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 Ma
iestie on New-yeares day at night last, by the right
honourable the Earle of Notingham, Lord high Ad
mirall of England, his servants.

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.

A pleasant Comedie of
the Gentle Craft.

Table of contents

- EPISTLE To all good Fellowes, Professors of the Gentle Craft; of what degree soever.

- SONGS

- The first Three-mans Song.

- The second Three-mans Song.

- PROLOGUE The Prologue as it was pronounced before the Queenes Majestie.

- §

- ACT I

- SCENE I

- SCENE II

- SCENE III

- SCENE IV

- ACT II

- SCENE I

- SCENE II

- SCENE III

- SCENE IV

- ACT III

- SCENE I

- SCENE II

- SCENE III

- SCENE IV

- ACT IV

- SCENE I

- SCENE II

- SCENE III

- SCENE IV

- ACT V

- SCENE I

- SCENE II

- SCENE III

- SCENE IV

- SCENE V

EPISTLE To all good Fellowes, Professors of the Gentle Craft; of what degree soever.

Kinde Gentlemen, and honest boone Companions, I present you here with a merrie conceited Comedie, called, the Shoemakers Holyday, acted by my Lorde Admiralls Players this present Christmasse, before the Queenes most excellent Majestie. For the mirth and plesant matter, by her Highnesse graciously accepted; being indeed no way offensive. The Argument of the play I will set downe in this Epistle: Sir Hugh Lacie Earle of Lincolne, had a yong Gentleman of his owne name, his nere kinsman, that loved the Lorde Maiors daughter of London; to prevent and crosse which love, the Earle caused his kinsman to be sent Coronell of 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 served the Maior and his household with shooes. The merriments that passed in Eyres house, his comming to be Maior of London, Lacies getting his love, and other accidents; with two merry Three-mens songs. Take all in good worth that is well intended, for nothing is purposed bu mirth, mirht lengthneth long life; which, with all other blessings I heartily wish you.
Farewell.

SONGS

The first Three-mans Song.

O the month of Maie, the merrie month of Maie,

So frolicke, so gay, and so greene, so greene, so greene:

O and then did I, unto my true love say,

Sweete Peg, thou shalt be my Summers Queene.

Now the Nightingale, the prettie Nightingale,

The sweetest singer in all the Forrests quiet:

Intreates thee sweete Peggie, to heare thy true loves tale,

Loe, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier.

But O I spie the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo,

See where she sitteth, come away my joy:

Come away I prithee, I do not like the Cuckoo

Should sing where my Peggie and I kisse and toy.

O the month of Maie, the merrie month of Maie,

So frolike, so gay, and so greene, so greene, so greene:

And then did I, unto my true love say,

Sweete Peg, thou shalt be my Summers Queene.

The second Three-mans Song.

This is to be sung at the latter end.

Cold's wind, and wet's the raine,

Saint Hugh be our good speede:

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gaine.

Nor helpes good hearts in neede.

Trowle the boll, the jolly Nut-browne boll,

And here kind mate to thee:

Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hughes soule,

And downe it merrily.

Downe a downe, hey downe a downe,

Hey derie derie down a down,

Close with the tenor boy.

Ho well done, to me let come,

Ring compasse gentle joy.

Trowle the boll, the Nut-browne boll,

And here kind etc.

as often as there be men to drinke.

At last when all have drunke, this verse.

Cold's the wind, and wet's the raine,

Saint Hugh be our good speede:

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gaine,

Nor helpes good hearts in neede.

PROLOGUE The Prologue as it was pronounced before the Queenes Majestie.

As wretches in a storme (expecting day)

With trembling hands and eyes cast up to heaven,

Make Prayers the anchor of their conquerd hopes,

So we (deere Goddesse) wonder of all eyes,

Your meanest vassalls (through mistrust and feare,

To sincke into the bottome of disgrace,

By our imperfit pastimes) prostrate thus

On bended knees, our sailes of hope do strike,

Dreading the bitter stormes of your dislike.

Since then (unhappy men) our hap is such,

That to our selves our selves no help can bring,

But needes must perish, if your saint-like eares

(Locking the temple where all mercy sits)

Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues.

Oh graunt (bright mirror of true Chastitie)

From those life-breathing starres your sun-like eyes,

One gratious smile: for your celestiall breath

Must send us life, or sentence us to death.

§

§
DRAMATIS PERSONAE

- KING OF ENGLAND

- EARL OF LINCOLN

- EARL OF CORNWALL

- LORD MAYOR of London, Sir Roger Otley

- SIMON EYRE, shoemaker and afterwards Lord Mayor

- ROWLAND LACY, nephew to Lincoln, afterwards disguisted as HANS

- MEULTER

- ASKEW, cousin to LACY

- HAMMON, a city gentleman

- WARNER, cousin to HAMMON

- MASTER SCOTT, friend to OTLEY

- HODGE (also called ROGER), foreman to EYRE

- FIRKE, journeyman to EYRE

- RAFE DAMPORT, journeyman to EYRE

- LOVELL, servant to the KING

- DODGER, parasite to LINCOLN

- DUTCH SKIPPER

- BOY, apprentice to EYRE

- BOY, servant to OTLEY

- MARGERY, wife to EYRE

- ROSE, daughter to OTLEY

- JANE, wife to RAFE DAMPORT

- SYBIL, maid to ROSE

- NOBLEMEN, SOLDIERS, HUNTSMEN, SHOEMAKERS, APPREN-
TICES, SERVANTS

ACT I

SCENE I

Enter LORD MAYOR, LINCOLN.

LINCOLN.

My Lord Maior, you have sundrie times

Feasted my selfe, and many Courtiers more,

Seldome, or never can we be so kind,

To make requtall or your curtesie:

But leaving this, I heare my cosen Lacie

Is much affected to your daughter Rose.

LORD MAYOR.

True my good Lord, and she loves him so wel,

That I mislike her boldnesse in the chace.

LINCOLN.

Why lord Maior, think you it then a shame,

To joyne a Lacie with an Otleys name?

LORD MAYOR.

Too meane is my poore girle for his high birth,

Poore Cittizens must not with Courtiers wed,

Who will in silkes, and gay apparrell spend

More in one yeare, then I am worth by farre,

Therefore your honour neede not doubt my girle.

LINCOLN.

Take heede my Lord, advise you what you do,

A verier unthrift lives not in the world,

Then is my cosen, for Ile tel you what,

Tis now almost a yeare since he requested

To travell countries for experience,

I furnisht him with coyne, billes of exchange,

Letters of credite, men to waite on him,

Solicited my friends in Italie

Well to repect him: but to see the end:

Scant had he jornied through halfe Germanie,

But all his coyne was spent, his men cast off,

His billes imbezeld, and my jolly coze,

Asham'd to shew his bankerupt presence here,

Became a Shoomker in Wittenberg,

A goodly science for a gentleman

Of such discent: now judge the rest by this.

Suppose your daughter have a thousnd pound,

He did consume me more in one halfe yeare,

And make him heyre to all the wealthe you heve,

One twelve moneth's rioting wil waste it all,

Then seeke (my Lord) some honest Cittizen

To wed your duaghter to.

LORD MAYOR.

I thanke your Lordship,

Aside
Wel Foxe, I understand your subtiltie,

Aloud
As for yor nephew, let your lordhsips eie

But watch his actions, and you neede not feare,

For I have sent my duather farre enough,

And yet your cosen Rowland might do well

Now he ahath learn'd an occupation,

Aside
And yet I scorne to call him sonne in law.

LINCOLN.

I but I have a better trade for him,

I thanke his grace he hath appointed him,

Chiefe colonell of all those companies

Mustred in London, and the shires about,

To serve his highnesse in those warres of France:

See where he comes: Lovel what newes with you?

Enter LOVELL, LACY, and ASKEW.

LOVELL.

My Lord of Lincolne, tis his highnesse will,

That presently your cosen ship for France

With all his powers, he would not for a million,

But they should land at Deepe within foure daies.

LINCOLN.

Goe certifie his grace it shall be done.

Exit LOVELL.

Now cosen Lacie, in what forwardnesse

Are all your companies?

LACY.

All wel prepar'd,

The men of Hartfordshire lie at Mile end,

Suffolke, and Essex, traine in Tuttle fields,

The Londoners, and those of Middlesex,

All gallantly prepar'd in Finsbury,

With Frolike spirits, long for their parting hower.

LORD MAYOR.

They have their imprest, coates, and furniture,

And if it please your cosen Lacie ccome

To the Guild Hall, he shall receive his pay,

And twentie pounds besides my bretheren

Will freely give him, to approve our loves

We beare unto my Lord your uncle here.

LACY.

I thanke your honour.

LINCOLN.

Thankes my good Lord Maior.

LORD MAYOR.

At the Guild Hall we wil expect your comming.

Exit.

LINCOLN.

To approve your loves to me? no, subtiltie!

Nephew, that twentie pound he doth bestow,

For joy to rid you from his daughter Rose:

But cosens both, now here are none but friends,

I would not have you cast an amourous eie

Upon so meane a project, as the love

Of a gay wanton painted cittizen,

I know this churle, even in the height of scorne,

Doth hate the mixture of his bloud with thine,

I pray thee do thou so, remember coze,

What honourable fortunes wayt on thee,

Increase the kings love which so brightly shines,

And gilds thy hopes, I have no heire but thee:

And yet not thee, if with a wayward spirit,

Thou start from the true byas of my love.

LACY.

My Lord, I will (for honor (not desire

Of land or livings) or to be your heire)

So guide my actions in pursuit of France,

As shall adde glorie to the Lacies name.

LINCOLN.

Coze, for those words heres thirtie Protugues

And Nepheew Askew, there's a few for you,

Faire honour in her loftiest eminence

Staies in France for you till you fetch her thence,

Then Nephewes, clap swift wings on your dissignes,

Be gone, be gone, make haste to the Guild Hall,

There presently Ile meete you, do not stay,

Where honour becons, shame attends delay.

Exit.

ASKEW.
How gladly would your uncle have you gone?

LACY.

True coze, but Ile ore-reach his policies,

I have some serious buinesse for three dayes,

Which nothing but my presence can dispatch,

You therefore cosen with the companies

Shall haste to dober, there Ile meete with you,

Or if I stay past my prefixed time,

Away for France, weele meete in Normandie,

The twentie pounds my Lord Maior gives to me

You shall receive, and these ten protugues,

Part of mine uncles thirtie, gentle cose,

Have care to our great charge, I know your wisedome

Hath tride it selfe in higher consequence.

ASKEW.

Coze, al my selfe am yours, yet have this care,

To lodge in London with al secresie,

Our uncle Lincolne hath (besides his owne)

Many a jealous eie, that in your face

Stares onely to watch meanes for your disgrace.

LACY.

Stay cosen, who be these?

Enter SIMON EYRE,his wife, HODGE, FIRKE, JANE,and RAFE with a peece.

EYRE.
Leave whining, leave whining, away with this whimpring, this pewling, these blubbring teares, and these wet eies, Ile get thy husband discharg'd, I warrant thee sweete Jane: go to.

HODGE.
Master, here be the captaines.

EYRE.
Peace Hodge, husht ye knave, husht.

FIRKE.
Here be the cavaliers, and the coronels, maister.

EYRE.
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: brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience, I am Simon Eyre, the mad Shoomaker of Towerstreete, This wench with the mealy mouth that will neve tire, is my iwfe I can tel you, heres Hodge my man, and my foreman, here Firke my fine firking journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane, al we come to be suters for this honest Rafe, keep 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 seven yeeres.

MARGERY.
Seven yeares husband?

EYRE.
Peace Midriffe, peace, I know what I do, peace.

FIRKE.
Truly master cormorant, you shal do God good service to let Rafe and his wife stay togehter, shees a yong new married woman, if you take her husband away from her a night, you undoo her, she may beg in the day time, for hees as good a workman at a pricke and an awle, as any is in our trade.

JANE.
O let him stay, else I sal be undone.

FIRKE.
I truly, she shal be laid at one side like a paire of old shooes else, and be occupied for no use.

LACY.

Truly my friends, it lies not in my power,

The Londoners are prest, paide, and set forth

By the Lord Maior, I cannot change a man.

HODGE.
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 presse a man within a yeare and a day of his mariage.

EYRE.
Wel said melancholy Hodge, gramercy my fine foreman.

MARGERY.
Truly gentlemen, it were il done, for such as you, to stand so stiffely against a poore young 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.

EYRE.
Away with your pisherie pasherie, your pols and yoru edipolls, peace Midriffe, silence Cisly Bumtrincket, let your head speake.

FIRKE.
Yea and the hornes too, master.

EYRE.
Tawsoone, my fine Firk, tawsoone: peace scoundrels, see you this man, Captaines? you will not release him, wel let him go, hee's a proper shot, let him vanish, peace Jane, drie up thy teares, theile make his powder dankish, take him brave men, Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant scoundrelles, Prince Arhturs Round table, by the Lord of Ludgate, nere fed such a tall, such a dapper swordman, by the life of Pharo, a brave resolute swordman: peace Jane, I say no more, mad knaves.

FIRKE.
See, see Hodge, how my maister raves in commendation of Rafe.

HODGE.
Raph, thart a gull by this hand, and thou goest not.

ASKEW.

I am glad (good master Ayre) it is my hap

To meete so resolute a souldiour.

Trust me, for your report, and love to him,

A common slight regard shall not respect him.

