Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

  If flesh be frail, how weak and frail’s your vow!

  Ham. Then by my life I swear.

  Rose. Then do not brawl;

  One quarrel loseth wife and life and all.

  Is not your meaning thus?

  Ham. In faith, you jest.

  Rose. Love loves to sport; therefore leave love, y’are best.

  L. Mayor. What? square they, Master Scott?

  Scott. Sir, never doubt,

  Lovers are quickly in, and quickly out.

  Ham. Sweet Rose, be not so strange in fancying me.

  Nay, never turn aside, shun not my sight;

  I am not grown so fond, to fond my love

  On any that shall quit it with disdain;

  If you will love me, so — if not, farewell.

  L. Mayor. Why, how now, lovers, are you both agreed?

  Ham. Yes, faith, my lord.

  L. Mayor. ’Tis well, give me your hand.

  Give me yours, daughter. — How now, both pull back!

  What means this, girl?

  Rose. I mean to live a maid.

  Ham. But not to die one; pause, ere that be said. [Aside.

  L. Mayor. Will you still cross me, still be obstinate?

  Ham. Nay, chide her not, my lord, for doing well;

  If she can live an happy virgin’s life,

  ’Tis far more blessed than to be a wife.

  Rose. Say, sir, I cannot: I have made a vow,

  Whoever be my husband, ’tis not you.

  L. Mayor. Your tongue is quick; but Master Hammon, know,

  I bade you welcome to another end.

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

  With ‘lovely lady,’ ‘mistress of my heart,’

  ‘Pardon your servant,’ and the rhymer play,

  Railing on Cupid and his tyrant’s-dart;

  Or shall I undertake some martial spoil,

  Wearing your glove at tourney and at tilt,

  And tell how many gallants I unhorsed —

  Sweet, will this pleasure you?

  Rose. Yea, when wilt begin?

  What, love rhymes, man? Fie on that deadly sin!

  L. Mayor. If you will have her, I’ll make her agree.

  Ham. Enforced love is worse than hate to me.

  (Aside.) There is a wench keeps shop in the Old Change,

  To her will I; it is not wealth I seek,

  I have enough, and will prefer her love

  Before the world. — (Aloud.) My good lord mayor, adieu.

  Old love for me, I have no luck with new. [Exit.

  L. Mayor. Now, mammet, you have well behaved yourself,

  But you shall curse your coyness if I live. —

  Who’s within there? See you convey your mistress

  Straight to th’Old Ford! I’ll keep you straight enough.

  Fore God, I would have sworn the puling girl

  Would willingly accepted Hammon’s love;

  But banish him, my thoughts! — Go, minion, in! [Exit Rose.

  Now tell me, Master Scott, would you have thought

  That Master Simon Eyre, the shoemaker,

  Had been of wealth to buy such merchandise?

  Scott. ’Twas well, my lord, your honour and myself

  Grew partners with him; for your bills of lading

  Shew that Eyre’s gains in one commodity

  Rise at the least to full three thousand pound

  Besides like gain in other merchandise.

  L. Mayor. Well, he shall spend some of his thousands now,

  For I have sent for him to the Guildhall.

  Enter Eyre.

  See, where he comes. — Good morrow, Master Eyre.

  Eyre. Poor Simon Eyre, my lord, your shoemaker.

  L. Mayor. Well, well, it likes yourself to term you so.

  Enter Dodger.

  Now, Master Dodger, what’s the news with you?

  Dodger. I’d gladly speak in private to your honour.

  L. Mayor. You shall, you shall. — Master Eyre and Master Scott,

  I have some business with this gentleman;

  I pray, let me entreat you to walk before

  To the Guildhall; I’ll follow presently.

  Master Eyre, I hope ere noon to call you sheriff.

  Eyre. I would not care, my lord, if you might call me

  King of Spain. — Come, Master Scott. [Exeunt Eyre and Scott.

  L. Mayor. Now, Master Dodger, what’s the news you bring?

  Dodger. The Earl of Lincoln by me greets your lordship,

  And earnestly requests you, if you can,

  Inform him, where his nephew Lacy keeps.

