The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  Who prates not much seems wise, his wit few scan,

  While the tongue blabs tales of the imperfect man.

  I’ll see if great Erasmus can distinguish

  Merit and outward ceremony.

  RANDALL If I do not deserve a share for playing of your lordship well, let me be yeoman usher to your sumpter and be banished from wearing of a gold chain forever.

  MORE

  Well, sir, I’ll hide our motion. Act my part

  With a firm boldness, and thou winn’st my heart.

  Enter the Sheriff, with Falkner (a ruffian) and Officers

  How now, what’s the matter?

  FALKNER ⌈to Officers⌉ Tug me not; I’m no bear. ‘Sblood, if all the dogs in Paris Garden hung at my tail, I’d shake ’em off with this: that I’ll appear before no king christened but my good Lord Chancellor.

  SHERIFF We’ll christen you, sirrah.—Bring him forward.

  MORE ⌈to Falkner⌉ How now, what tumults make you?

  FALKNER The azured heavens protect my noble Lord Chancellor!

  MORE ⌈to Sheriff⌉ What fellow’s this?

  SHERIFF A ruffian, my lord, that hath set half the city in an uproar.

  FALKNER My lord—

  SHERIFF There was a fray in Paternoster Row, and because they would not be parted the street was choked up with carts.

  FALKNER My noble lord, Pannyer Alley’s throat was open.

  MORE Sirrah, hold your peace.

  FALKNER I’ll prove the street was not choked, but is as well as ever it was since it was a street.

  SHERIFF This fellow was a principal broacher of the broil—

  FALKNER ’Sblood, I broached none. It was broached and half run out before I had a lick at it.

  SHERIFF And would be brought before no justice but your honour.

  FALKNER ! I am hauled, my noble lord.

  MORE ⌈to Sheriff⌉

  No ear to choose for every trivial noise

  But mine, and in so full a time? Away.

  You wrong me, Master Sheriff. Dispose of him

  At your own pleasure. Send the knave to Newgate.

  FALKNER To Newgate? ’Sblood, Sir Thomas More, I appeal, I appeal: from Newgate to any of the two worshipful Counters.

  MORE

  Fellow, whose man are you that are thus lusty?

  FALKNER My name’s Jack Falkner. I serve, next under God and my prince, Master Morris, secretary to my lord of Winchester.

  MORE

  A fellow of your hair is very fit

  To be a secretary’s follower!

  FALKNER I hope so, my lord. The fray was between the Bishop’s men of Ely and Winchester, and I could not in honour but part them. I thought it stood not with my reputation and degree to come to my questions and answers before a city justice. I knew I should to the pot.

  MORE Thou hast been there, it seems, too late already.

  FALKNER I know your honour is wise, and so forth, and I desire to be only catechized or examined by you, my noble Lord Chancellor.

  MORE Sirrah, sirrah, you are a busy dangerous ruffian. FALKNER Ruffian?

  MORE How long have you worn this hair?

  FALKNER I have worn this hair ever since I was born.

  MORE

  You know that’s not my question: but how long

  Hath this shag fleece hung dangling on thy head?

  FALKNER How long, my lord? Why, sometimes thus long, sometimes lower, as the Fates and humours please.

  MORE

  So quick, sir, with me, ha? I see, good fellow,

  Thou lovest plain dealing. Sirrah, tell me now

  When were you last at barber’s? How long time

  Have you upon your head worn this shag hair?

  FALKNER My lord, Jack Falkner tells no Aesop’s fables. Troth, I was not at barber’s this three years. I have not been cut, nor will not be cut, upon a foolish vow which, as the Destinies shall direct, I am sworn to keep.

  MORE When comes that vow out?

  FALKNER Why, when the humours are purged; not these three years.

  MORE

  Vows are recorded in the court of heaven,

  For they are holy acts. Young man, I charge thee

  And do advise thee start not from that vow.