LACY.
Is thy name Raph?

RAFE.
Yes sir.

LACY.

Give me thy hand,

Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentleman:

Woman, be patient, God (no doubt) wil send

Thy husband safe againe, but he must go,

His countries quarrel sayes, it shall be so.

HODGE
Thart a gull by my stirrop, if thou dost not goe, I wil not have thee strike thy gimblet into these weake vessels, pricke thine enemies Rafe.

Enter DODGER.

DODGER.

My lord, your uncle on the Tower hill,

Stayes with the lord Mayor, and the Aldermen,

And doth request you with al speede you may

To hasten thither.

ASKEW.
Cosin, let us go.

LACY.

Dodger, runne you before, tel them we come,

Exit DODGER.

This Dodger is mine uncles parasite,

The arrantst varlet that e're breathd on earth,

He sets more discord in a noble house,

By one daies broching of his pickethanke tales,

Then can be salv'd againe in twentie yeares,

And he (I feare) shall go with us to France,

To prie into our actions.

ASKEW.

Therefore coze,

It shall behoove you to be circumspect.

LACY.
Feare not good cosen: Raph, hie to your colours.

Exit LACY and ASKEW.

RAFE.

I must, because there is no remedie,

But gentle maister and my loving dame,

As you have alwaies beene a friend to me,

So in mine absence thinke upon my wife.

JANE.
Alas my Raph.

MARGERY.
She cannot speake for weeping.

EYRE.
Peace you crackt groates, you mustard tokens, disquiet not the brave souldier, goe thy waies Raph.

JANE.
I, I, you bid him go, what shal I do when he is gone?

FIRKE.
Why be doing with me, or my felow Hodge, be not idle.

EYRE.
Let me see thy hand Jane, this fine hand, this white hand, these prettie fingers must spin, must card, must worke, worke you bombast cotten-candle-queane, worke for your living with a pox to you: hold thee Raph, heres five sixpences for thee, fight for the honour of the Gentle Craft, for the gentlemen Shoomakers, the couragious Cordwainers, the flower of saint Martins, the mad knaves of Bedlem, Fleetstreete, Towerstreete, and white Chappell, cracke me the crownes of the French knaves, a poxe on them, cracke them, fight, by the lord of Ludgate, fight my fine boy.

FIRKE.
Here Rafe, here's three 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.

HODGE.
Raph, I am heavy at parting, but heres a shilling for thee, God send thee to cramme thy slops with French crownes, and thy enemies bellies with bullets.

RAFE.

I thanke you maister, and I thanke you all:

Now gentle wife, my loving lovely Jane,

Rich men at parting, give their wives rich gifts,

Jewels and rings, to grace their lillie hands,

Thou know'st our trade makes rings for womens heeles:

Here take this paire of shooes cut out by Hodge,

Stricht by my fellow firke, seam'd by my selfe,

Made up and pinckt, with letters for thy name,

Weare them my deere Jane, for thy husbands sake,

And everie morning when thou pull'st them on,

Remeber me, and pray for my returne,

Make much of them, for I have made them so,

That I can know them from a thousand mo.

Sound drumme, enter LORD MAYOR, LINCOLN, LACY, ASKEW, DODGER and souldiers, They passe over the stage, RAFE falles in amongest them, FIRKE and the rest cry farewel, etc. and so Exeunt.

SCENE II

Enter ROSE alone making a Garland.

ROSE.

Here sit thou downe upon this flowry banke,

And make a garland for thy Lacies head,

These pinkes, these roses, and these violets,

These blushing gilliflowers, these marigoldes,

The faire embrodery of his coronet,

Carry not halfe such beauty in their cheekes,

As the sweete countnaunce of my Lacy doth.

O my most unkinde father! O my starres!

Why lowrde you so at my nativity,

To make me love, yet live rodb of my love?

Here as a theefe am I imprisoned

(For my deere Lacies sake) within those walles,

Which by my fathers cost were builded up

For better purposes: here must I languish

For him that doth as much lament (I know)

Enter SYBIL.

Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.

SYBIL.
Good morrow yong Mistris, I am sure you make that garland for me, against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.

ROSE.
Sibil, what news at London?

SYBIL.
None but good: my lord Mayor your father, and maister Philpot your uncle, and maister Scot your coosin, and mistris Frigbottom by Doctors Commons, doe 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 scarffe, and here a scarfe, here a bunch of fethers, and here pretious stones and jewells, 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 gup thought I with a wanion, he passt by me as prowde, mary foh, are you growne humourous thought I? and so shut the doore, and in I came.

ROSE.

O Sibill, how dost my Lacy wrong?

My Rowland is as gentle as a lambe,

No dove was ever half so milde as he.

SYBIL.
Milde? yea, as a bushel of stampt crabs, he lookt upon me as sowre as verjuice: goe thy wayes thought I, thou maist be much in my gaskins, but nothing in my neatherstockes: this is your fault mistris, to love him that loves 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 ever I sigh when sleepe I shoulde take,

Pray God I may loose my mayden-head when I wake.

ROSE.
Will my love leave me then and go to France?

SYBIL.
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-up yong mistris.

ROSE.

Get thee to London, and learne perfectly.

Whether my Lacy go to France, or no:

Do this, and I wil give thee for thy paines,

My cambricke apron, and my romish gloves,

My purple stockings, and a stomacher,

Say, wilt thou do this sibil for my sake?

SYBIL.
Wil I quoth a? at whose suite? by my troth yes, Ile go, a cambricke apron, gloves, a paire of purple stockings, 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 have at up tailes all, Ile go, Jiggy, Joggy to London, and be here in a trice yong mistris.

Exit.

ROSE.

Do so good Sibill, meane time wretched I

Will sit and sigh for his lost companie.

Exit.

SCENE III

Enter ROWLAND LACY like a Duthc Shooe-maker.

LACY.

How many shpaes have gods and Kings devisde,

Thereby a compasse their desired loves?

It is no shame for Rowland Lacy then,

To clother hsi cunning with the Gentle Craft,

That thus disguisde, I may unknowne possesse,

The onely happie presence of my Rose:

For her have I forsooke my charge in France,

Incurd the Kings displeasure, and stird up

Rough hatred in mine uncle Lincolnes brest:

O love, how powerfull art thou, that canst change

High birth to basenesse, and a noble mind,

To the meane semblance of a shooemaker?

But thus it must be: for her cruell father,

Hating the single union of our soules,

Hath secretly conveyed my Rose from London,

To barre me of her presence, but I trust

Fortune and this disguise will furder me

Once more to view her beautie, gaine her sight.

Here in Towerstreete, with Ayre the shooe-maker,

Meane I a while to worke, I know the trade,

I learn't it when I was in Wittenberge:

Then cheere thy hoping sprites, be not dismaide,

Thou canst not want, do fortune what she can,

The Gentle Craft is living for a man.

Exit.

SCENE IV

Enter EYRE making himselfe readie.

EYRE.
Where be these boyes, these girles, these drabbes, these scoundrels, they wallow in the fat brewisse of my bountie, and licke up the crums of my table, yet wil not rise to see my walkes cleanse: come out you powder-beefe-queanes, what Nan, what Madge-mumble-crust, come out you fatte Midriffe-swag- belly whores, and sweepe 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.

Enter FIRKE.

FIRKE.
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, have you drunke this morning that you throate is so cleere?

EYRE.
Ah well said, Firke, well said Firke, to worke my fine knave, to worke, wash thy face, and thou't be more blest.

FIRKE.
Let them wash my face that will eate it, good master send for a sowce wife, if youle have my face cleaner.

Enter HODGE.

EYRE.
Away sloven, avaunt scoundrell, good morrow Hodge, good morrow my fine foreman.

HODGE.
O maister, good morrow, yare an earlie stirrer, heeres a faire morning, good morrow Firke, I could have slept this howre, heeres a brave day towards.

EYRE.
O haste to worke my fine foreman, haste to worke.

FIRKE.
Maister I am drie as dust, to heare my fellow Roger talke of faire weather, let us pray for good leather, and let clownes and plowboyes, and those that worke in the fieldes, pray for brave dayes, wee worke in a drie shop, what care I if it raine?

Enter MARGERY.

EYRE.
How now dame Margery, can you see to rise? trip and go, call up the drabs maides.

MARGERY.
See to rise? I hope tis time inough, tis earlie inough for any woman to be seene abroad, I marvaile how manie wives in Towerstreet are up so soon? Gods me, tis not noone, heres a yawling.

EYRE.
Peace Margerie, peace, wheres Cisly Bumtrinket your maide? she has a privie fault, she fartes in her sleepe, call the queane up, if my men want shooethreed, ile swinge her in a stirrop.

FIRKE.
Yet thats but a drie beating, heres still a signe of drought.

Enter LACY singing.

LACY

Der was een bore van Gelderland, Frolick si byen,

He was als dronck he could nyet stand, upsolce se byen,

Tap eens de canneken, drincke schone mannekin.

FIRKE.
Maister, for my life yonders a brother of the Gentle Craft, if he beare not saint Hughes bones, Ile forfeit my bones, hees some uplandish workman, hire him good master, that I may learne some gibble, gabble, twill make us worke the faster.

EYRE.
Peace Firke, a hard world, let him passe, let him vanish, we have journeymen enow, peace my fine Firke.

MARGERY.
Nay, nay, y'are best follow your mans councell, you shal see what wil come on't: we have not men enow, but we must entertaine everie butter-boxe: but let that passe.

HODGE.
Dame, fore God if my maister follow your counsell, heele consume little beefe, he shal be glad of men and hee can catch them.

FIRKE.
I that he shall.

HODGE.
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.

Offer to goe.

EYRE.
Stay my fine Hodge.

FIRKE.
Faith, and your foreman goe, dame you must take a journey to seeke a new jorneyman, if Roger remove, Firke followes, if saint 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.

EYRE.
Tarrie my fine Hodge, my briske foreman, stay Firke, peace pudding broath, by the lord of Ludgate I love 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 us.

LACY.
Goeden dach meester, ende u vro oak.

FIRKE.
Nayls if I should speake after him without drinking, I shuld choke, and you find Oake, are you of the Gentle Craft?

LACY.
Yaw, yaw, Ik bin den skomawker.

FIRKE.
Den skomaker quoth a, and heark you skomaster, have you all your tooles, a good rubbing pinne, a good stopper, a good dresser, your foure sorts of awles, and your two balles of waxe, your parting knife, your hand and thumb-leathers, and good saint Hughs bones to smooth up your worke.

LACY.
Yaw yaw be niet vorveard, Ik hab all de dingen, voour mack skoes groot and cleane.

FIRKE.
Ha ha good maister hire him, heele make me laugh so that I shal worke more in mirth, then I can in earnest.

EYRE.
Heare ye friend, have ye any skill in the mistery of Cordwainers?

LACY.
Ik weet niet wat yow seg ich verstaw you niet.

FIRKE.
Why thus man, Ich verste u niet quoth a.

LACY.
Yaw, yaw, yaw, ick can dat wel doen.

FIRKE.
Yaw, yaw, he speakes yawing like a Jacke daw, that gapes to be fed with cheese curdes, O heele give a villanous pul at a Can of double Beere, but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must drinke first, because wee are the eldest journeymen.

EYRE.
What is thy name?

LACY.
Hans, Hans, Meulter.

EYRE.
Give my thy hand, th'art welcome, Hodge entertaine him, Fyrk bid him welcome, come Hans, runne wife, bid your maids, your Trullibubs, make readie my fine mens brekefasts: to him Hodge.

HODGE.
Hans, th'art welcome, use thy selfe friendly, for we are good fellowes, if not thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger then a Giant.

FIRKE.
Yea and drunke with, wert thou Gargantua, my maister keepes no cowards, I tel thee: hoe, boy, bring him an heeleblocke, heers 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.

Exit BOY.

EYRE.
Quicke snipper snapper, away: Fyrk, scowre thy throate, thou shalt wash it with Castilian licour

Enter BOY.

come my last of the fives, give me a Can, have to thee Hans, here Hodge, here Fyrk, drinke you mad Greeks, and worke like tru Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre the Shoomaker: here Hans, and th'art welcome.

FIRKE.
Lo dame you would have lost a good fellow that wil teach us to laugh, this beere came hopping in wel.

MARGERY.
Simon it is almost seven.

EYRE.
Is't so dame clapper dudgeon, is't seven a clocke, and my mens breakefast not readie? trip and goe you 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.

Exit.

FIRKE.
Soft, yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master have no more wit, but to call you afore mee, I am not so foolish to go behind you, I being the elder journeyman.

Exeunt

ACT II

SCENE I

Hollowing within. Enter WARNER, and HAMMON,like hunters.

HAMMON.

Cosen, beate every brake, the game's not farre,

This way with winged feete he fled from death,

Whilst the pursuing hounds senting his steps,

Find out his high way to destruction:

Besides, the millers boy told me even now,

He saw him take soile, and he hallowed him,

Affirming him so embost,

That long he could not hold.

WARNER.

If it be so,

Tis best we trace these meddowes by old Ford.

A noise of hunters within, enter a BOY.

HAMMON.
How now boy, wheres the deere? speak, sawst thou him?

BOY.
O, yea I saw him leape through a hedge, and then over a ditch, then at my Lord Maiors pale, over 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.

HAMMON.
Boy God amercy, cosen lets away, I hope we shal find better sport to day.

Exeunt.

SCENE II

Hunting within, enter ROSE, and SYBIL.