  L. Mayor. Is not his nephew Lacy now in France?

  Dodger. No, I assure your lordship, but disguised

  Lurks here in London.

  L. Mayor. London? is’t even so?

  It may be; but upon my faith and soul,

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

  So tell my Lord of Lincoln. — Lurks in London?

  Well, Master Dodger, you perhaps may start him;

  Be but the means to rid him into France,

  I’ll give you a dozen angels for your pains:

  So much I love his honour, hate his nephew.

  And, prithee, so inform thy lord from me.

  Dodger. I take my leave. [Exit Dodger.

  L. Mayor. Farewell, good Master Dodger,

  Lacy in London? I dare pawn my life,

  My daughter knows thereof, and for that cause

  Denied young Master Hammon in his love.

  Well, I am glad I sent her to Old Ford.

  Gods Lord, ’tis late; to Guildhall I must hie;

  I know my brethren stay my company. [Exit.

  SCENE IV. — London: a Room in Eyre’s House.

  ENTER FIRK, MARGERY, Hans, and Roger.

  Marg. Thou goest too fast for me, Roger. O, Firk!

  Firk. Ay, forsooth.

  Marg. I pray thee, run — do you hear? — run to Guildhall, and learn if my husband, Master Eyre, will take that worshipful vocation of Master Sheriff upon him. Hie thee, good Firk.

  Firk. Take it? Well, I go; an’ he should not take it, Firk swears to forswear him. Yes, forsooth, I go to Guildhall.

  Marg. Nay, when? thou art too compendious and tedious.

  Firk. O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence; how like a new cart-wheel my dame speaks, and she looks like an old musty ale-bottle going to scalding.

  Marg. Nay, when? thou wilt make me melancholy.

  Firk. God forbid your worship should fall into that humour; — I run. [Exit.

  Marg. Let me see now, Roger and Hans.

  Hodge. Ay, forsooth, dame — mistress I should say, but the old term so sticks to the roof of my mouth, I can hardly lick it off.

  Marg. Even what thou wilt, good Roger; dame is a fair name for any honest Christian; but let that pass. How dost thou, Hans?

  Hans. Mee tanck you, vro.

  Marg. Well, Hans and Roger, you see, God hath blest your master, and, perdy, if ever he comes to be Master Sheriff of London — as we are all mortal — you shall see, I will have some odd thing or other in a corner for you: I will not be your back-friend; but let that pass. Hans, pray thee, tie my shoe.

  Hans. Yaw, ic sal, vro.

  Marg. Roger, thou know’st the size of my foot; as it is none of the biggest, so I thank God, it is handsome enough; prithee, let me have a pair of shoes made, cork, good Roger, wooden heel too.

  Hodge. You shall.

  Marg. Art thou acquainted with never a farthingale-maker, nor a French hood-maker? I must enlarge my bum, ha, ha! How shall I look in a hood, I wonder! Perdy, oddly, I think.

  Hodge. As a cat out of a pillory: very well, I warrant you, mistress.

  Marg. Indeed, all flesh is grass; and, Roger, canst thou tell where I may buy a good hair?

  Hodge. Yes, forsooth, at the poulterer’s in Gracious Street.

  Marg. Thou art an ungracious wag; perdy, I
mean a false hair for my periwig.

  Hodge. Why, mistress, the next time I cut my beard, you shall have the shavings of it; but they are all true hairs.

  Marg. It is very hot, I must get me a fan or else a mask.

  Hodge. So you had need to hide your wicked face.

  Marg. Fie, upon it, how costly this world’s calling is; perdy, but that it is one of the wonderful works of God, I would not deal with it. Is not Firk come yet? Hans, be not so sad, let it pass and vanish, as my husband’s worship says.

  Hans. Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo.

  Hodge. Mistress, will you drink a pipe of tobacco?

