She's as like my daughter Nell as ever I see, but that my daughter's fairer.

Farewell, fellow; speak well of the King.

God make him an honest man, I hope that's well spoken; for, by the mouse-foot, some give him hard words; whether he 'zerves um or not, let him look to that; I'll med­dle o'my cow-hides, and let the world wag.

The devil in a dung-cart! how these roy­sters swarm in the country now the King is so near. 'deliver [Page 9]me from this, for he looks more like a thief than a horse! but a man cannot tell amongst these court-nols who's true.

Now I have let my mother and the Queen, and all our train go by, let me awhile forget my Majesty; and, 'stead of royal Edward, as the King's attendant have some sport with yonder rustic. Hollo! my friend! good-fellow, prithee stay.

No such matter. I am in haste.

If thou be a good-fellow, let me borrow a word.

My purse thou mean'st.—I am no good-fellow, and I pray heaven thou beest not one.

Why, dost thou not love a good-fellow.

No; 'tis a bye-word, good-fellows be thieves.

Dost thou think I am one?

Thought is free, and thou art not my ghostly father

In faith, I mean thee no harm.

Who knoweth that but thyself?—I pray heaven he spied not my purse!

On my troth I mean thee none.

Well, upon thy oath I'll stay.—Now what say'st thou to me? speak quickly, for my company stays for me be­neath at the next stile.

The King is hunting hereabouts; did'st thou see his Majesty?

His Majesty? what's that? his horse or his mare?

Tush, I mean his Grace.

Grace, quotha! pray heaven he have any.—Which King doth thou 'quire for?

Why, for King Edward.—Know'st thou any more Kings than one?

I know not so many, for I tell thee I know none.— Marry, I hear of King Edward.

Did'st thou see his highness?

Now, by my holydame, that's the best term thou gavest him yet; he's high enough, but he has put poor King Harry low enough.

How low hath he put him?

Nay I cannot tell, but he has got the Crown from him, much good do him with it!

Amen! I like thy talk so well, I would I knew thy name.

Dost thou not know me?

No.

Then thou know'st nobody; did'st never hear of John Hobbs, the Tanner of Tamworth?

Not till now, I promise thee; but now I do know thee, I like thee well.

So do not I thee.—I doubt thou art some out-rider, that lives by taking of purses, here on Basset-heath.—But I fear thee not; for I have wared all my money in cow­hides, at Colesill market; and my man and my mare are hard by at the hill-foot.

Is that thy grey mare, that's tied at the stile, with the hides on her back?

Ay, that's Brock, my mare; and there's Dun, my nag; and Dudgeon, my man.

There's neither man, nor horse; but only the mare.

Od's blue bodkin! has the knave served me so? farewell. I may lose hides, horns, mare, and all, by prating with thee.

Tarry, man, tarry! they'll sooner take my bay gelding, than thy grey mare; for I have tied mine by her.

That will I see before I take your word.

I'll bear thee company.

If you will, you must; but I had much rather go alone.

The SCENE continues.

Now, by my troth, the Queen shoots passing well.

So did the Dutchess, when she was as young.

Age shakes the hand, and shoots both wide and short.

What have they given us?

Six rose-nobles just.

The Queen gave four.

Right, and the Dutchess two; had the King come, he would have rained on us showers of gold.

Why, he is hunting, somewhere hereabout.— Let us first drink the Queen and Dutchess' health, and then go seek him.

Agreed.

How say'st thou, Tanner? wilt thou take my courser for thy mare?

Courser, call'st thou him? he's too fine for me! thy skittish jade will neither carry my leather, horns, nor hides. But if I were so mad to change, what would'st thou give me to boot?

Nay, boot that's boot-worthy —I look for boot of thee.

Ha, ha, ha! that's a merry jig! why, man, Brock, my mare, knows ha and ree; will stand when I cry ho, let me get up when I say hi, and down when I say hee.

Well, I'll give thee a noble if I like her pace; lay thy cow-hides on my saddle, and let's jog towards Drayton.

'Tis out of my way; but I begin to like thee well.

Thou wilt like me better ere we part.—I pray thee tell me, what say they of the King?

Of the Kings, thou mean'st.—Art thou no blab if I do tell thee?

If the King knows not now, he shall never know it for me.

Mass, they say King Harry's a very advowtry man.

A devout man; and what's King Edward?

He's a frank franion, a merry companion, and loves a wench well; they say he has married a poor widow because she is fair.

Dost thou like him the worse for that?

No, by my feckens, but the better; for though I be but a plain Tanner, I love a fair lass myself.

Prithee, tell me, how love they King Edward?

Faith, as poor folks love holidays.—Glad to have them now and then, but to have them come too often would undo them; so to see the King now and then is a comfort, but to behold him every day would beggar us; and I may say to thee, under the rose, we fear we shall be troubled to lend him money, for we doubt he's but needy.