ROSE.
Why Sibill wilt thou prove a forrester?

SYBIL.
Upon some no, forrester, go by: no faith mistris, the deere came running into the barne through the orchard, and over the pale, I wot wel, I lookt as pale as a new cheese to see him, but whip saies goodman Pinne-close, up with his flaile, and our Nicke with a prong, and downe he fel, and they upon him, and I upon them, by my troth we had such sport, and in the end we ended him, his throate we cut, flead him, unhornd him, and my lord Maior shal eat of him anon when he comes.

Hornes sound within.

ROSE.

Heark heark, the hunters come, y'are best take heed:

Theyle have a saying to you for this deede.

Enter HAMMON, WARNER, HUNTSMEN, and BOY.

HAMMON.
God save you faire ladies.

SYBIL.
Ladies, O grosse!

WARNER.
Come not a bucke this way?

ROSE.
No, but two Does.

HAMMON.
And which way went they? faith weel hunt at those.

SYBIL.
At those? upon some no: when, can you tell?

WARNER.
Upon some, I.

SYBIL.
Good Lord!

WARNER.
Wounds then farewell.

HAMMON.
Boy, which way went he?

BOY.
This way sir he ranne.

HAMMON.
This way he ranne indeede, faire mistris Rose, Our game was lately in your orchard seene.

WARNER.
Can you advise which way he tooke his flight?

SYBIL.
Followe your nose, his hornes will guide you right.

WARNER.
Thart a mad wench.

SYBIL.
O rich!

ROSE.

Trust me, not I,

It is not like the wild forrest deere,

Would come so neare to places of resort,

You are deceiv'd, he fled some other way.

WARNER.
Which way my suger-candie, can you shew?

SYBIL.
Come up good honnisops, upon some, no.

ROSE.
Why doe you stay, and not pursue your game?

SYBIL.
Ile hold my life their hunting nags be lame.

HAMMON.
A deere, more deere is found within this place.

ROSE.
But not the deere (sir) which you had in chace.

HAMMON.
I chac'd the deere, but this deere chaceth me.

ROSE.

The strangest hunting that ever I see,

But wheres your parke?

She offers to goe away.

HAMMON.
Tis here: O stay.

ROSE.
Impale me, and then I will not stray.

WARNER.
They wrangle wench, we are more kind then they.

SYBIL.
What kind of hart is that (deere hart) you seeke?

WARNER.
A hart, deare hart.

SYBIL.
Who ever saw the like?

ROSE.
To loose your heart, is't possible you can?

HAMMON.
My heart is lost.

ROSE.
Alacke good gentleman.

HAMMON.
This poore lost hart would I wish you might find.

ROSE.
You by such lucke might prove your hart a hind.

HAMMON.
Why Lucke had hornes, so have I heard some say.

ROSE.
Now God and't be his wil send Luck into your way.

Enter LORD MAYOR, and SERVANTS.

LORD MAYOR.
What maister Hammon, welcome to old Ford.

SYBIL.
Gods pittikins, hands off sir, heers my Lord.

LORD MAYOR.
I heare you had ill lucke, and lost your game.

HAMMON.
Tis true my Lord.

LORD MAYOR.

I am sorie for the same.

What gentleman is this?

HAMMON.

My brother in law.

LORD MAYOR.

Y'are welcome both, sith Fortune offers you

Into my hands, you shal not part from hence,

Until you have refresht your wearied limmes:

Go Sibel cover the boord, you shal be guest

To no good cheare, but even a hunters feast.

HAMMON.

I thanke your Lordship: cosen, on my life

For our lost venison, I shal find a wife.

Exeunt.

LORD MAYOR.

In gentlemen, Ile not be absent long.

This Hammon is a proper gentleman

A citizen by birth, fairely allide,

How fit an husband were he for my girle?

Wel, I wil in, and do the best I can,

To match my daughter to this gentleman.

Exit.

SCENE III

Enter LACY as HANS, SKIPPER, HODGE and FIRKE.

SKIPPER.
Ick sal yow wat seggen Hans, dis skip dat comen from Candy is al wol, by gots sacrament, van sugar, civet, almonds, cambrick, end alle dingen towsand ding, nempt it Hans, nempt it vor u meester, daer be de bils van laden, your meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen, wat seggen yow Hans?

FIRKE.
Wat seggen de reggen de copen, slopen, laugh Hodge laugh.

LACY.
Mine liever broder Firk, bringt meester Eyre tot ben signe un swannekin, daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me, wat seggen yow broder Firk? doot it Hodge, come skipper.

Exeunt.

FIRKE.
Bring him quoth you, heers no knaverie, to bring my master to buy a ship, worth the lading of two or three hundred thousand pounds, alas thats nothing, a trifle, a bable Hodge.

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 love he beares to Hans, offers my master Eyre a bargaine in the commodities, he shal have a reasonable day of payment, he may sel the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer himselfe.

FIRKE.
Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twentie porpentines as an earnest pennie.

HODGE.
Portegues thou wouldst say, here they be Firke, heark, they gingle in my pocket like saint Mary Overies bels.

Enter EYRE and MARGERY.

FIRKE.
Mum, here comes my dame and my maister, sheele scold on my life, for loytering this Monday, but al's one, let them al say what they can, Monday's our holyday.

MARGERY.
You sing sir sauce, but I beshrew your heart, I feare for this your singing we shal smart.

FIRKE.
Smart for me dame, why dame, why?

HODGE.
Maister I hope yowle not suffer my dame to take downe your journeymen.

FIRKE.
If she take me downe, Ile take her up, yea and take her downe too, a button-hole lower.

EYRE.
Peace Firke, not I Hodge, by the life of Pharao, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every 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.

MARGERY.
Yea, yea man, you may use me as you please: but let that passe.

EYRE.
Let it passe, let it vanish away: peace, am I not Simon Eyre? are not these my brave men? brave shoomakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? prince am I none, yet am I noblie borne, as beeing the sole sonne of a Shoomaker, away rubbish, vanish, melt, melt like kitchinstuffe.

MARGERY.
Yea, yea, tis wel, I must be cald rubbish, kithcinstuffe, for a sort of knaves.

FIRKE.
Nay dame, you shall not weepe and waile in woe for me: master Ile stay no longer, here's a vennentorie of my shop tooles: adue master, Hodge farewel.

HODGE.
Nay stay Firke, thou shalt not go alone.

MARGERY.
I pray let them goe, there be mo maides then mawkin, more men then Hodge, and more fooles then Firke.

FIRKE.
Fooles? nailes if I tarry nowe, I would my guts might be turnd to shoo-thread.

HODGE.
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.

EYRE.
Stay my fine knaves, you armes of my trade, you pillars of my profession. What, shal a tittle tattles words make you forsake Simon Eyre? avaunt kitchinstuffe, rip you brown bread tannikin, out of my sight, move me not, have not I tane you from selling tripes in Eastcheape, and set you in my shop, and made you haile fellowe with Simon Eyre the shoomaker? and now do you deale thus with my Journeymen? Looke you powder beefe queane on the face of Hodge, heers a face for a Lord.

FIRKE.
And heers a face for any Lady in Christendome.

EYRE.

Rip you chittering, avaunt boy, bid the tapster of the

Bores head fil me a dozen Cannes of beere for my journeymen.

FIRKE.
A doozen Cans? O brave, Hodge now Ile stay.

Exit BOY.

EYRE.
Aside

And the knave fils any more then two, he payes for them:

Aside

a dozen Cans of beere for my journeymen,

Enter BOY with two cans and exit

heare you mad Mesopotamians, wash your livers with this liquor, where be the odde ten? no more Madge, no more, wel saide, drinke and to work: what worke dost thou Hodge? what work?

HODGE.
I am a making a paire of shooes for my Lord Maiors daughter, mistresse Rose.

FIRKE.
And I a paire of shooes for Sybill my Lords maid, I deale with her.

EYRE.
Sybil? fie, defile not thy fine workemanly fingers with the feete of Kitchinstuffe, and basting ladles, 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.

FIRKE.
For yarking and seaming let me alone, and I come toot.

HODGE.
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 give earnest, if you go through with it, you can not choose but be a Lord at least.

FIRKE.
Nay dame, if my master prove not a Lord, and you a Ladie, hang me.

MARGERY.
Yea like inough, if you may loiter and tipple thus.

FIRKE.
Tipple dame? no, we have beene bargaining with Skellum Skanderbag can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of silke Cipresse, laden with sugar Candie.

Enter the BOY with a velvet coate, and an Aldermans gowne.

EYRE.
Peace Firk, silence tittle tattle: Hodge, Ile go through with it, heers a seale ring, and I have sent for a garded gown, and a damask Casock, see where it comes, looke here Maggy, help me Firk, apparrel me Hodge, silke and satten you mad Philistines, silke and satten.

EYRE puts it on.

FIRKE.
Ha, ha, my maister wil be as proud as a dogge in a dublet, al in beaten damaske and velvet.

EYRE.
Softly Firke, for rearing of the npa, and wearing threadbare my garments: how dost thou like mee Firke? how do I looke, my fine Hodge?

HODGE.
Why now you looke like your self master, I warrant you, ther's few in the city, but wil give you the wal, and come upon you with the right worshipful.

FIRKE.
Nailes my master lookes like a thred-bare cloake new turn'd, and drest: Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment doth? dame, dame, are you not enamoured?

EYRE.
How saist thou Maggy, am I not brisk? am I not fine?

MARGARY.
Fine? by my troth sweet hart very fine: by my troth I never likte thee so wel in my life sweete heart. But let that passe, I warrant there by many women in the citie have not such handsome husbands but only for their apparell, but let that passe too.

Enter LACY as HANS and SKIPPER.

LACY.
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 marchandice?

SKIPPER.
De skip ben in revere: dor be van Sugar, Cyvet, Almonds, Cambricke, and a towsand towsand tings, gotz sacrament, nempt it mester, yo sal heb good copen.

FIRKE.
To him maister, O sweete maister, O sweet wares, prunes, almons, suger-candy, carrat roots, turnups, O brave fatting meate, let not a man buye a nutmeg but your selfe.

EYRE.
Peace Firke, come Skipper, Ile go aboarde with you, Hans have you made him drinke?

SKIPPER.
Yaw, yaw, ic heb veale ge drunck.

EYRE.
Come Hans follow me: Skipper, thou shalt have my countenance in the Cittie.

Exeunt.

FIRKE.
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 us no more.

MARGERY.
No faith Firke, no perdy Hodge, I do feele honour creepe upon me, and which is more, a certaine rising in my flesh, but let that passe.

FIRKE.
Rising in your flesh do you feele say you? I you may be with childe, but why should not my maister feele a rising in his flesh, having a gowne and a gold ring on, but you are such a shrew, you'le soone pull him downe.

MARGERY.
Ha, ha, prethee peace, thou mak'st my worshippe laugh, but let that passe: come Ile go in, Hodge prethee goe before me, Firke follow me.

FIRKE.
Firke doth follow, Hodge passe out in state.

Exeunt.

SCENE IV

Enter LINCOLN and DODGER.

LINCOLN.
How now good Dodger, whats the newes in France?

DODGER.

My Lord, upon the eighteene day of May,

The French and English were preparde to fight,

Each side with eager furie gave the signe

Of a most hot encounter, five long howres,

Both armies fought together: at the length,

The lot of victorie fel on our sides,

Twelve thousand of the Frenchmen that day dide,

Foure thousand English, and no man of name,

But Captaine Hyam, and yong Ardington.

LINCOLN.

Two gallant Gentlemen, I knew them well.

But Dodger, prethee tell me in this fight,

How did my cozen Lacie beare himselfe?

DODGER.
My Lord, your cosen Lacie was not there.

LINCOLN.
Not there?

DODGER.
No, my good Lord.

LINCOLN.

Sure thou mistakest,

I saw him shipt, and a thousand eies beside

Were witnesses of the farewels which he gave,

When I with weeping eies bid him adew:

Dodger take heede.

DODGER.

My Lord I am advis'd,

That what I spake is true: to prove it so,

His cosen Askew that supplide his place,

Sent me for him from France, that secretly

He might convey himselfe hither.

LINCOLN.

Ist even so.

Dares he so carelessely venture his life,

Upon the indignation of a King?

Hath he despis'd my love, and spurn'd those favours,

Which I with prodigall hand powr'd on his head?

He shall repent his rashnes with his soule,

Since of my love he makes no estimate,

Ile make him wish he had not knowne my hate,

Thou hast no other newes?

DODGER.

None else, my Lord.

LINCOLN.

None worse I know thou hast: procure the king

To crowne his giddie browes with ample honors,

Send him cheese Colonell, and all my hope

Thus to be dasht? but tis in vaine to grieve,

One evill cannot a worse releeve:

Upon my life I have found out his plot,

That old dog Love that fawnd upon him so,

Love to that puling girle, his faire cheek't Rose

The Lord Maiors daughter, hath distracted him,

And in the fire of that loves lunacie,

Hath he burnt up himselfe, consum'd his credite,

Lost the kings love, yea and I feare, his life,

Onely to get a wanton to his wife:

Dodger, it is so.

DODGER.

I feare so, my good Lord.

LINCOLN.

It is so, nay sure it cannot be,

I am at my wits end. Dodger

DODGER.

Yea my Lord.

LINCOLN.