  Marg. Oh, fie upon it, Roger, perdy! These filthy tobacco-pipes are the most idle slavering baubles that ever I felt. Out upon it! God bless us, men look not like men that use them.

  Enter Ralph, lame.

  Roger. What, fellow Ralph? Mistress, look here, Jane’s husband! Why, how now, lame? Hans, make much of him, he’s a brother of our trade, a good workman, and a tall soldier.

  Hans. You be welcome, broder.

  Marg. Perdy, I knew him not. How dost thou, good Ralph? I am glad to see thee well.

  Ralph. I would to God you saw me, dame, as well

  As when I went from London into France.

  Marg. Trust me, I am sorry, Ralph, to see thee impotent. Lord, how the wars have made him sunburnt! The left leg is not well; ’twas a fair gift of God the infirmity took not hold a little higher, considering thou camest from France; but let that pass.

  Ralph. I am glad to see you well, and I rejoice

  To hear that God hath blest my master so

  Since my departure.

  Marg. Yea, truly, Ralph, I thank my Maker; but let that pass.

  Hodge. And, sirrah Ralph, what news, what news in France?

  Ralph. Tell me, good Roger, first, what news in England? How does my Jane? When didst thou see my wife?

  Where lives my poor heart? She’ll be poor indeed,

  Now I want limbs to get whereon to feed.

  Hodge. Limbs? Hast thou not hands, man? Thou shalt never see a shoemaker want bread, though he have but three fingers on a hand.

  Ralph. Yet all this while I hear not of my Jane.

  Marg. O Ralph, your wife, — perdy, we know not what’s become of her. She was here a while, and because she was married, grew more stately than became her; I checked her, and so forth; away she flung, never returned, nor said bye nor bah; and, Ralph, you know, “ka me, ka thee.” And so, as I tell ye —— Roger, is not Firk come yet?

  Hodge. No, forsooth.

  Marg. And so, indeed, we heard not of her, but I hear she lives in London; but let that pass. If she had wanted, she might have opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men; I am sure, there’s not any of them, perdy, but would have done her good to his power. Hans, look if Firk be come.

  Hans. Yaw, ik sal, vro. [Exit Hans.

  Marg. And so, as I said — but, Ralph, why dost thou weep? Thou knowest that naked we came out of our mother’s womb, and naked we must return; and, therefore, thank God for all things.

  Hodge. No, faith, Jane is a stranger here; but, Ralph, pull up a good heart, I know thou hast one. Thy wife, man, is in London; one told me, he saw her a while ago very brave and neat; we’ll ferret her out, an’ London hold her.

  Marg. Alas, poor soul, he’s overcome with sorrow; he does but as I do, weep for the loss of any good thing. But, Ralph, get thee in, call for some meat and drink, thou shalt find me worshipful towards thee.

  Ralph. I thank you, dame; since I want limbs and lands,

  I’ll trust to God, my good friends, and my hands. [Exit.

  Enter Hans and Firk running.

  Firk. Run, good Hans! O Hodge, O mistress! Hodge, heave up thine ears; mistress, smug up your looks; on with your best apparel; my master is chosen, my master is called, nay, condemned by the cry of the country to be sheriff of the city for this famous year now to come. And time now being, a great many men in black gowns were asked for their voices and their hands and my master had all their fists about his ears presently, and they cried ‘Ay, ay, ay, ay,’ — and so I came away —

  Wherefore without all other grieve

  I do salute you, Mistress Shrieve.

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

  Hodge. Did not I tell you, mistress? Now I may boldly say: Good-morrow to your worship.

  Marg. Good-morrow, good Roger. I thank you, my good people all. — Firk, hold up thy hand: here’s a threepenny piece for thy tidings.

  Firk. ’Tis but three-half-pence, I think. Yes, ’tis three-pence, I smell the rose.

  Hodge. But, mistress, be ruled by me, and do not speak so pulingly.

  Firk. ’Tis her worship speaks so, and not she. No, faith, mistress, speak me in the old key: ‘To it, Firk,’ ‘there, good Firk,’ ‘ply your business, Hodge,’ ‘Hodge, with a full mouth,’ ‘I’ll fill your bellies with good cheer, till they cry twang.’