  And for I will be sure thou shalt not shear,

  Besides because it is an odious sight

  To see a man thus hairy, thou shalt lie

  In Newgate till thy vow and thy three years

  Be full expired.—Away with him.

  FALKNER My lord—

  MORE

  Cut off this fleece and lie there but a month.

  FALKNER I’ll not lose a hair to be Lord Chancellor of Europe.

  MORE

  To Newgate then. Sirrah, great sins are bred

  In all that body where there’s a foul head.

  Away with him. Exeunt ⌈all but Randall⌉

  Enter Surrey, Erasmus, and attendants

  SURREY

  Now, great Erasmus, you approach the presence

  Of a most worthy learned gentleman.

  This little isle holds not a truer friend

  Unto the arts; nor doth his greatness add

  A feigned flourish to his worthy parts.

  He’s great in study: that’s the statist’s grace

  That gains more reverence than the outward place.

  ERASMUS

  Report, my lord, hath crossed the narrow seas,

  And to the several parts of Christendom

  Hath borne the fame of your Lord Chancellor.

  I long to see him whom with loving thoughts

  I in my study oft have visited.

  Is that Sir Thomas More?

  SURREY

  It is, Erasmus.

  Now shall you view the honourablest scholar,

  The most religious politician,

  The worthiest counsellor, that tends our state.

  That study is the general watch of England.

  In it, the Prince’s safety and the peace

  That shines upon our commonwealth are forged

  By loyal industry.

  ERASMUS

  I doubt him not

  To be as near the life of excellence

  As you proclaim him, when his meanest servants

  Are of some weight. You saw, my lord, his porter

  Give entertainment to us at the gate

  In Latin good phrase. What’s the master, then,

  When such good parts shine in his meanest men?

  SURREY

  His lordship hath some weighty business,

  For, see, as yet he takes no notice of us.

  ERASMUS

  I think ’twere best I did my duty to him

  In a short Latin speech.

  ⌈He takes off his hat and addresses Randall⌉

  Qui in celeberrima patria natus est et gloriosa plus habet

  negotii ut in lucem veniat quam qui—

  RANDALL I prithee, good Erasmus, be covered. I have forsworn speaking of Latin else, as I am true councillor, I’d tickle you with a speech. Nay, sit, Erasmus. Sit, good my lord of Surrey. I’ll make my lady come to you anon, if she will, and give you entertainment.

  ERASMUS

  Is this Sir Thomas More?

  SURREY

  O good Erasmus,

  You must conceive his vein. He’s ever furnished

  With these conceits.

  RANDALL Yes, faith, my learned poet doth not lie for that matter. I am neither more nor less than merry Sir Thomas always. Wilt’ sup with me? By God, I love a parlous wise fellow that smells of a politician better than a long progress. Enter Sir Thomas More

  SURREY

  We are deluded. This is not his lordship.

  RANDALL I pray you, Erasmus, how long will the Holland cheese in your country keep without maggots?

  MORE

  Fool, painted barbarism, retire thyself

  Into thy first creation. Thus you see,

  My loving learned fri
ends, how far respect

  Waits often on the ceremonious train

  Of base illiterate wealth, whilst men of schools,

  Shrouded in poverty, are counted fools.

  Pardon, thou reverend German, I have mixed

  So slight a jest to the fair entertainment

  Of thy most worthy self. For know, Erasmus,

  Mirth wrinkles up my face, and I still crave

  When that forsakes me I may hug my grave.

  Aut tu Erasmus aut diabolus.

  ERASMUS

  Your honour’s merry humour is best physic

  Unto your able body, for we learn

  Where melancholy chokes the passages

  Of blood and breath, the erected spirit still

  Lengthens our days with sportful exercise.

  Study should be the saddest time of life;

  The rest a sport exempt from thought of strife.

  MORE

  Erasmus preacheth gospel against physic.—

  My noble poet—

  SURREY O my lord, you tax me

  In that word ‘poet’ of much idleness.