Thou art acquainted with my Nephewes haunts,

Spend this gold for thy paines, goe seeke him out,

Watch at my Lord Maiors (there if he live)

Dodger, thou shalt be sure to meete with him:

Prethee be diligent. Lacie thy name

Liv'd once in honour, now dead in shame:

Be circumspect.

Exit.

DODGER.
I warrant you my Lord.

Exit.

ACT III

SCENE I

LORD MAYOR, and MASTER SCOTT.

LORD MAYOR.

Good maister Scot, I have beene bolde with

you,

To be a witnesse to a wedding knot,

Betwixt yong maister Hammon and my daughter,

O stand aside, see where the lovers come.

Enter HAMMON, and ROSE.

ROSE.

Can it be possible you love me so?

No, no, within those eie-bals I espie,

Apparant likelihoods of flattery,

Pray now let go my hand.

HAMMON.

Sweete mistris Rose,

Misconstrue not my words, nor misconceive

Of my affection, whose devoted soule

Sweares that I love thee dearer then my heart.

ROSE.

As deare as your owne heart? I judge it right.

Men love their hearts best when th'are out of sight.

HAMMON.

I love you, by this hand.

ROSE.

Yet hands off now:

If flesh be fraile, how weake and frail's your vowe?

HAMMON.

Then by my life I sweare.

ROSE.

Then do not brawle,

One quarrell looseth wife and life and all,

Is not your meaning thus?

HAMMON.

In faith you jest.

ROSE.

Love loves to sport, therfore leave love y'are best.

LORD MAYOR.

What? square they maister Scot?

SCOTT.

Sir never doubt,

Lovers are quickly in, and quickly out.

HAMMON.

Sweet Rose, be not so strange in fansying me,

Nay never turne aside, shunne not my sight,

I am not growne so fond, to fond my love

On any that shall quit it with disdaine,

If you wil love me, so, if not, farewell.

LORD MAYOR.
Why how now lovers, are you both agreede?

HAMMON.
Yes faith my Lord.

LORD MAYOR.
Tis well, give me your hand, give me yours daughter. How now, both pull backe, what meanes this, girle?

ROSE.
I meane to live a maide.

HAMMON.
[Aside]

But not to die one, pawse ere that be said.

LORD MAYOR.
Wil you stil crosse me? still be obstinate?

HAMMON.

Nay chide her not my Lord for doing well,

If she can live an happie virgins life,

Tis farre more blessed then to be a wife.

ROSE.

Say sir I cannot, I have made a vow,

Who ever by my husband, tis not you.

LORD MAYOR.

Your tongue is quicke, but maister Hamond

know,

I bade you welcome to another end.

HAMMON

What, would you have me pule, and pine, and pray,

With lovely ladie mistris of my heart,

Pardon your servant, and the rimer play,

Rayling on Cupid, and his tyrants dart,

Or shal I undertake some martiall spoile,

Wearing your glove at turney, and at tilt,

And tel how many gallants I unhorst,

Sweete, wil this pleasure you?

ROSE.

Yea, when wilt begin?

What, loverimes man? fie on that deadly sinne.

LORD MAYOR.

If you wil have her, Ile make her agree.

HAMMON.

Enforced love is worse then hate to me,

There is a wench keepes shop in the old change,

To her wil I, it is not wealth I seeke,

I have enough, and wil preferre her love

Before the world: my good lord Maior adew,

Olde love for me, I have no lucke with new.

Exit.

LORD MAYOR.

Now mammer you have wel behav'd your selfe,

But you shal curse your coynes if I live,

Whose within there? see you convay your mistris

Straight to th'old Forde, Ile keepe you straight enough,

Fore God I would have sworne the puling girle,

Would willingly accepted Hammon's love,

But banish him my thoughts, go minion in,

Exit ROSE.

Now tel me master Scot would you have thought,

That master Simon Eyre the Shoomaker,

Had beene of wealth to buy such marchandize?

SCOTT.

Twas wel my Lord, your honour, and my selfe,

Grew partners with him, for your bils of lading

Shew that Eyres gaines in one commoditie,

Rise at the least to ful three thousand pound,

Besides like gaine in other marchandize.

LORD MAYOR.

Wel he shal send some of his thousands now

For I have sent for him to the Guild Hal,

Enter EYRE.

See where he comes: good morrow master Eyre.

EYRE.
Poore Simon Eyre, my Lord, your shoomaker.

LORD MAYOR.

Wel wel, it likes your selfe to terme you so,

Now maiste Dodger, whats the news with you?

Enter DODGER.

DODGER.
Ide gladly speake in private to your honour.

LORD MAYOR.

You shal, you shal: master Eyre, and maister

Scot,

I have some businesse with this gentleman,

I pray let me intreate you to walke before

To the Guild Hal, Ile follow presently,

Master Eyre, I hope ere noone to call you Shiriffe.

EYRE.

I would not care (my Lord) if you might cal me king of

Spaine, come master Scot.

Exeunt

LORD MAYOR.

Now maister Dodger, whats the newes you

bring?

DODGER.

The Earle of Lincolne by me greets your lordship

And earnestly requests you (if you can)

Informe him where his Nephew Lacie keepes.

LORD MAYOR.

Is not his Nephew Lacie now in France?

DODGER.

No I assure your lordship, but disguisde

Lurkes here in London.

LORD MAYOR.

London? ist even so?

It may be, but upon my faith and soule,

I know not where he lives, or whether he lives,

So tel my Lord of Lincolne, lurch in London?

Well master Dodger, you perhaps may start him,

Be but the meanes to rid him into France,

Ile give you a dozen angels for your paines,

So much I love his honour, hate hsi Nephew,

And prethee so informe thy lord from me.

DODGER.

I take my leave.

Exit DODGER.

LORD MAYOR.

Farewell good master Dodger.

Lacie in London? I dare pawne my life,

My daughter knowes thereof, and for that cause,

Denide yong maister Hammon in his love,

Wel I am glad I sent her to old Forde,

Gods lord tis late, to Guild Hall I must hie,

I know my brethren stay my companie.

Exit.

SCENE II

Enter FIRKE, MARGERY, LACY as HANS, and HODGE.

MARGERY.
Thou goest too fast for me Roger. O Firke.

FIRKE.
I forsooth.

MARGERY.
I pray thee runne (doe you heare) runne to Guild Hall, and learne if my husband master Eyre wil take that worshipfull vocation of maister Shiriffe upon him, hie thee good Firke.

FIRKE.
Take it? well I goe, and he should not take it, Firk sweares to forsweare him, yes forsooth I goe to Guild Hall.

MARGERY.
Nay when? thou art tooo compendious, and tedious.

FIRKE.
O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence,

Aside

how like a new cart wheele my dame speakes, and she lookes like an old musty ale-bottle going to scalding.

MARGERY.
Nay when? thou wilt make me melancholy.

FIRKE.
God forbid your worship should fall into that humour, I runne.

Exit.

MARGERY.
Let me see now Roger and Hans.

HODGE.
I forsooth dame (mistris I should say) but the old terme so stickes to the roofe of my mouth, I can hardly like it off.

MARGERY.
Even what thou wilt good Roger, dame is a faire name for any honest christian, but let that passe, how dost thou Hans?

LACY.
Mee tanck you vro.

MARGERY.
Wel Hans and Roger you see God hath blest your master, and perdie if ever he comes to be maister Shiriffe of London (as we are al mortal) you shal see I wil have some odde thing or other in a corner for you: I wil not be your backe friend, but let that passe, Hans pray thee tie my shooe.

LACY.
Yaw ic sal vro.

MARGERY.
Roger, thou knowst the length of my foote, as it is none of the biggest, so I thanke God it is handsome enough, prethee let me have a paire of shooes made, corke good Roger, woodden heele too.

HODGE.
You shall.

MARGERY.
Art thou acquainted with never a fardingale-maker, nor a French-hoode maker, I must enlarge my bumme, ha ha, how shall I looke in a hoode I wonder? perdie odly I thinke.

HODGE.
Aside

As a catte of a pillorie,

to her

verie wel I warrant you mistresse.

MARGERY.
Indeed all flesh is grasse, and Roger, canst thou tel where I may buye a good haire?

HODGE.
Yes forsooth, at the poulterers in Gracious street.

MARGERY.
Thou art an ungratious wag, perdy, I meane a false haire for my periwig.

HODGE.
Why mistris, the next time I cut my beard, you shall have the shavings of it, but they are all true haires.

MARGERY.
It is verie hot, I must get me a fan or else a maske.

HODGE.
Aside

So you had neede, to hide your wicked face.

MARGERY.
Fie upon 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, bee not so sad, let it passe and vanish, as my husbands worshippe saies.

LACY.
Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo.

HODGE.
Mistris, wil you drinke a pipe of Tobacco?

MARGERY.
O fie uppon it Roger, perdy, these filthie Tobacco pipes are the most idle slavering bables that ever I felt: out uppon it, God blesse us, men looke not like men that use them.

Enter RAFE being lame.

HODGE.
What fellow Rafe? Mistres looke here, Janes husband: why how now, lame? Hans make much of him, hees a brother of our trade, a good workeman, and a tall souldier.

LACY.
You be welcome broder.

MARGERY.
Pardie I knew him not, how dost thou good Rafe? I am glad to see thee wel.

RAFE.
I would God you saw me dame as wel, As when I went from London into France.

MARGERY.
Trust mee I am sorie Rafe to see thee impotent, Lord how the warres have made him Sunburnt: the left leg is not wel: t'was a faire gift of God the infirmitie tooke not hold a little higher, considering thou camest from France: but let that passe.

RAFE.

I am glad to see you wel, and I rejoyce

To heare that God hath blest my master so

Since my departure.

MARGERY.

Yea truly Rafe, I thanke my maker: but let that

passe.

HODGE.

And sirra Rafe, what newes, what newes in France?

RAFE.

Tel mee good Roger first, what newes in England?

How does my Jane? when didst thou see my wife?

Where lives my poore heart? sheel be poore indeed

Now I want limbs to get whereon to feed.

HODGE.
Limbs? hast thou not hands man? thou shalt never see a shoomaker want bread, though he have but three fingers on a hand.

RAFE.
Yet all this while I heare not of my Jane.

MARGERY.
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, never returned, nor saide bih nor bah: and Rafe you knowe ka me, ka thee. And so as I tell ye. Roger is not Firke come yet?

HODGE.
No forsooth.

MARGERY.
And so indeed we heard not of her, but I heare shee lives in London: but let that passe. If she had wanted, shee might have 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 have done her good to his power. Hans looke if Firke be come.

LACY.
Yaw ic sal vro.

ExitHANS.

MARGERY.
And so as I saide: but Rafe, why dost thou weepe? thou knowest that naked wee came out of our mothers wombe, and naked we must returne, and therefore thanke God for al things.

HODGE.
No faith Jane is a straunger heere, but Rafe pull up a good heart, I knowe thou hast one, thy wife man, is in London, one tolde mee hee sawe her a while agoe verie brave and neate, weele ferret her out, and London holde her.

MARGERY.
Alas poore soule, hees overcome 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 thee.

RAFE.
I thanke you dame, since I want lims and lands, Ile to God, my good friends, and to these my hands.

Exit.

EnterHANS, and FIRKE running.

FIRKE.
Runne good Hans, O Hodge, O mistres, Hodge heave up thine eares, mistresse smugge up your lookes, on 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 grieve, I doe salute you mistresse shrieve.

LACY.
Yaw, my mester is de groot man, de shrieve.

HODGE.
Did not I tell you mistris? nowe I may boldly say, good morrow to your worship.

MARGERY.
Good morrow good Roger, I thanke you my good people all. Firke, hold up thy hand, heer's a three-peny peece for thy tidings.

FIRKE.
Aside

Tis but three half pence, I thinke: yes, tis three pence, I smel the Rose.

HODGE.
But mistresse, he rulde by me, and doe not speake so pulingly.

FIRKE.
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.

Enter SIMON EYRE wearing a gold chaine.

LACY.
See myn liever broder, heer compt my meester.

MARGERY.
Welcome home maister shrieve, I pray God continue you in health and wealth.

EYRE.
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 thee looke lovely: where be my fine men? Roger, Ile make over my shop and tooles to thee: Firke, thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for twentie, bee as mad knaves as your maister Sim Eyre hath bin, and you shall live to be Sherives of London: how dost thou like me Margerie? Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, Firke, Hodge, and Hans.

ALL THREE.
I forsooth, what saies your worship mistris Sherife?

EYRE.
Worship and honour you Babilonion knaves, for the Gentle Craft: but I forget my selfe, I am bidden by my Lord Maior to dinner to old Ford, hees gone before, I must after: come Madge, on with your trinkets: nowe my true Trojans, my fine Firke, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, 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 up the shop knaves, and make holiday.

FIRKE.
O rare, O brave, come Hodge, follow me Hans, Weele be with them for a morris daunce.

Exeunt.

SCENE III

Enter LORD MAYOR, EYRE, MARGERY in a French hood,SYBIL and other servants

LORD MAYOR.
Trust mee you are as welcome to old Foord, As I my selfe.

MARGERY.
Truely I thanke your Lordship.

LORD MAYOR.
Would our bad cheere were worth the thanks you give.

FIRKE.
Good cheere my Lord Maior, fine cheere, a fine house, fine walles, all fine and neat.

LORD MAYOR.

Now by my troth Ile tel thee maister Eyre,

It does me good and al my bretheren,

That such a madcap fellow as thy selfe

Is entred into our societe.

