Meet thou thy Lacy, where in spite of change,
Your father’s anger, and mine uncle’s hate,
Our happy nuptials will we consummate.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Oh God, what will you do, mistress? Shift for yourself, your father is at hand! He’s coming, he’s coming! Master Lacy, hide yourself in my mistress! For God’s sake, shift for yourselves!
Hans. Your hither come, sweet Rose — what shall I do? Where shall I hide me? How shall I escape?
Rose. A man, and want wit in extremity? Come, come, be Hans still, play the shoemaker, Pull on my shoe.
Enter the Lord Mayor.
Hans. Mass, and that’s well remembered.
Sybil. Here comes your father.
Hans. Forware, metresse, ’tis un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye sal neit betallen.
Rose. Oh God, it pincheth me; what will you do?
Hans. (Aside.) Your father’s presence pincheth, not the shoe.
L. Mayor. Well done; fit my daughter well, and she shall please thee well.
Hans. Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well; forware, ’tis un good skoo, ’tis gimait van neits leither; se euer, mine here.
Enter a Prentice.
L. Mayor. I do believe it. — What’s the news with you?
Prentice. Please you, the Earl of Lincoln at the gate
Is newly ‘lighted, and would speak with you.
L. Mayor. The Earl of Lincoln come to speak with me?
Well, well, I know his errand. Daughter Rose,
Send hence your shoemaker, dispatch, have done!
Syb, make things handsome! Sir boy, follow me. [Exit.
Hans. Mine uncle come! Oh, what may this portend?
Sweet Rose, this of our love threatens an end.
Rose. Be not dismayed at this; whate’er befall,
Rose is thine own. To witness I speak truth,
Where thou appoint’st the place, I’ll meet with thee.
I will not fix a day to follow thee,
But presently steal hence. Do not reply:
Love which gave strength to bear my father’s hate,
Shall now add wings to further our escape. [Exeunt.
SCENE V. — Another Room in the same House.
ENTER THE LORD Mayor and the Earl of Lincoln.
L. Mayor. Believe me, on my credit, I speak truth:
Since first your nephew Lacy went to France,
I have not seen him. It seemed strange to me,
When Dodger told me that he stayed behind,
Neglecting the high charge the king imposed.
Lincoln. Trust me, Sir Roger Oateley, I did think
Your counsel had given head to this attempt,
Drawn to it by the love he bears your child.
Here I did hope to find him in your house;
But now I see mine error, and confess,
My judgment wronged you by conceiving so.
L. Mayor. Lodge in my house, say you? Trust me, my lord,
I love your nephew Lacy too too dearly,
So much to wrong his honour; and he hath done so,
That first gave him advice to stay from France.
To witness I speak truth, I let you know,
How careful I have been to keep my daughter
Free from all conference or speech of him;
Not that I scorn your nephew, but in love
I bear your honour, lest your noble blood
Should by my mean worth be dishonoured.
Lincoln. [Aside.] How far the churl’s tongue wanders from his heart!
Well, well, Sir Roger Oateley, I believe you,
With more than many thanks for the kind love,
So much you seem to bear me. But, my lord,
Let me request your help to seek my nephew,
Whom if I find, I’ll straight embark for France.
So shall your Rose be free, my thoughts at rest,
And much care die which now lies in my breast.
Enter Sybil.
Sybil. Oh Lord! Help, for God’s sake! my mistress; oh, my young mistress!
L. Mayor. Where is thy mistress? What’s become of her?
Sybil. She’s gone, she’s fled!
L. Mayor. Gone! Whither is she fled?
Sybil. I know not, forsooth; she’s fled out of doors with Hans the shoemaker; I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace!
L. Mayor. Which way? What, John! Where be my men? Which way?
Sybil. I know not, an it please your worship.
L. Mayor. Fled with a shoemaker? Can this be true?
Sybil. Oh Lord, sir, as true as God’s in Heaven.
Lincoln. Her love turned shoemaker? I am glad of this.
L. Mayor. A Fleming butter-box, a shoemaker!
Will she forget her birth, requite my care
With such ingratitude? Scorned she young Hammon
To love a honniken, a needy knave?
Well, let her fly, I’ll not fly after her,
Let her starve, if she will; she’s none of mine.
Lincoln. Be not so cruel, sir.
Enter Firk with shoes.
Sybil. I am glad, she’s ‘scaped.
L. Mayor. I’ll not account of her as of my child.
Was there no better object for her eyes
But a foul drunken lubber, swill-belly,
A shoemaker? That’s brave!
Firk. Yea, forsooth; ’tis a very brave shoe, and as fit as a pudding.
L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this? From whence comest thou?
Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoemaker, lusty Roger’s chief lusty journeyman, and I have come hither to take up the pretty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, and thus hoping your worship is in as good health, as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk.
L. Mayor. Stay, stay, Sir Knave!
Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker!
Firk. ’Tis happy the knave is put before the shoemaker, or else I would not have vouchsafed to come back to you. I am moved, for I stir.
L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us knaves by craft.
Firk. Then ’tis by the gentle craft, and to call one knave gently, is no harm. Sit your worship merry! Syb, your young mistress — I’ll so bob them, now my Master Eyre is lord mayor of London.
L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, who’s man are you?
Firk. I am glad to see your worship so merry. I have no maw to this gear, no stomach as yet to a red petticoat. [Pointing to Sybil.
Lincoln. He means not, sir, to woo you to his maid,
But only doth demand who’s man you are.
Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero. Roger, my fellow, is now my master.
Lincoln. Sirrah, know’st thou one Hans, a shoemaker?
Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak it in secret: Mistress 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 sheets?” It is that Hans — (Aside.) I’ll so gull these diggers!
L. Mayor. Know’st thou, then, where he is?
Firk. Yes, forsooth; yea, marry!
Lincoln. Canst thou, in sadness ——
Firk. No, forsooth; no, marry!
L. Mayor. Tell me, good honest fellow, where he is,
And thou shalt see what I’ll bestow on thee.
Firk. Honest fellow? No, sir; not so, sir; my profession is the gentle craft; I care not for seeing, I love feeling; let me feel it here; aurium tenus, ten pieces of gold; genuum tenus, ten pieces of silver; and then Firk is your man in a new pair of stretchers.
L. Mayor. Here is an angel, part of thy reward,
Which I will give thee; tell me where he is.
Firk. No point! Shall I betray my brother? no! Shall I prove Judas to Hans? no! Shall I cry treason to my corporation? no, I shall be firked and yerked then. But give me your angel; your angel shall tell you.
Lincoln. Do so, good fellow; ’tis no hurt to thee.
/> Firk. Send simpering Syb away.
L. Mayor. Huswife, get you in. [Exit Sybil.
Firk. Pitchers have ears, and maids have wide mouths; but for Hans Prauns, upon my word, to-morrow morning he and young Mistress Rose go to this gear, they shall be married together, by this rush, or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter, to tan leather withal.
L. Mayor. But art thou sure of this?
Firk. Am I sure that Paul’s steeple is a handful higher than London Stone, or that the Pissing-Conduit leaks nothing but pure Mother Bunch? Am I sure I am lusty Firk? God’s nails, do you think I am so base to gull you?
Lincoln. Where are they married? Dost thou know the church.
Firk. I never go to church, but I know the name of it; it is a swearing church — stay a while, ’tis — ay, by the mass, no, no,— ’tis — ay, by my troth, no, nor that; ’tis — ay, by my faith, that, that, ’tis, ay, by my Faith’s Church under Paul’s Cross. There they shall be knit like a pair of stockings in matrimony; there they’ll be inconie.
Lincoln. Upon my life, my nephew Lacy walks
In the disguise of this Dutch shoemaker.
Firk. Yes, forsooth.
Lincoln. Doth he not, honest fellow?
Firk. No, forsooth; I think Hans is nobody but
Hans, no spirit.
L. Mayor. My mind misgives me now, ’tis so, indeed.
Lincoln. My cousin speaks the language, knows the trade.
L. Mayor. Let me request your company, my lord;
Your honourable presence may, no doubt,
Refrain their headstrong rashness, when myself
Going alone perchance may be o’erborne.
Shall I request this favour?
Lincoln. This, or what else.
Firk. Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to their hey-pass and repass, pindy-pandy, which hand will you have, very early.
L. Mayor. My care shall every way equal their haste.
This night accept your lodging in my house,
The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint Faith’s
Prevent this giddy hare-brained nuptial.
This traffic of hot love shall yield cold gains:
They ban our loves, and we’ll forbid their banns. [Exit.
Lincoln. At Saint Faith’s Church thou say’st?
Firk. Yes, by their troth.
Lincoln. Be secret, on thy life. [Exit.
Firk. Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, ha, here’s no craft in the gentle craft. I came hither of purpose with shoes to Sir Roger’s worship, whilst Rose, his daughter, be cony-catched by Hans. Soft now; these two gulls will be at Saint Faith’s Church to-morrow morning, to take Master Bridegroom and Mistress Bride napping, and they, in the mean time, shall chop up the matter at the Savoy. But the best sport is, Sir Roger Oateley will find my fellow lame Ralph’s wife going to marry a gentleman, and then he’ll stop her instead of his daughter. Oh brave! there will be fine tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to do? Oh, I know; now a mess of shoemakers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy Lane, to cozen my gentleman of lame Ralph’s wife, that’s true.