  It is a study that makes poor our fate.

  Poets were ever thought unfit for state.

  MORE

  O, give not up fair poesy, sweet lord,

  To such contempt. That I may speak my heart,

  It is the sweetest heraldry of art

  That sets a difference ’tween the tough, sharp holly

  And tender bay tree.

  SURREY Yet, my lord,

  It is become the very lag i’ number

  To all mechanic sciences.

  MORE Why I’ll show the reason

  This is no age for poets. They should sing

  To the loud canon heroica facta:

  Qui faciunt reges heroica carmina laudant;

  And, as great subjects of their pen decay,

  Even so, unphysicked, they do melt away.

  Enter Master Morris

  Come, will your lordship in? My dear Erasmus—

  I’ll hear you, Master Morris, presently.—

  ⌈To Erasmus⌉ My lord, I make you master of my house.

  We’ll banquet here with fresh and staid delights.

  The Muses’ music here shall cheer our spirits.

  The cates must be but mean where scholars sit;

  For they’re made all with courses of neat wit.

  ⌈Exeunt Surrey, Erasmus, and attendants⌉

  How now, Master Morris?

  MORRIS I am a suitor to your lordship in behalf of a servant of mine.

  MORE

  The fellow with long hair, good Master Morris?

  Come to me three years hence, and then I’ll hear you.

  MORRIS I understand your honour; but the foolish knave has submitted himself to the mercy of a barber, and is without, ready to make a new vow before your lordship hereafter to live civil.

  MORE

  Nay then, let’s talk with him; pray call him in.

  Enter Falkner and Officers

  FALKNER Bless your honour: a new man, my lord.

  MORE Why sure this’ not he.

  FALKNER An your lordship will, the barber shall give you a sample of my head. I am he, in faith, my lord, I am ipse.

  MORE

  Why, now thy face is like an honest man’s.

  Thou hast played well at this new-cut and won.

  FALKNER No, my lord, lost all that ever God sent me.

  MORE God sent thee into the world as thou art now, with a short hair. How quickly are three years run out in Newgatel

  FALKNER I think so, my lord, for there was but a hair’s length between my going thither and so long time.

  MORE

  Because I see some grace in thee, go free.—

  Discharge him, fellows. ⌈Exeunt Officers⌉

  Farewell, Master Morris.

  Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit:

  Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit. ⌈exit⌉

  MORRIS Did not I tell thee always of these locks?

  FALKNER An the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside should not pick them open. ’Sheart, if my hair stand not on end when I look for my face in a glass, I am a potecat.—Here’s a lousy jest.—But if I notch not that rogue Tom Barber that makes me look thus like a Brownist, hang me. I’ll be worse to the nittical knave than ten tooth-drawings. Here’s a head with a pox!

  [Addition IV (playhouse scribe; attributed to Dekker)]

  [Addition IV (Dekker)]

  MORRIS What ail’st thou? Art thou mad now?

  FALKNER Mad now? Nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man—what can? I am deposed: my crown is taken from me. More had been better a’ scoured Moorditch than a’ notched me thus. Does he begin sheep-shearing with Jack Falkner?

  MORRIS Nay, an you feed this vein, sir, fare you well.

  FALKNER Why, farewell, frost! I’ll go hang myself out for the—poll-head. Make a Sar’cen of Jack?

  MORRIS

  Thou desperate knave, for that I see the devil

  Wholly gets hold of thee—

  FALKNER The devil’s a damned rascal.

  MORRIS

  I charge thee wait on me no more; no more

  Call me thy master.

  FALKNER Why then, a word, Master Morris.

  MORRIS I’ll hear no words, sir, fare you well.

  FALKNER ’Sblood, farewelll

  MORRIS Why dost thou follow me?

  FALKNER Because I’m an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then cast me off? Must I condole? Have the Fates played the fools? (Weeps) Am I their cut? Now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag and baggage?

  MORRIS You coxcomb!