MARGERY.
I but my Lord, hee must learne nowe to putte on gravitie.

EYRE.
Peace Maggy, a fig for gravitie, when I go to Guildhal in my scarlet gowne, Ile look as demurely as a saint, and speake as gravely 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?

LORD MAYOR.
Ha, ha, ha, I had rather then a thousand pound, I had an heart but halfe so light as yours.

EYRE.
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 upon us ere we be aware.

LORD MAYOR.
Its wel done: mistris Eyre, pray give good counsell to my daughter.

MARGERY.
I hope mistris Rose wil have the grace to take nothing thats bad.

LORD MAYOR.

Pray God she do, for ifaith mistris Eyre,

I would bestow upon that peevish girle

A thousand Marks more then I meane to give her,

Upon condition sheed be rulde by me.

The Ape still crosseth me: there came of late,

A proper Gentleman of faire revenewes,

Whom gladly I would call sonne in law:

But my fine cockney would have none of him.

You'le prove a cockscombe for it ere you die,

A courtier, or no man must please your eie.

EYRE.
Be rulde sweete 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 cheekes: a courtier, wash, go by, stand not uppon pisherie pasherie: those silken fellowes are but painted Images, outsides, outsides Rose, their inner linings are torne: no my fine mourse, marry me with a Gentleman Grocer like my Lord Maior your Father, a Grocer is a sweete trade, Plums, Plums: had I a sonne or Daughter should marrie out of the generation and bloud of the shoe-makers, eh should packe: what, the Gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world.

A noyse within of a Taber and a Pipe.

LORD MAYOR.
What noyse is this?

EYRE.
O my Lord Maior, a crue of good fellowes that for love to your honour, are come hither with a morrisdance, come in my Mesaopotamians cheerely.

Enter HODGE, LACY as HANS, RAFE, FIRKE,and other SHOEMAKERS in a morris: after a little dauncing the LORD MAYOR speakes.

LORD MAYOR.
Maister Eyre, are al these shoe-makers?

EYRE.
Al Cordwainers my good Lord Maior.

ROSE.
Aside

How like my Lacie lookes yond shooe-maker.

LACY.
Aside

O that I durst but speake unto my love!

LORD MAYOR.
Sibil, go fetch some wine to make these drinke,You are al welcome.

ALL.
We thanke your Lordship.

ROSE takes a cup of wine and goes to LACY as HANS.

ROSE.
For his sake whose faire shape thou representst, Good friend I drinke to thee.

LACY.
Ic be dancke good frister.

MARGERY.
I see mistris Rose you do not want judgement, you have drunke to the prosperest man I keepe.

FIRKE.
Here bee some have done their parts to be as proper as he.

LORD MAYOR.

Wel, urgent busines cals me backe to London:

Good fellowes, first go in and taste our cheare,

And to make merrie as you homeward go,

Spend these two angels in beere at Stratford Boe.

EYRE.
To these two (my madde lads) Sim Eyre ads another, then cheerely Firke, tickle it Haunce, and al for the honour of shoe- makers.

All goe dauncing out.

LORD MAYOR.
Come maister Eyre, lets have your companie.

Exeunt.

ROSE.
Sibil What shal I do?

SYBIL.
Why whats the matter?

ROSE.

That Haunce the shoemaker is my Love Lacie,

Disguisde in that attire to find me out,

How should I find the meanes to speake with him?

SYBIL.
What mistris, never feare, I dare venter my maidenhead to nothing, and thats great oddes, that Haunce the Dutchman when we come to London, shal not onely see and speake with you, but in spight of al your Fathers pollicies, steale you away and marrie 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: To morrow if my counsel be obayde, Ile binde you prentise to the gentle trade.

Exeunt.

SCENE IV

Enter JANE in a Semsters shop working, and HAMMONmuffled at another doore, he stands aloofe.

HAMMON.

Yonders the shop, and there my faire love sits,

Shees faire and lovely, but she is not mine,

O would she were, thrise have I courted her,

Thrise hath my hand beene moistned with her hand,

Whilst my poore famisht eies do feed on that

Which made them famish: I am infortunate,

I stil love one, yet no body loves me,

I muse in other men what women see,

That I so want? fine mistris Rose was coy,

And this too curious, oh no, she is chaste,

And for she thinkes me wanton, she denies

To cheare my cold heart with her sunnie eies:

How prettily she workes, oh prettie hand!

Oh happie worke, it doth me good to stand

Unseene to see her, thus I oft have stood,

In frostie evenings, a light burning by her,

Enduring biting cold, only to eie her,

One onely looke hath seem'd as rich to me

As a kings crowne, such is loves lunacie:

Muffeled Ile passe along, and by that trie

Whether she know me.

JANE.

Sir, what ist you buy?

What ist you lacke sir? callico, or lawne,

Fine cambricke shirts, or bands, what will you buy?

HAMMON.
Aside

That which thou wilt not sell, faith yet Ile trie: How do you sell this handkercher?

JANE.

Good cheape.

HAMMON.

And how these ruffes?

JANE.

Cheape too.

HAMMON.

And how this band?

JANE.

Cheape too.

HAMMON.

All cheape, how sell you then this hand?

JANE.

My handes are not to be solde.

HAMMON.

To be given then: nay faith I come to buy.

JANE.

But none knowes when.

HAMMON.

Good sweete, leave worke a little while, lets play.

JANE.

I cannot live by keeping holliday.

HAMMON.

Ile pay you for the time which shall be lost.

JANE.

With me you shall not be at so much cost.

HAMMON.

Look how you wound this cloth, so you wound me.

JANE.

It may be so.

HAMMON.

Tis so.

JANE.

What remedie?

HAMMON.

Nay faith you are too coy.

JANE.

Let goe my hand.

HAMMON.

I will do any task at your command,

I would let goe this beautie, were I not

Injoind to disobey you by a power

That controlles kings: I love you.

JANE.

So, now part.

HAMMON.

With hands I may, but never with my heart,

In faith I love you.

JANE.

I beleeve you doe.

HAMMON.

Shall a true love in me breede hate in you?

JANE.

I hate you not.

HAMMON.

Then you must love.

JANE.

I doe, what are you better now? I love not you.

HAMMON.

All this I hope is but a womans fray,

That means, come to me, when she cries, away:

In earnest mistris I do not jest,

A true chaste love hath entred in my brest,

I love you dearely 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, sweete beauteous Jane whats mine,

Shall (if thou make my selfe thine) all be thine,

Say, judge, what is thy sentence, life, or death?

Mercie or crueltie lies in thy breath.

JANE.

Good sir, I do beleeve you love me well:

For tis a seely conquest, seely pride,

For one like you (I meane a gentlman)

To boast, that by his love tricks he hath brought,

Such and such women to his amorous lure:

I thinke you do not so, yet many doe,

And make it even a very trade to wooe,

I could be coy, as many women be,

Feede you with sunne-shine smiles, and wanton lookes,

But I detest withcraft, say that I

Doe constantly beleeve you constant have

HAMMON.

Why dost thou not beleeve me?

JANE.

I beleeve you,

But yet good sir, because I will not greeve you,

With hopes to taste fruit, which will never fall,

In simple truth this is the summe of all,

My husband lives, at least I hope he lives,

Prest was he to these bitter warres in France,

Bitter they are to me by wanting him,

I have but one heart, and that hearts his due,

How can I then bestow the same on you?

Whilst he lives, his I live, be it nere so poore,

And rather be his wife, then a kings whore.

HAMMON.

Chaste and deare woman, I will not abuse thee,

Although it cost my life, if thou refuse me,

Thy husband prest for France, what was his name?

JANE.

Rafe Damport.

HAMMON.

Damport, heres a letter sent

From France to me, from a deare friend of mine,

A gentleman of place, here he doth write,

Their names that have bin slaine in every fight.

JANE.

I hope deaths scroll containes not my loves name.

HAMMON.

Cannot you reade?

JANE.

I can.

HAMMON.

Persue the same,

To my remembrance such a name I read

Amongst the rest: see here.

JANE.

Aye me, hees dead:

Hees dead, if this be true my deare hearts slaine.

HAMMON.

Have patience, deare love.

JANE.

Hence, hence.

HAMMON.

Nay sweete Jane,

Make not poore sorrow prowd with these rich teares,

I mourne thy husbands death because thou mournst.

JANE.

That bil is forgde, tis signde by forgerie.

HAMMON.

Ile bring thee letters sent besides to many

Carrying the like report: Jane tis too true,

Come, weepe not: mourning though it rise from love

Helpes not the mourned, yet hurtes them that mourne.

JANE.

For Gods sake leave me.

HAMMON.

Whither dost thou turne?

Forget the deade, love them that are alive,

His love is faded, trie how mine wil thrive.

JANE.

Tis now no time for me to thinke on love.

HAMMON.

Tis now best time for you to thinke on love, be-

cause your love lives not.

JANE.

Thogh he be dead, my love to him shal not be buried:

For Gods sake leave me to my selfe alone.

HAMMON.

Twould kil my soule to leave thee drownd in mone:

Answere me to my sute, and I am gone,

Say to me, yea, or no.

JANE.

No.

HAMMON.

Then farewell, one farewel wil not serve, I come

again, come drie these wet cheekes, tel me faith sweet Jane, yea,

or no, once more.

JANE.

Once more I say no, once more be gone I pray, else wil I

goe.

HAMMON.

Nay then I wil grow rude by this white hand,

Until you change that colde no, here ile stand,

Til by your hard heart

JANE.

Nay, for Gods love peace,

My sorrowes by your presence more increase,

Not that you thus are present, but al griefe

Desires to be alone, therefore in briefe

Thus much I say, and saying bid adew,

If ever I wed man it shall be you.

HAMMON.

Oh blessed voyce, deare Jane Ile urge no more,

Thy breath hath made me rich.

JANE.

Death makes me poore.

Exeunt.

ACT IV

SCENE I

Enter HODGE at his shop boord, RAFE, FIRKE, LACY as HANS, and a BOY at work.

ALL.
Hey downe, a downe downe derie.

HODGE.
Well said my hearts, plie your worke to day, we loytred yesterday, to it pell mel, that we may live to be Lord Maiors, or Alderman at least.

FIRKE.
Hey downe a downe derie.

HODGE.
Well said yfaith, how saist thou Hauns, doth not Firke tickle it?

LACY.
Yaw mester.

FIRKE.
Not so neither, my organe pipe squeaks this morning for want of licoring: hey downe a downe derie.

LACY.
Forware Firk, tow best un jolly yongster, hort I mester ic bid yo cut me un pair vampies vor mester Jeffres bootes.

HODGE.
Thou shalt Hauns.

FIRKE.
Master.

HODGE.
How now, boy?

FIRKE.
Pray, now you are in the cutting vaine, cut mee out a paire of counterfeits, or else my worke will not passe currant, hey downe a downe.

HODGE.
Tell me sirs, are my coosin Mistress Priscillaes shooes done?

FIRKE.
Your coosin? no maister, one of your auntes, hang her, let them alone.

RAFE.
I am in hand with them, she gave charge that none but I should doe them for her.

FIRKE.
Thou do for her? then twill be a lame doing, and that she loves not: Rafe, thou mightst have sent her to me, in faith I would have yearkt and firkt your Priscilla, hey downe a downe derry, this geere will not holde.

HODGE.
How saist thou Firke? were we not merry at old Ford?

FIRKE.
How merry? why our buttockes went Jiggy joggy like a quagmyre: wel sir Roger Oatemeale, if I thought all meale of that nature, I would eate nothing but bagpuddings.

RAFE.
Of all good fortunes, my fellow Hance had the best.

FIRKE.
Tis true, because mistris Rose dranke to him.

HODGE.
Wel, wel, worke apace, they say seven of the Aldermen be dead, or very sicke.

FIRKE.
I care not, Ile be none.

RAFE.
No nor I, but then my maister Eyre wil come quickly to be Lord Mayor.

Enter SYBIL.

FIRKE.
Whoop, yonder comes Sibil.

HODGE.
Sibil, welcome yfaith, and how dost thou madde wench?

FIRKE.
Sib whoore, welcome to London.

SYBIL.
Godamercy sweete Firke: good Lord Hodge, what a delitious shop you have got, you tickle it yfaith.

RAFE.
Godamercy Sibil for our good cheere at old Ford.

SYBIL.
That you shal have Rafe.

FIRKE.
Nay by the masse, we hadde tickling cheere Sibil, and how the plague dost thou and mistris Rose, and my Lord Mayor? I put the women in first.

SYBIL.
Wel Godamercy: but Gods me, I forget my self, wheres Haunce the Fleming?

FIRKE.
Hearke butter-boxe, nowe you must yelp out some spreken.

LACY.
Vat begaie you, vat vod you Frister.

SYBIL.
Marrie you must come to my yong mistris, to pull on her shooes you made last.

LACY.
Vare ben you edle from vare ben your mistris?

SYBIL.
Marrie here at our London house in Cornewalle.

FIRKE.
Will no bodie serve her turne but Hans?

SYBIL.
No sir, come Hans, I stand upon needles.

HODGE.
Why then Sibil, take heede of pricking.

SYBIL.
For that let me alone, I have a tricke in my budget, come Hans.

LACY.
Yaw, yaw, ic sall meete you gane.

ExitHANS and SYBIL.

HODGE.
Go Hans, make haste againe: come, who lacks worke?

FIRKE.
I maister, for I lacke my breakfast, tis munching time, and past.