Would'st thou not lend him money if he should need it?

Yes, by my holydame! he shall have half my purse, and I'll sell sole-leather to help him to more.

In faith now, which lov'st thou best, Harry or Edward?

Nay, that's a secret! and two may keep it, if one be away.

Shall I say my conscience? I think Harry is the true King.

Art advised of that? Harry's of the old house of Lancaster, and that progenity do I love.

Then dost thou hate the House of York?

Why, no; for I am just a-kin to Sutton wind-mill; I can grind which way soe'er the wind blow: If it be Harry, I can say well fare Lancaster! if it be Edward, I can sing, York, York for my money!

Thou art of my mind, for I say Harry is the lawful King; Edward is but a usurper; fool and a coward.

Nay, there thou lyest! he has wit enough, and courage enough; dost thou not speak treason?

Ay; but I know to whom I speak it.

Dost thou? an I were constable, I should be for­sworn if I set thee not in the stocks for it.

Well, let it go no further; for I did serve King Harry, and I love him best; though now I serve King Edward.

Thou art the arranter knave to speak ill of thy master. But, sirrah, what's thy name? what office hast thou? and what will the King do for thee?

My name is Ned; I am the King's butler, and he will do more for me than for any nobleman in the court.

The devil he will! the more fool he, and so I'll tell him if e'er I see him; and I would I might see him in my poor house at Tamworth.

Go with me to the court, and I'll bring thee to the King; and what suit soever thou have to him, I'll warrant thee to speed.

I ha' nothing to do at court; I'll home with my cow-hides; but if the King will come to me, he shall be welcome.

Hast thou no suit touching thy trade? to transport hides, or have the sole selling of leather within a certain circuit; or about bark, or such like, to have letters patent.

By the mass, I like not those patents! for, I think it's pity that only one subject should have, what might do good to many throughout the land.

Say'st thou me so, Tanner? well, let's cast lots, whether thou shalt go with me to Drayton, or I go home with thee to Tamworth.

Lot me no lotting! I'll not go with thee; if thou wilt go with me, 'cause thou'rt my Liege's man (and yet I think he has many honester) thou shalt be welcome to John Hobbs: thou shalt be welcome to beef and bacon; and per­haps a bag-pudding: and my daughter Nell shall make a posset for thee ere thou goest to bed.

Here's my hand.—I'll but go and see the King served, and be at home as soon as thyself; ay, and, with thy leave and her's, kiss thy fair daughter too.

SCENE, Hobbs's House.

Come, Nell, come daughter, be your hands and face washed?

Ay, forsooth, father.

Ye must be cleanly I can tell ye, for there comes a court-nol hither to-night, the King's mastership's butler, Ned; a spruce youth; but beware ye be not in love, nor overtaken by him, for Courtiers be slippery lads.

No, forsooth, father.

God's blessing on thee! that half-year's schooling at Liechfield, was better to thee than house and land, it has put such manners into thee: Ay, forsooth; and no forsooth, at every word. Is supper ready?

Ay, forsooth, father.

Have we a good barley bag-pudding, a piece of fat bacon, a good cow-heel, a hard cheese, and a brown loaf?

All this, forsooth; and more, ye shall have a posset: but, indeed, the rats have spoiled your hard cheese.

Now, the devil choak them! for they eat me a whole candle the other night.

What, Master! Master!

How, now, Knave? what say'st thou, Dudgeon?

Here's guests come. Where's Ellen?

What guests be they?

A court-nol; one Ned, the King's butcher, he says; and his friend too.

Ned, the King's butcher? ha, ha, ha!—the King's butler, thou mean'st; take their horses, and walk them, and bid them come in doors.

Nell, lay the cloth, and supper o'th' board.

I'faith, honest Tanner, I'll ever keep promise with thee:—prithee, bid my friend welcome.

By my troth ye are both welcome to Tamworth! friend, I know not your name.

My name is Tom Twist.

Tom Twist? belike then you are the King's taylor.

No, faith.

Ye are welcome both; and I like you well, but for one thing.

What's that?

Nay, that I keep to myself.—For I grieve to think that pride brings many to extruction.

Prithee, tell us thy meaning.

Troth, I doubt ye ne'er came truly by all these gay trappings. 'Tis not your bare wages, and thin fees ye have of the King, can keep ye thus fine; but either ye must rob the King privily, or his subjects openly, to maintain your prodi­gality.—But, come, let's to supper.—What, Nell! what, Dudgeon!—where be these folks?

Ye are welcome, gentlemen, as I may say, forsooth.

I thank ye, fair maid.

A pretty wench, faith!

How lik'st her, Ned?

I like her so well, I would ye would make me your son-in-law.