  FALKNER Nay, you ha’ poached me, you ha’ given me a hire, it’s here, here.

  MORRIS

  Away, you kind ass. Come, sir, dry your eyes.

  Keep your old place, and mend these fooleries.

  FALKNER I care not to be turned off, an ’twere a ladder, so it be in my humour or the Fates beckon to me. Nay, pray, sir, if the Destinies spin me a fine thread, Falkner flies another pitch. And to avoid the headache, hereafter before I’ll be a hairmonger I’ll be a whoremonger.

  Exeunt

  [Addition IV (Dekker)]

  [Addition V (playhouse scribe)]

  Sc. 9 Enter a Messenger to More. Messenger. T. Goodal

  MESSENGER

  My honourable lord, the Mayor of London

  Accompanied with his lady and her train

  Are coming hither, and are hard at hand

  To feast with you. A sergeant’s come before

  To tell your lordship of their near approach.

  ⌈Exit Messenger⌉

  MORE

  Why, this is cheerful news. Friends go and come.

  Reverend Erasmus, whose delicious words

  Express the very soul and life of wit,

  Newly took sad leave of me, with tears

  Troubled the silver channel of the Thames,

  Which, glad of such a burden, proudly swelled

  And on her bosom bore him toward the sea.

  He’s gone to Rotterdam. Peace go with him!

  He left me heavy when he went from hence,

  But this recomforts me. The kind Lord Mayor,

  His brethren aldermen, with their fair wives

  Will feast this night with us. Why, so’t should be.

  More’s merry heart lives by good company.

  ⌈Enter Master Roper and Servingmen⌉

  Good gentlemen, be careful; give great charge

  Our diet be made dainty for the taste.

  For, of all people that the earth affords,

  The Londoners fare richest at their boards.

  [Addition V (playhouse scribe)]

  [Original Text (Munday)]

  Come, my good fellows, stir, be diligent.

  Sloth is an idle fellow. Leave him now.

  The time requires your expeditious service.

  Pl
ace me here stools to set the ladies on.

  ⌈Servingmen set stools⌉

  Son Roper, you have given order for the banquet?

  ROPER

  I have, my lord, and everything is ready.

  Enter Lady More

  MORE

  O welcome, wife. Give you direction

  How women should be placed; you know it best.

  For my Lord Mayor, his brethren, and the rest,

  Let me alone. Men best can order men.

  LADY MORE

  I warrant ye, my lord, all shall be well.

  There’s one without that stays to speak with ye,

  And bade me tell ye that he is a player.

  MORE

  A player, wife?—One of ye bid him come in.

  Exit one, [a Servingman]

  Nay, stir there, fellows. Fie, ye are too slow!

  See that your lights be in a readiness.

  The banquet shall be here.—God’s me, madam,

  Leave my Lady Mayoress? Both of us from the board?

  And my son Roper too? What may our guests think?

  LADY MORE

  My lord, they are risen, and sitting by the fire.

  MORE

  Why, yet go you, and keep them company.

  It is not meet we should be absent both.

  Exit Lady

  Enter Player

  Welcome, good friend. What is your will with me?

  PLAYER

  My lord, my fellows and myself

  Are come to tender ye our willing service,

  So please you to command us.

  MORE

  What, for a play, you mean?

  Whom do ye serve?

  PLAYER

  My Lord Cardinal’s grace.

  MORE

  My Lord Cardinal’s players? Now trust me, welcome.

  You happen hither in a lucky time

  To pleasure me and benefit yourselves.

  The Mayor of London and some aldermen,

  His lady, and their wives are my kind guests

  This night at supper. Now, to have a play

  Before the banquet will be excellent.

  How think you, son Roper?

  ROPER

  ’Twill do well, my lord,

  And be right pleasing pastime to your guests.

  MORE

  I prithee tell me, what plays have ye?

  PLAYER

  Diverse, my lord: The Cradle of Security,

  Hit Nail o’th’ Head, Impatient Poverty,