HODGE.
Ist so? why then leave worke Raph, to breakfast, boy looke to the tooles, come Raph, come Firke.

Exeunt.

SCENE II

Enter a SERVINGMAN.

SERVINGMAN.
Let me see now, the signe of the last in Tower- street, mas yonders the house: what haw, whoes within?

Enter RAFE.

RAFE.
Who calles there, what want you sir?

SERVINGMAN.
Marrie I would have a paire of shooes made for a Gentlewoman against to morrow morning, what can you do them?

RAFE.
Yes sir, you shall have them, but what lengths her foote?

SERVINGMAN.
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.

RAFE.
How? by this shoe must it be made? by this, are you sure sir by this?

SERVINGMAN.
How, by this am I sure, by this? art thou in thy wits? I tell thee I must have 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 understand me, canst thou do't?

RAFE.
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?

SERVINGMAN.
To the signe of the golden ball in Watling- streete, enquire for one maister Hamon a gentleman, my maister.

RAFE.
Yea sir, by this shoe you say.

SERVINGMAN.
I say maister Hammon at the golden ball, hee's the Bridegroome, and those shooes are for his bride.

RAFE.
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?

SERVINGMAN.
At Saint Faiths Church under Paules: but whats that to thee? prethee dispatch those shooes, and so farewel.

Exit.

RAFE.

By this shoe said he, how am I amasde

At this strange accident? upon my life,

This was the verie shoe I gave my life,

When I was prest for France, since when alas,

I never could heare of her: it is the same,

And Hammons Bride no other but my Jane.

Enter FIRKE.

FIRKE.
Snaile Raph thou hast lost thy part of three pots, a countrieman of mine gave me to breakfast.

RAFE.
I care not, I have found a better thing.

FIRKE.
A thing? away, is it a mans thing, or a womans thing?

RAFE.
Firke, dost thou know this shooe?

FIRKE.
No by my troth, neither doth that know me? I have no acquaintance with it, tis a meere stranger to me.

RAFE.

Why then I do, this shooe I durst be sworne

Once covered the instep of my Jane:

This is her size, her breadth, thus trod my love,

These true love knots I prickt, I holde my life,

By this old shooe I shall finde out my wife.

FIRKE.
Ha ha old shoo, that wert new, how a murren came this ague fit of foolishnes upon thee?

RAFE.

Thus Firke, even now here came a servingman,

By this shooe would he have a new paire made

Against to morrow morning for his mistris,

Thats to be married to a Gentleman,

And why may not this be my sweete Jane?

FIRKE.

And why maist not thou be my sweete Asse? ha, ha.

RAFE.

Wel, laugh, and spare not: but the trueth is this.

Against to morrow morining Ile provide,

A lustie crue of honest shoomakers,

To watch the going of the bride to church,

If she prove Jane, Ile take her in dispite,

From Hammon and the divel, were he by,

If it be not my Jane, what remedy?

Hereof am I sure, I shall live till I die,

Although I never with a woman lie.

Exit.

FIRKE.
Thou lie with a woman to builde nothing but Cripplegates! Well, God sends fooles fortune, and it may be he may light upon his matrimony by such a device, for wedding and hanging goes by destiny.

Exit.

SCENE III

EnterHANS, and ROSE arme in arme.

LACY.

How happie am I by embracing thee,

Oh I did feare such crosse mishaps did raigne,

That I should never see my Rose againe.

ROSE.

Sweet Lacie, since faire Oportunitie

Offers her selfe to furder our escape,

Let not too over-fond esteeme of me

Hinder that happie hower, invent the meanes,

And Rose will follow thee through all the world.

LACY.

Oh how I surfeit with excesse of joy,

Made happie by thy rich perfection,

But since thou paist sweete intrest to my hopes,

Redoubling love on love, let me once more,

Like to a bold facde debter crave of thee,

This night to steale abroade, and at Eyres house,

Who now by death of certaine Aldermen,

Is Maior of London, and my master once,

Meete thou thy Lacie, where in spite of change,

Your fathers anger, and mine uncles hate,

Our happie nuptialls will we consummate.

Enter SYBIL.

SYBIL.
Oh God, what will you doe mistris? shift for your selfe, your father is at hand, hees comming, hees comming, master Lacie hide your selfe in my mistris, for Gods sake shift for your selves.

LACY.
Your father come, sweete Rose, what shall I doe? Where shall I hide me? How shall I escape?

ROSE.
A man and want wit in extremitie, Come, come, be Hauns still, play the shoomaker, Pull on my shooe.

Enter former LORD MAYOR.

LACY.
Mas, and thats well remembred.

SYBIL.
Here comes your father.

LACY.
Forware metresse, tis un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.

ROSE.
Oh God it pincheth me, what wil you do?

LACY.
Your fathers presence pincheth, not the shoo.

LORD MAYOR.
Well done, fit my daughter well, and shee shall please thee well.

LACY.
Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well, forware tis un good skoo, tis gi mait van neits leither, se ever mine here.

Enter a PRENTICE.

LORD MAYOR.
I do beleev it, whats the newes with you?

PRENTICE.
Please you, the Earle of Lincolne at the gate is newly lighted, and would speake with you.

LORD MAYOR.

The Earle of Lincolne come to speake with me?

Well, well, I know his errand: daughter Rose,

Send hence your shoomaker, dispatch, have done:

Sib, make things handsome: sir boy follow me.

Exit

LACY.

Mine uncle come, oh what may this portend?

Sweete Rose, thsi of our love threatens an end.

ROSE.

Be not dismaid at this: what ere befall,

Rose is thine owne, to witnes I speake truth,

Where thou appoints the place Ile meete with thee,

I will not fixe a day to follow thee,

But presently steale hence, do not replie.

Love which gave strength to beare my fathers hate,

Shall now adde wings to further our escape.

Exeunt.

SCENE IV

Enter former LORD MAYOR, and LINCOLN.

LORD MAYOR.

Beleeve me, on my credite I speake truth,

Since first your nephew Lacie went to France,

I have not seene him. I seemd strange to me,

When Dodger told me that he staide behinde,

Neglecting the hie charge the King imposed.

LINCOLN.

Trust me (sir Roger Otly) I did thinke

Your counsell had given head to this attempt,

Drawne to it by the love he beares your child.

Here I did hope to find him in your house,

But now I see mine error, and confesse

My judgement wrongd you by conceving so.

LORD MAYOR.

Lordge in my house, say you? trust me my Lord,

I love your Nephew Lacie too too dearely

So much to wrong his honor, and he hath done so,

That first gave him advise to stay from France.

To witnesse I speake truth, I let you know

How carefull I have beene to keepe my daughter

Free from all conference, or speech of him,

Not that I skorne your Nephew, but in love

I beare your honour, least your noble bloud,

Should by my meane worth he dishonoured.

LINCOLN.
Aside

How far the churles tongue wanders from his hart,

To him

Well, well sir Roger Otley I beleeve you,

With more then many thankes for the kind love,

So much you seeme to beare me: but my Lord,

Let me request your helpe to seeke my Nephew,

Whom if I find, Ile straight embarke for France,

So shal your Rose be free, my thoughts at rest,

And much care die which now lies in my brest.

Enter SYBIL.

SYBIL.
Oh Lord, help for Gods sake, my mistris, oh my yong mistris.

LORD MAYOR.
Where is thy mistris? whats become of her?

SYBIL.
Shees gone, shees fled.

LORD MAYOR.
Gone? whither is she fled?

SYBIL.
I know not forsooth, shees fled out of doores with Hauns the Shoomaker, I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace.

LORD MAYOR.
Which way? what John, where by my men? which way?

SYBIL.
I know not, and it please your worship.

LORD MAYOR.
Fled with a shoomaker, can this be true?

SYBIL.
Oh Lord sir, as true as Gods in heaven.

LINCOLN.
Aside

Her love turnd shoomaker? I am glad of this.

LORD MAYOR.

A fleming butter boxe, a shoomaker,

Will she forget her birth? requite my care

With such ingratitude? skornd she yong Hammon,

To love a honnikin, a needie knave?

Wel let her flie, Ile not flie after her,

Let her starve if she wil, shees none of mine.

LINCOLN.

Be not so cruell sir.

Enter FIRKE with shooes.

SYBIL.

I am glad shees scapt.

LORD MAYOR.

Ile not account of her as of my child:

Was there no better object for her eies,

But a foule drunken lubber, swill bellie,

A shoomaker, thats brave.

FIRKE.
Yea forsooth, tis a very brave shooe, and as fit as a pudding,

LORD MAYOR.
How now, what knave is this, from whence comest thou?

FIRKE.
No knave sir, I am Firke the shoomaker, lusty Rogers cheese lustie jorneyman, and I come hither to take up 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.

LORD MAYOR.
Stay stay sir knave.

LINCOLN.
Come hither shoomaker.

FIRKE.
Tis happie the knave is put before the shoomaker, or else I would not have vouchsafed to come backe to you, I am moved, for I stirre.

LORD MAYOR.
My Lorde, this villaine calles us knaves by craft.

FIRKE.
Then tis by the Gentle Craft, and to cal one knave gently, is no harme: sit your worship merie:

Aside

Sib your yong mistris, Ile bob them, now my maister maister Eyre is Lorde Maior of London.

LORD MAYOR.
Tell me sirra, whoes man are you?

FIRKE.
I am glad to see your worship so merrie, I have no maw to this geere, no stomacke as yet to a red peticote.

Pointing to SYBIL.

LINCOLN.
He means not sir to wooe you to his maid, But onely doth demand whose man you are.

FIRKE.
I sing now to the tune of Rogero, Roger my felow is now master.

LINCOLN.
Sirra, knowst thou one Hauns a shoomaker?

FIRKE.
Hauns shoomaker, oh yes, stay, yes I have 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 over one another with, Can you dance the shaking of the sheetes? it is that Hauns,

Aside

Ile so gull these diggers.

LORD MAYOR.
Knowst thou then where he is?

FIRKE.
Yes forsooth, yea marry.

LINCOLN.
Canst thou in sadnesse?

FIRKE.
No forsooth, no marrie.

LORD MAYOR.
Tell me good honest fellow where he is, And thou shalt see what Ile bestow of thee.

FIRKE.
Honest fellow, no sir, not so sir, my profession is the Gentle Craft, I care not for seeing, I love feeling, let me feele it here, aurium tenus, tne peeces of gold, gennum tenus, ten peeces of silver, and then Firke is your man in a new paire of strechers.

LORD MAYOR.
Here is an Angel, part of thy reward, Which I will give thee, tell me where he is.

FIRKE.
No point: shal I betray my brother? no, shal I prove Judas to Hans? no, shall I crie treason to my corporation? no, I shall be firkt and yerkt then, but give me your angell, your angell shall tel you.

LINCOLN.
Doe so good fellow, tis no hurt to thee.

FIRKE.
Send simpering Sib away.

LORD MAYOR.
Huswife, get you in.

Exit SYBIL.

FIRKE.
Pitchers have eares, and maides have wide mouthes: but for Hauns prauns, upon my word to morrow morning, he and yong mistris Rose goe to this geere, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else tourne Firke to a firkin of butter to tanne leather withall.

LORD MAYOR.
But art thou sure of this?

FIRKE.
Am I sure that Paules steeple 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?

LINCOLN.
Where are they married? dost thou know the church?

FIRKE.
I never 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 under Paules crosse, there they sahll be knit like a paire of stockings in matrimonie, there theile be in conie.

LINCOLN.
Upon my life, my Nephew Lacie walkes In the disguise of this Dutch shoomaker.

FIRKE.
Yes forsooth.

LINCOLN.
Doth he not honest fellow?

FIRKE.
No forsooth, I thinke Hauns is no bodie but Hans, no spirite.

LORD MAYOR.
My mind misgives me now tis so indeede.

LINCOLN.
My cosen speakes the language, knowes the trade.

LORD MAYOR.

Let me request your companie my Lord,

Your honourable presence may, no doubt,

Refraine their head-strong rashnesse, when my selfe

Going alone perchance may be oreborne,

Shall I request this favour?

LINCOLN.
This, or what else.

FIRKE.
Then you must rise betimes, for they meane to fall to their hey passe, and repasse, pindy pandy, which hand will you have, very earely.

LORD MAYOR.
My care shal every way equal their haste, This night accept your lodging in my house, The earlier shal we stir, and at Saint Faithes Prevent this giddy hare-braind nuptiall, This trafficke of hot love shal yeeld cold gaines, They ban our loves, and weele forbid their baines.

Exit.

LINCOLN.
At Saint Faithes churh thou saist.

FIRKE.
Yes, by their troth.

LINCOLN.
Be secret on thy life.

Exit.

FIRKE.
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 Bridegroome, and mistris Bride napping, and they in the meane time shal chop up the matter at the Savoy: but the best sport is, sir Roger Otly wil find my felow, lame Rafes wife going to marry a gentleman, and then heele stop her in steede of his daughter: oh brave, there wil be fine tickling sport: soft now, what have I to doe? oh I know, now a messe of shoomakers meate at the wooll sack in Ivie lane, to cozen my gentleman of lame Rafes wife, thats true,

Alacke, alacke

Girles, hold out tacke,

For nowe smockes for this jumbling

Shall goe to wracke.

Exit.

ACT V

SCENE I

Enter EYRE, MARGERY, LACY as HANS, and ROSE.