  Enter Eyre wearing a gold chain.

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

  Marg. Welcome home, Master Shrieve; I pray God continue you in health and wealth.

  Eyre. See here, my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre. I shall make thee a lady; here’s a French hood for thee; on with it, on with it! dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, to make thee look lovely. Where be my fine men? Roger, I’ll make over my shop and tools to thee; Firk, thou shalt be the foreman; Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for twenty. Be as mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, and you shall live to be Sheriffs of London. — How dost thou like me, Margery? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. Firk, Hodge, and Hans!

  All three. Ay forsooth, what says your worship, Master Sheriff?

  Eyre. Worship and honour, you Babylonian knaves, for the gentle craft. But I forgot myself, I am bidden by my lord mayor to dinner to Old Ford; he’s gone before, I must after. Come, Madge, on with your trinkets! Now, my true Trojans, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odd crotchets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers. Meet me at Old Ford, you know my mind. Come, Madge, away. Shut up the shop, knaves, and make holiday. [Exeunt.

  Firk. O rare! O brave! Come, Hodge; follow me, Hans;

  We’ll be with them for a morris-dance. [Exeunt.

  SCENE V. — A Room at Old Ford.

  ENTER THE LORD Mayor, Rose, Eyre, Margery in a French hood, Sybil, and other Servants.

  L. Mayor. Trust me, you are as welcome to Old Ford

  As I myself.

  Marg. Truly, I thank your lordship.

  L. Mayor. Would our bad cheer were worth the thanks you give.

  Eyre. Good cheer, my lord mayor, fine cheer! A fine house, fine walls, all fine and neat.

  L. Mayor. Now, by my troth, I’ll tell thee, Master Eyre,

  It does me good, and all my brethren,

  That such a madcap fellow as thyself

  Is entered into our society.

  Marg. Ay, but, my lord, he must learn now to put on gravity.

  Eyre. Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity! When I go to Guildhall in my scarlet gown, I’ll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a justice of peace; but now I am here at Old Ford, at my good lord mayor’s house, let it go by, vanish, Maggy, I’ll be merry; away with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gulleries. What, honey? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. What says my lord mayor?

  L. Mayor. Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pound, I had an heart but half so light as yours.

  Eyre. Why, what should I do, my lord? A pound of care pays not a dram of debt. Hum, let’s be merry, whiles we are young; old age, sack and sugar will steal upon us, ere we be aware.

  The First Three-Men’s Song.

  O the month of May, the merry month of May,

  So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!

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

  “Sweet Peg, thou
shalt be my summer’s queen!

  “Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,

  The sweetest singer in all the forest’s choir,

  Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love’s tale;

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

  “But O, I spy 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 Peggy and I kiss and toy.”

  O the month of May, the merry month of May,

  So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green!

  And then did I unto my true love say:

  “Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my summer’s queen!”

  L. Mayor. It’s well done; Mistress Eyre, pray, give good counsel

  To my daughter.

  Marg. I hope, Mistress Rose will have the grace to take nothing that’s bad.

  L. Mayor. Pray God she do; for i’ faith, Mistress Eyre,

  I would bestow upon that peevish girl

  A thousand marks more than I mean to give her,

  Upon condition she’d be ruled by me;

  The ape still crosseth me. There came of late

  A proper gentleman of fair revenues,

  Whom gladly I would call son-in-law:

  But my fine cockney would have none of him.

  You’ll prove a coxcomb for it, ere you die:

  A courtier, or no man must please your eye.

  Eyre. Be ruled, sweet Rose: th’art ripe for a man. Marry not with a boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery: those silken fellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack; what, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world. [A noise within of a tabor and a pipe.

  L. Mayor. What noise is this?

  Eyre. O my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your honour are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily.

  Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, Firk, and other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a little dancing the Lord Mayor speaks.

  L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these shoemakers?

  Eyre. All cordwainers, my good lord mayor.