And I like thee so well, Ned; that, had'st thou an occupation, (for service is no heritage, and a young courtier, an old beggar.) I could find in my heart to cast her away upon thee; and, if thou wilt forsake the court, and turn Tanner, here with me at Tamworth, or bind thyself to a Shoe-maker, in Liechfield, I'll give thee twenty nobles, ready money, with my Nell; and trust thee with a dicker of leather to set up thy trade.

Ned, he offers ye fair, if ye have the grace to take it.

He does, indeed Tom; and hereafter I'll tell him more.

Come, sit down to supper.

Go to, Nell! no more sheep's eyes; ye may be caught, I tell you; these be licorish lads.

I warrant ye, father. Yet, in truth, Ned is a very proper man; and to'ther may serve, but Ned's a pearl in mine eye.

Daughter, call Dudgeon and his fellows, we'll have a three-man-song, to make our guests merry.

'Nails! what court-nols are ve? ye'll neither eat nor talk. What news at the court? do somewhat for your meat.

Heavy news there. King Henry is dead.

That's light news and merry for your master, King Edward.

But how will the commons take it?

Troth, the commons will take it as a common thing, and say, Well! God be with good King Henry! death's an honest man, for he spares not the King.—

Shrewdly spoken, Tanner, by my faith.

Come, fill me a cup of mother Whetstone's ale, that I may drink to my friends; Here's to ye, Ned and Tom, with all my heart!

and yet, I doubt, if I come to the court, you'll not know me.

Yes, faith! Tom shall be my surety, Tanner, I will know thee.

If thou dost not, Ned, thou deserv'st that the King should not know thee.

Come, honest Tanner, I drink to thy fair daughter, Nell; my wife that may be.

[...]faith Ned, thou may'st live to make her a lady.

Tush, her father offers nothing, having no more children but her.

I would I had not, condition she had all; but I have a knave to my son, just such an unthrift as one of you two; that spends all on gay cloaths and new fashions, and no work will go down with him, that I fear he'll be hang'd; heaven bless you to a better fate! tho', by my troth, I doubt it; but come, let's drive away care with a good old song.

Well sung good fellows, I would the King heard you.

So would I; i'faith, I should strain a note for him. Come, take away, and let's to bed—ye shall have clean sheets, Ned, tho' they be coarse; good strong hemp, of my daugh­ter's own spinning.

Thanks, honest Hobbs! but we'll not go to bed.

What then? let's ha' more ale.

No more, good friend; we'll mount our horses, and with speed to London, for it is near day; and, honest Tanner! gramercy for our hearty cheer. If e'er it be thy chance to come to court, enquire for me, Ned, the King's Butler; or Tom, of the King's Chamber, my companion, and see what welcome we will give the there.

I have heard of courtiers have said as much as you, and when they have been tried, would not so much as ask their friends to drink.

We are none such, believe me, honest Tanner. So now to horse, for we must strait away; and so, with hearty thanks, friend Hobbs, farewell.

Fare ye well, both! commend me to the King, and tell him,

SCENE, An Antique Hall.

So, the drift and meaning, whereby as it were, of all your long purgation, Sir Humphrey Bowes, is no more in some respect, but that the King wants money, and would ha' some of his commonality.

Tanner, you rightly understand the matter.

We have, my lord.

'Tis well, Sir Humphrey!

I a hundred marks.

Come, master Hadland, your benevolence.

Then you have money; let the King have part.

Ay, do, master Hadland, do; they say ye sold a foul deal of dirty land for fair gold and silver; let the King have some, now, while ye have it; if ye be forborne a while, all will be spent: for he who cannot keep land, that lies fast, will have much ado to hold money: 'tis slippery ware! 'tis melting ware!

Gramercy, Tanner!

Say, what shall we have?

My forty shillings.

Why hear you, goodman Goodfellow! (tho' you are much miscall'd) hear a plain Tanner, who will teach you thrift; Keep fewer dogs and horses, and then you may feed more men; yet feed no idle men, 'tis needless charge: but surely you, that for hounds and hunting mates do spare for nought, will something spare unto your king.

My brace of angels, by my troth that's all.

Mass! and 'tis well the curs have left so much; I thought they would have eaten up thy land ere this.

Now, Harry Grudgen.

What would you have of me? money I have none, and I'll sell no stock; here's old polling!—subsidy, soldiers, and to the poor! and you might have your will, you'd soon shut me out of doors.

Now, by my holydame, neighbour Grudgen, thou'rt but a grumbling, grudging churl! thou hast two ploughs going, and ne'er a cradle rocking, with many a peck of money; and wilt not spare a few pounds to the King.

Marry come up, goodman Tanner, are you so tart? your prolicateness has brought your son to the gallows almost; you can be frank of another man's cost.