EYRE.
This is the morning then, stay my bully, my honest Hauns, is it not?

LACY.
This is the morning that must make us two happy, or miserable, therefore if you

EYRE.
Away with these iffes and ands Hauns, and these et caeteraes, by mine honor Rowland Lacie none but the king shall wrong thee: 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?

MARGERY.
Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.

EYRE.
Why my sweete lady Madgy, thincke you Simon Eyre can forget his fine dutch Journeyman? No vah. Fie I scorne it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankeful. Lady Madgy, thou hadst never coverd thy Saracens head with this french flappe, nor loaden thy bumme with this farthingale, tis trash, trumpery, vanity, Simon Eyre had never walkte in a redde petticoate, nor wore a chaine of golde, but for my fine Journey- mans portigues, and shall I leave him? No: Prince am I none, yet beare a princely minde.

LACY.
My Lorde, tis time for us to part from hence.

EYRE.
Lady Madgy, lady Madgy, take two or three of my piecrust eaters, my buffe-jerkin varlets, that doe walke in blacke gownes at Simon Eyres heeles, take them good lady Madgy, trippe and goe, my browne Queene of Perriwigs, with my delicate Rose, and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy, see them linckte, countenaunce the marriage, and when it is done, cling, cling together, you Hamborow Turtle Dobes, Ile beare you out, come to Simon Eyre, come dwell with me Hauns, thou shalt eate mincde pies, and marchpane. Rose, away cricket, trippe and goe my Lady Madgy to the Savoy, Hauns, wed, and to bed, kisse and and away, go, vanish.

MARGERY.
Farewel my lord.

ROSE.
Make haste sweete love.

MARGERY.
Sheede faine the deede were done.

LACY.
Come my sweete Rose, faster than Deere weele runne.

They goe out.

EYRE.
Goe, vanish, vanish, avaunt I say: by the lorde of Ludgate, its a madde life to be a lorde Mayor, its a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet 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 majesty is welcome, he shal have good cheere, delicate cheere, princely cheere. This day my felow prentises of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheere, genltemanlike cheere. I promised the mad Cappidosians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be Mayor of London, I would feast them al, and Ile doot, Ile doot by the life of Pharaoh, by this beard Sim Eire wil be no flincher. Besides, I have procurd, that upon every Shrovetuesday, 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 doot, they sahll doot: Boyes, that day are you free, let masters care, And prentises shall pray Simon Eyre.

Exit.

SCENE II

Enter HODGE, FIRKE, RAFE,and five or sixe SHOEMAKERS, all with cudgels, or such weapons.

HODGE.
Come Rafe, stand to it Firke: my masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shooemakers, heires apparant to saint Hugh, and perpetuall benefactors to all good fellowes, thou shalt have no wrong: were Hammon a king of spades he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferaunce: but tell me Rafe, art thou sure tis thy wife?

RAFE.
Am I sure this is Firke? This morning when I strokte on her shooes, I lookte upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, askte me if ever 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 peece of golde: I tooke it: my lame leg, and my travel beyond sea made me unknown, all is one for that, I know shees mine.

FIRKE.
Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold; shees thine owne, tis thy wife, and she loves thee, for Ile stand toot, theres no woman wil give golde to any man, but she thinkes better of him than she thinkes of them shee gives silver to: and for Hamon, neither Hamon nor Hangman shall wrong thee in London: Is not our olde maister Eire lord Mayor? Speake my hearts. Yes, and Hamon shall know it to his cost.

Enter HAMMON, his MAN, JANE, and others.

HODGE.
Peace my bullies, yonder they come.

RAFE.
Stand toot my hearts, Firke, let me speake first.

HODGE.
No Rafe, let me: Hammon, whither away so earely?

HAMMON.
Unmannerly rude slave, whats that to thee?

FIRKE.
To him sir? yes sir, and to me, and others: good morrow Jane, how doost thou? good Lord, how the world is changed with you, God be thanked.

HAMMON.
Villaines, handes off, howe dare you touch my love?

ALL.
Villaines? downe with them, cry clubs for prentises.

HODGE.
Hold, my hearts: touch her Hamon? yea and more than that, weele carry her away with us. My maisters and gentlemen, never draw your bird spittes, shooemakers are steele to the backe, men every inch of them, al spirite.

ALL OF HAMMONS SIDE.
Wel, and what of all this?

HODGE.
Ile shew you: Jane, 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.

JANE.
Lives then my husband? oh God let me go, Let me embrace my Rafe.

HAMMON.
What meanes my Jane?

JANE.
Nay, what meant you to tell me he was slaine?

HAMMON.
to JANE

Pardon me deare love for being mislead,

to RAFE

Twas rumord here in London thou wert dead.

FIRKE.
Thou seest he lives: Lasse, goe packe home with him: now maister Hamon, wheres your mistris your wife?

SERVANT.
Swounds maister fight for her, will you thus lose her?

ALL.
Downe with that creature, clubs, downe with him.

HODGE.
Hold, hold.

HAMMON.
Hold foole, sirs he shal do no wrong, Wil my Jane leave me thus, and breake her faith?

FIRKE.
Yea sir, she must sir, she shal sir, what then? mend it.

HODGE.
Hearke fellow Rafe, folowe my counsel, set the wench in the midst, and let her chuse her man, and let her be his woman.

JANE.

Whom should I choose? whom should my thoughts affect,

But him whom heaven hath made to be my love?

Thou art my husband and these humble weedes,

Makes thee more beautiful then all his wealth,

Therefore I wil but ut off his attire,

Returning it into the owners hand,

And after ever be thy constant wife.

HODGE.
Not a ragge Jane, the law's on our side, he that sowes in another mans ground forfets his harvest, get thee home Rafe, follow him Jane, he shall not have so much as a buske point from thee.

FIRKE.
Stand to that Rafe, the appurtenances are thine owne, Hammon, looke not at her.

SERVANT.
O swounds no.

FIRKE.
Blew coate be quiet, weele give you a new liverie else, weele make Shrove Tuesday Saint Georges day for you: looke not Hammon, leare not, Ile firke you, for thy head now, one galnce, one sheepes eie, any thing at her, touch not a ragge, least I and my brethren beate you to clowtes.

SERVANT.
Come master Hammon, theres no striving here.

HAMMON.

Good fellowes, heare me speake: and honest Rafe,

Whom I have injured most by loving Jane,

Marke what I offer thee: here in faire gold

Is twentie pound, Ile give it for thy Jane,

If this content thee not, thou shalt have more.

HODGE.
Sell not thy wife Rafe, make her not a whore.

HAMMON.
Say, wilt thou freely cease thy claime in her, And let her be my wife?

ALL.
No, do not Rafe.

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 I not lame, I would make thee eate thy words.

FIRKE.
A shoomaker sell his flesh and bloud, oh indignitie!

HODGE.
Sirra, take up your pelfe, and be packing.

HAMMON.

I wil not touch one pennie, but in liew

Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane,

To Jane and thee I give that twentie pound,

Since I have faild of her, during my life

I vow no woman else shall be my wife:

Farewell good fellowes of the Gentle trade,

Your mornings mirth my mourning day hath made.

Exeunt.

FIRKE.
Touch the gold creature if you dare, ya're best be trudging: here Jane take thou it, now lets home my hearts.

HODGE.
Stay, who comes here? Jane, on againe with thy maske.

Enter LINCOLN, former LORD MAYOR, and SERVANTS.

LINCOLN.
Yonders the lying varlet mockt us so.

LORD MAYOR.
Come hither sirra.

FIRKE.
I sir, I am sirra, you meane me, do you not?

LINCOLN.
Where is my Nephew married?

FIRKE.
Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it: they have a faire day, and the signe is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.

LORD MAYOR.

Villaine, thou toldst me that my daughter Rose,

This morning should be married at Saint Faithes,

We have watcht there these three houres at the least,

Yet see we no such thing.

FIRKE.
Truly I am sorie for't, a Bride's a prettie thing.

HODGE.
Come to the purpose, yonder's the Bride and Bride- groome you looke for I hope: though you be Lordes, you are not to barre, by your authoritie, men from women, are you?

LORD MAYOR.
See see my daughters maskt.

LINCOLN.
True, and my Nephew, To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame.

FIRKE.
Yea truely god helpe the poore couple, they are lame and blind.

LORD MAYOR.
Ile ease her blindnes.

LINCOLN.
Ile his lamenes cure.

FIRKE.
Aside

Lie downe sirs, and laugh, my felow Rafe is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for mistris damaske Rose, this is al my knavery.

LORD MAYOR.
What, have I found you minion?

LINCOLN.

O base wretch,

Nay hide thy face, the horror of thy guilt,

Can hardly be washt off: where are thy powers?

What battels have you made? O yes I see

Thou foughtst with Shame, and shame hath conquerd thee.

This lamenesse wil not serve.

LORD MAYOR.

Unmaske your selfe.

LINCOLN.

Leade home your daughter.

LORD MAYOR.

Take your Nephew hence.

RAFE.

Hence, swounds, what meane you? are you mad? I hope

you cannot inforce my wife from me, wheres Hamon?

LORD MAYOR.

Your wife.

LINCOLN.

What Hammon?

RAFE.

Yea my wife, and therfor4e the prowdest of you that laies

hands on her first, Ile lay my crutch crosse his pate.

FIRKE.

To him lame Rafe, heres brave sport.

RAFE.

Rose call you her? why her name is Jane, looke here else,

do you know her now?

LINCOLN.

Is this your daughter?

LORD MAYOR.

No, nor this your nephew:

My Lord of Lincolne, we are both abusde

By this base craftie varlet.

FIRKE.
Yea forsooth no valet, forsooth no base, forsooth I am but meane, no craftie neither, but of the Gentle Craft.

LORD MAYOR.
Where is my daughter Rose? where is my child?

LINCOLN.
Where is my nephew Lacie married?

FIRKE.
Why here is good lacde mutton as I promist you.

LINCOLN.
Villaine, Ile have thee punisht for this wrong.

FIRKE.
Punish the jornyman villaine, but not the jorneyman shoomaker.

Enter DODGER.

DODGER.

My Lord I come to bring unwelcome newes,

Your Nephew Lacie, and your daughter Rose,

Earely this morning wedded at the Savoy,

None being present but the Ladie Mairesse:

Besides I learnt among the officers,

The Lord Maior vowes to stand in their defence,

Gainst any that shal seeke to crosse the match.

LINCOLN.
Dares Eyre the shoomaker uphold the deede?

FIRKE.
Yes sir, shoomakers dre stand in a womans quarrel I warrant you, as deepe as another, and deeper too.

DODGER.

Besides, his grace, to day dines with the Maior,

Who on his knees humbly intends to fall,

And beg a pardon for your Nephewes fault.

LINCOLN.

But Ile prevent him: come sir Roger Oteley,

The king wil doe us justice in this cause,

Now ere their hands have made them man and wife,

I wil disjoyne the match, or loose my life.

Exeunt.

FIRKE.
Adue monsieur Dodger, farewel fooles, ha ha, Oh if they had staide I would have so lambde them with floutes, O heart, my codpeece point is readie to flie in peeces every time I thinke upon mistris Rose, but let that passe, as my Ladie Mairesse saies.

HODGE.
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 shrove Tuesday, ile promise you wine enough, for Madge keepes the seller.

ALL.
O rare! Madge is a good wench.

FIRKE.
And Ile promise you meate enough, for simpring Susan keepes the larder, Ile leade you to victuals my brave souldiers, follow your captaine, O brave, hearke, hearke.

Bell ringes.

ALL.
The Pancake bell rings, the pancake bel, tri-lill my hearts.

FIRKE.
Oh brave, oh sweete bell, O delicate pancakes, open the doores my hearts, and shup up the windowes, keepe 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.

RAFE.
O the crew of good fellows that wil dine at my lord Maiors cost to day!

HODGE.
By the lord, my lord Maior is a most brave 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.

FIRKE.
O musical bel stil! O Hodge, O my brethren! theres cheere for the heavens, venson pasties walke up and down piping hote, like sergeants, beefe and brewesse comes marchin in drie fattes, fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheele barrowes, hennes and orenges hopping in porters baskets, colloppes and egges in scuttles, and tartes and custardes comes quavering in in mault shovels.

Enter more PRENTISES.

ALL.
Whoop, look here, looke here.

HODGE.
And this shal continue for ever.

ALL.
Oh brave! come come my hearts, away, away.

FIRKE.
O eternall credite to us of the gentle Craft, march faire my hearts, oh rare.

Exeunt.

SCENE III

Enter KING and his traine over the stage.

KING.
Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant?

NOBLE MAN.

One of the merriest madcaps in your land,

Your Grace wil thinke, when you behold the man,

Hees rather a wilde ruffin than a Maior:

Yet thus much Ile ensure your majestie,

In al his actions that concerne his state,

He is as serious, provident, and wise,

As full of gravitie amongst the grave,

As any maior hath beene these many yeares.

KING.

I am with child til I behold this huffe cap,

But all my doubt is, when we come in presence,

His madnesse wil be dasht cleane out of countenance.

NOBLE MAN.

It may be so, my Liege.

KING.

Which to prevent,

Let some one give him notice, tis our pleasure,

That he put on his woonted merriement:

Set forward.

ALL.

On afore.

Exeunt.

SCENE IV

Enter EYRE, HODGE, FIRKE, RAFE,and other SHOEMAKERS, all with napkins on their shoulders.

EYRE.
Come my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shooemakers, soft, where be these Caniballes, these varlets my officers, let them al walke and waite upon my brethren, for my meaning is, that none but shoomakers, none but the livery of my Company shall in their sattin hoodes waite uppon the trencher of my sovereigne.

FIRKE.
O my Lord, it will be rare.

EYRE.
No more Firke, come lively, let your fellowe prentises want no cheere, let wine be plentiful as beere, and beere as water, hang these penny pinching fathers, that cramme wealth in innocent lamb skinnes, rip knaves, avaunt, looke to my guests.

HODGE.
My Lord, we are at our wits end for roome, those hundred tables wil not feast the fourth part of them.

EYRE.
Then cover me those hundred tables againe, and againe, til all my jolly prentises be feasted: avoyde Hodge, runne Rafe, friske about my nimble Firke, carowse me fadome healths to the honor of the shoomakers: do they drink lively Hodge? do they tickle it Firke?

FIRKE.
Tickle it? some of them have taken their licour standing so long, that they can stand no longer: but for meate, they would eate it and they had it.

EYRE.
Want they meate? wheres this swaf-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, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheepe whine upon the tables like pigges for want of good felowes to eate them. Want meate! vanish Firke, avaunt Hodge.

HODGE.
Your lordship mistakes my man Firke, he means their bellies want meate, not the boords, for they have drunk so much they can eate nothing.

EnterHANS, ROSE, and MARGERY.

MARGERY.
Where is my Lord.

EYRE.
How now lady Madgy.

MARGERY.
The kings most excelent majesty is new come, hee sends me for thy honor: one of his most worshipful Peeres bade me tel thou must be mery, and so forth: but let that passe.

EYRE.
Is my Soveraigne 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?

LACY.

Let me request you to remember me,

I know your honour easily may obtaine,

Free pardon of the king for me and Rose,

And reconcile me to my uncles grace.

EYRE.
Have done my good Hans, my honest jorneyman, looke cheerely, Ile fall upon both my knees till they be as hard as horne, but Ile get thy pardon.

MARGERY.
Good my Lords have a care what you speake to his grace.

EYRE.
Away you Islington whitepot, hence you happerarse, you barly pudding ful of magots, you broyld carbonado, avaunt, avaunt, avoide Mephostophilus: shall Sim Eyre learne to speake of you Ladie Madgie? vanish mother Miniver 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 Soveraigne? no, come my Ladie Madgie, follow me Hauns, about your businesse my frolicke free- bootes: Firke, friske about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre Lord Maior of London.

FIRKE.
Hey for the honour of the shoomakers.

Exeunt.

SCENE V

A long flourish or two: enter KING, NOBLES, EYRE, MARGERY, LACY as himselfe, ROSE: LACYand ROSE kneele.

KING.

Well Lacie though the fact was verie foule,

Of your revolting from our kingly love,

And your owne duetie, yet we pardon you,

Rise both, and mistris Lacie, thanke my Lord Maior

For your yong bridegroome here.

EYRE.
So my deere liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren the gentle- men shoomakers shal set your sweete majesties image, cheeke by jowle by Saint Hugh, for this honour you have done poore Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace pardon my rude behaviour, I am a handiscrafts man, yet my heart is without craft, I would be sory at my soule, that my boldnesse should offend my king.

KING.

Nay, I pray thee good lord Maior, be even as mery

As if thou wert among thy shoomakers,

It does me good to see thee in this humour.

EYRE.

Saist thou me so my sweete Dioclesian? then hump,

Prince am I non, yet am I princely borne, by the Lord of

Ludgate my Liege, Ile be as merrie as a pie.

KING.
Tel me infaith mad Eyre, how old thou art.

EYRE.
My Liege a verie boy, a stripling, a yonker, you see not a white haire on my head, not a gray in this beard, everie haire I assure thy majestie that stickes in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the king of Babilons ransome, Tamar Chams beard was a rubbing brush toot: yet Ile shave it off, and stuffe tennis balls with it to please my bully king.

KING.
But all this while I do not know your age.

EYRE.
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 sweete Majestie, let car vanish, cast it uppon thy Nobles, it will make thee looke alwayes young like Apollo, and crye humpe: Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne.

KING.
Ha ha: saye Cornewall, didst thou ever see his like?

CORNWALL.
Not I, my lorde.

Enter LINCOLN, and LORD MAYOR.

KING.

Lincolne, what newes with you?

LINCOLN.

My gracious Lord, have care unto your selfe,

For there are traytors here.

ALL.

Traytors, where? who?

EYRE.

Traitors in my house? God forbid, where be my officers?

Ile spend my soule ere my king feele harme.

KING.

Where is the traytor, Lincolne?

LINCOLN.

Here he stands.

KING.

Cornewall, lay hold Lacie: Lincolne, speake:

What canst thou lay unto thy Nephewes charge?

LINCOLN.

This my deere liege: your grace to doe me honour,

Heapt on the head of this degenerous boy,

Desertlesse favours, you made choise of him,

To be commander over powers in France,

But he

KING.

Good Lincolne prythee pawse a while,

Even in thine eies I reade what thou wouldst speake,

I know how Lacie did neglect our love,

Ranne himselfe deepely (in the highest degree)

Into vile treason.

LINCOLN.

Is he not a traytor?

KING.

Lincolne, he was: now have we pardned him,

Twas not a base want of true valors fire,

That held him out of France, but loves desire.

LINCOLN.

I wil not beare his shame upon my backe.

KING.

Nor shalt thou Lincolne, I forgive you both.

LINCOLN.

Then (good my liege) forbid the boy to wed

One, whose meane birth will much disgrace his bed.

KING.

Are they not married?

LINCOLN.

No my Liege.

BOTH.

We are.

KING.

Shall I divorce them then? O be it farre,

That any hand on earth should dare untie,

The sacred knot knit by Gods majestie,

I would not for my crown disjoyne their hands,

That are conjoynd in holy nuptiall bands,

How saist thou Lacy? wouldst thou loose thy Rose?

LACY.

Not for all Indias wealth, my soveraigne.

KING.

But Rose I am sure her Lacie would forgoe.

ROSE.

If Rose were askt that question, sheed say, no.

KING.

You heare them Lincolne.

LINCOLN.

Yea my liege, I do.

KING.

Yet canst thou find ith heart to part these two?

Who seeks, besides you, to divource these lovers?

LORD MAYOR.

I do (my gracious Lord) I am her father.

KING.

Sir Roger Oteley, our last Maior I thinke?

NOBLEMAN.

The same my liege.

KING.

Would you offend Loves lawes?

Wel, you shal have your wills, you sue to me,

To prohibite the match: Soft, let me see,

You both are married, Lacie, art thou not?

LACY.

I am, dread Soveraigne.

KING.

Then upon thy life,

I charge thee, not to call this woman wife.

LORD MAYOR.

I thanke your grace.

ROSE.

O my most gratious Lord!

Kneele.

KING.

Nay Rose, never wooe me, I tel you true,

Although as yet I am a batchellor,

Yet I beleeve I shal not marry you.

ROSE.

Can you divide the body from the soule,

Yet make the body live?

KING.

Yea, so profound?

I cannot Rose, but you I must divide:

Faire maide, this bridegroome cannot be your bride.

Are you pleasde Lincolne? Oteley, are you pleasde?

BOTH.

Yes my Lord.

KING.

Then must my heart be easde,

For credit me, my conscience lives in paine,

Til these whom I devorcde by joynd againe:

Lacy, give me thy hand, Rose, lend me thine.

Be what you would be: kisse now: so, thats fine,

At night (lovers to bed: now let me see,

Which of you all mislikes this harmony?

LORD MAYOR.

Wil you then take from me my child perforce?

KING.

Why tell me Oteley, shines not Lacies name,

As bright in the worldes eye, as the gay beames

Of any citizen?

LINCOLN.

Yea but my gratious Lord,

I do mislike the match farre more than he,

Her bloud is too too base.

KING.

Lincolne, no more,

Dost thou not know, that love respects no bloud?

Cares not for difference of birth, or state,

The maide is yong, wel borne, faire, vertuous,

A worthy bride for any gentleman:

Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoope

To bare necessitie: and as I heare,

Forgetting honors, and all courtly pleasures,

To gaine her love, became a shoomaker.

As for the honor which he lost in France,

Thus I redeeme It: Lacie, kneele thee downe,

Arise sir Rowland Lacie: tell me now,

Tell me in earnest Oteley, canst thou chide,

Seeing thy Rose a ladie and a bryde?

LORD MAYOR.

I am content with what your Grace hath done.

LINCOLN.

And I my liege, since theres no remedie.

KING.

Come on then, al shake hands, Ile have you frends,

Where there is much love, all discord ends,

What sayes my mad Lord Maior to all this love?

EYRE.
O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacie, and all these favours which you have showne to me this daye in my poore house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warme summers more then he should.

KING.

Nay, my mad Lord Maior (that shall be thy name)

If any grace of mine cn length thy life,

One honour more Ile doe thee, that new building,

Which at thy cost in Cornehill is erected,

Shall take a name from us, weele have it cald,

The Leaden hall, because in digging it,

You found the lead that covereth the same.

EYRE.

I thanke your Majestie.

MARGERY.

God blesse your Grace.

KING.

Lincolne, a word with you.

Enter HODGE, RAFE, and more SHOEMAKERS.

EYRE.
How now my mad knaves? Peace, speake softly, yonder is the king.

KING.

With the olde troupe which there we keepe in pay,

We wil incorporate a new supply:

Before one summer more passe ore my head,

France shal repent England was injured,

What are all those?

LACY.

All shoomakers, my Liege,

Sometimes my fellowes, in their companies

I livde as merry as an emperor.

KING.

My mad lord Mayor, are all these shoomakers?

EYRE.

All Shooemakers, my Liege, all gentlemen of the Gentle

Craft, true Trojans, couragious Cordwainers, they all kneele

to the shrine of holy saint Hugh.

ALL.

God save your majesty. All shoomakers.

KING.

Mad Simon, would they any thing with us?

EYRE.
Mum mad knaves, not a word, Ile doot, I warrant you. They are all beggars, my Liege, all for themselves: and I for them all, on both my knees do intreate, that for the honor of poore Simon Eyre, and the good of his brethren these mad knaves, your Grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leden hall, that it may be lawfull for us to buy and sell leather there two dayes a weeke.

KING.

Mad Sim, I grant your suite, you shall have patent

To hold two market dayes in Leden hall,

Mondayes and Fridayes, those shal be the times:

Will this content you?

ALL.
Jesus blesse your Grace.

EYRE.
In the name of these my poore brethren shoomakers, I most humbly thanke your Grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the Giving vaine, and we in the Begging, graunt Sim Eyre one boone more.

KING.
What is it my Lord Maior?

EYRE.
Vouchsafe to taste of a poore banquet that standes sweetely waiting for your sweete presence.

KING.

I shall undo thee Eyre, only with feasts,

Already have I beene too troublesome,

Say, have I not?

EYRE.
O my deere king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving which I promist long ago to the prentises of London: for andt please your Highnes, in time past

Sits not a whit the worse upon my backe:

And then upon a morning some mad boyes,

It was Shrovetuesday even as tis now,

Gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankerd, if ever I came to be Lord Maior of London, I would feast al the prentises. This day (my liege) I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered, they are gone home and vanisht:

Yet adde more honour to the Gentle Trade,

Taste of Eyres banquet, Simon's happie made.

KING.

Eyre, I wil taste of thy banquet, and wil say,

I have not met more pleasure on a day,

Friends of the Gentle Craft, thankes to you al,

Thankes my kind Ladie Mairesse for our cheere,

Come Lordes, a while lets revel it at home,

When all our sports, and banquetings are done,

Warres must right wrongs which Frenchmen have begun.

Exeunt.

FINIS

Information about this book

Title statement
The shoemakers' holiday
Dekker, Thomas, ca. 1572-1632

Editing: Paul C. Davies.

Original data capture and TEI P5 conversion: Lou Burnard.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3007

ID [isbn10]

1106000064

ID [isbn13]

9781106000064

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Notes

This text is created direct from the earliest printed text — the small, cheap books in quarto format sold by the booksellers of St Paul's Churchyard for around sixpence. It has not been edited, and so you can experience the idiosyncrasies of early modern print. In an age when spelling was not standardised, a range of ways of spelling even quite simple words was usual. Often homophones — words such as ‘to’ and ‘too’ which sound the same but are distinguished in modern spelling — are not clear, and this is one of the great sources of puns for early modern writers. Speech prefixes and stage directions are also not presented in the form readers of modern playtexts are used to, and nor did these early texts include a list of characters or an index of acts and scenes. Some features of early modern printing may also be unfamiliar — the interchangeability of the letters ‘u’ and ‘v’, for example, or ‘i’ and ‘y’. There was no letter ‘j’ in the sets of type used by printers, so that letter is signalled with the letter ‘i’ or ‘I’.

To find out more about early modern print and how and why plays were printed see the Furness Collection, University of Pennsylvania's multimedia online tutorials at http://sceti.library.upenn.edu/sceti/furness/eric/teach/index.cfm

Source

— The shoemakers' holiday / edited by Paul C. Davies. -- Edinburgh : Oliver & Boyd, 1968. -- (The Fountainwell drama texts ; 2). -- ISBN 0-05-001574-5 (cased). -- ISBN 0-05-001689-X (pbk.).

— Revised version of http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/1204