Thou'rt no good man to twit me with my son; he may outlive thee yet: my son's in jail;—is he the first ho­nest man's son that hath been there? and thou wert a man as thou'rt but a beast, I would have thee by the ears.

His beneligence? hang him! he'll not give a penny willingly.

I care not much to cast away forty pence.

Twenty old angels, and a score of hides; if that be too little, take twenty nobles more: while I have it my King shall never want.

The King shall know thy loving, liberal heart.

Shall he, i faith? I thank ye heartily! but, hear ye, gentlemen, come ye from the court?

I do.

Lord, how does the King? and how does Ned, the King's butler? and Tom of his chamber? I am sure ye know them.

I do, and they are well,

For want of better guests they were at my house one night.

I know they were.

They promised me a good turn for kissing my daughter, Nell; and now I ha' cagion to try them; my son's in Caperdochia, as they call it, in Newgate jail; for peeping into another man's purse: and outcept the King be miser­able, he's like to totter for lack of ground to stand on! can that same Ned, the butler, do any thing with the King?

More than myself or any other Lord.

A halter he can! by my troth ye rejoice my heart to hear it.

Come to the court; I warrant thy son's life; Ned will save that, and do thee greater good.

SCENE,—A Grand Apartment.

What of him, coufin?

But who hath seen him since he came to town?

I warrant you, my lord; I will not fail.

SCENE, The Tower.

What, John Hobbs? welcome i'faith, to court.

Gramercy, honest Tom! where is the hangman Ned? where is that mad rascal? shall I not see him?

See, there he stands; that same is he.

What, Ned! a plague on thee, how dost thou for a mad rogue? and how, and how?

In health, John Hobbs, and very glad to see thee; But say, what wind drove thee to London?

Ah. Ned! I was brought hither with a whirlwind, man; my son! my son! did I not tell thee I had a knave to my son?

Yes, Tanner, what of him?

Faith, he's in Caperdochia, Ned; in Newgate-goal, for a robbery: and is like to be hang'd, outcept thou get the King to be more miserable to him.

Wilt thou, Ned? for those good words, see what my daughter Nell hath sent thee; a hankercher wrought with as good Coventry-blue ^* silk thread as ever thou saw'st.

How, Ned; a better present? that can'st thou not have, for silk, cloth, and workmanship; why Nell made it, man!—But, Ned, is not the King in this company? what's he in the white beard and red petticoat? By the mass, I misdoubt, Ned, that is the King: I know it by my Lord What-ye-call-um's players.

How by them, Tanner?

Why, ever when they play an Enterlout, or a Com­modity, at Tamworth, the King is always in a white-beard, and a red-gown like him; therefore I 'spect him to be the King.

No, trust me, Tanner, that is not the King; but thou shalt see the King before thou goest, and have a pardon for thy son with thee.

Then what is he i'th'red-gown, and he i'th'black?

That is the Mayor, Lord-Mayor of London; the other is the Recorder.

What nick-names these Court-nols have for one-another! Mare and Corder, quotha!—We have no such at Tamworth or Liechfield; there is the honest bailiff and his brethren: such words 'gree best with us.

My Lord-Mayor, and good Mr. Recorder, I pray ye, for my sake, to bid this honest Tanner welcome.

And, if it please you, dine with me tomorrow.

I thank ye, goodman Mare! and Master Corder! but I care not for no meat; my stomach is like to a sick swine's, that will neither eat nor drink, 'till she know what will become of her pig.—Ned and Tom, ye promised me a good turn when I came to Court; either do it now, and save my son from the gallows, or go hang yourselves.

No sooner comes the King, but I will do it.

I warrant thee, Tanner; fear not thy son's life.

Nay, I fear not his life; 'tis his death I fear.

All health and happiness attend my sovereign!

Here is the young man, Hobbs, condemn'd to die.

Sovereign! and my son! O that ever I was born!

But when, Tanner? can'st thou tell?

Nay, e'en when ye please; for I have so defended ye, by calling ye plain Ned, mad rogue, and rascal, that I know ye'll have me hang'd. Therefore, no more ado, but let my son and I e'en be truss'd up together.—And here's another, as honest as yourself no doubt; ye made me call him plain Tom, and I warrant his name is Thomas, and some man of worship too; therefore, let's to our doom, e'en when and where ye will.

Why, an'like your kingship, I can scarce say at all! but, I thank ye!—I thank ye for my son's life, I thank ye for not putting me to death; and when I get back to Tamworth, my Nell shall work a scarf, and send ye; and I'll not forget a skin of choice cordovan, of my own tanning, to make ye boots against ye next go a hunting: when, if ye would but once more leave your kingship behind ye, come to my poor hovel, and be plain hail-fellow Ned again, we'd have such a rowse, as should make all the hair on my hides stand an end! and so, farewell!

Song and Chorus of "GOD SAVE THE KING!"