Alack, alack!
Girls, hold out tack!
For now smocks for this jumbling
Shall go to wrack. [Exit.
ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I. — A Room in Eyre’s House.
ENTER EYRE, MARGERY, Hans, and Rose.
Eyre. This is the morning, then; stay, my bully, my honest Hans, is it not?
Hans. This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable; therefore, if you ——
Eyre. Away with these ifs and ands, Hans, and these et caeteras! By mine honour, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor of London? Fear nothing, Rose: let them all say what they can; dainty, come thou to me — laughest thou?
Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.
Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah! Fie, I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou had’st never covered thy Saracen’s head with this French flap, nor loaden thy bum with this farthingale, (’tis trash, trumpery, vanity); Simon Eyre had never walked in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine journeyman’s Portuguese. — And shall I leave him? No! Prince am I none, yet bear a princely mind.
Hans. My lord, ’tis time for us to part from hence.
Eyre. Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take two or three of my pie crust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at Simon Eyre’s heels; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my delicate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy; see them linked, countenance the marriage; and when it is done, cling, cling together, you Hamborow turtle-doves. I’ll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou shalt eat minced-pies and marchpane. Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!
Marg. Farewell, my lord.
Rose. Make haste, sweet love.
Marg. She’d fain the deed were done.
Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than deer we’ll run. [Exeunt Hans, Rose, and Margery.
Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate, it’s a mad life to be a lord mayor; it’s a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honour of Saint Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I’ll do’t, I’ll do’t, by the life of Pharaoh; by this beard, Sim Eyre will be no flincher. Besides, I have procured that upon every Shrove-Tuesday, 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 do’t, they shall do’t.
Boys, that day are you free, let masters care,
And prentices shall pray for Simon Eyre. [Exit.
SCENE II. — A Street near St. Faith’s Church.
ENTER HODGE, FIRK, Ralph, and five or six Shoemakers, all with cudgels or such weapons.
Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong; were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure ’tis thy wife?
Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I stroked on her shoes, I looked upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, asked me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said she — tears standing in her eyes — and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this piece of gold. I took it; my lame leg and my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she’s mine.
Firk. Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold! She’s thine own, ’tis thy wife, and she loves thee; for I’ll stand to’t, there’s no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks better of him, than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London. Is not our old master Eyre, lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.
All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to his cost.
Enter Hammon, his Serving-man, Jane and Others.
Hodge. Peace, my bullies; yonder they come.
Ralph. Stand to’t, my hearts. Firk, let me speak first.
Hodge. No, Ralph, let me. — Hammon, whither away so early?
Ham. Unmannerly, rude slave, what’s that to thee?
Firk. To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, and others. Good-morrow, Jane, how dost thou? Good Lord, how the world is changed wi
th you! God be thanked!
Ham. Villains, hands off! How dare you touch my love?
All. Villains? Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices!
Hodge. Hold, my hearts! Touch her, Hammon? Yea, and more than that: we’ll carry her away with us. My masters and gentlemen, never draw your bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the back, men every inch of them, all spirit.
Those of Hammon’s side. Well, and what of all this?
Hodge. I’ll show you. — Jane, dost thou know this man? ’Tis Ralph, I can tell thee; nay, ’tis he in faith, though he be lamed by the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the neck and kiss him.
Jane. Lives then my husband? Oh God, let me go,
Let me embrace my Ralph.
Ham. What means my Jane?
Jane. Nay, what meant you, to tell me, he was slain?
Ham. Pardon me, dear love, for being misled.
(To Ralph.) ’Twas rumoured here in London, thou wert dead.
Firk. Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack home with him. Now, Master Hammon, where’s your mistress, your wife?
Serv. ‘Swounds, master, fight for her! Will you thus lose her?
All. Down with that creature! Clubs! Down with him!
Hodge. Hold, hold!
Ham. Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no wrong.
Will my Jane leave me thus, and break her faith?
Firk. Yea, sir! She must, sir! She shall, sir! What then? Mend it!
Hodge. Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my counsel: set the wench in the midst, and let her choose 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 weeds
Makes thee more beautiful than all his wealth.
Therefore, I will but put off his attire,
Returning it into the owner’s hand,
And after ever be thy constant wife.
Hodge. Not a rag, Jane! The law’s on our side; he that sows in another man’s ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph; follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point from thee.
Firk. Stand to that, Ralph; the appurtenances are thine own. Hammon, look not at her!
Serv. O, swounds, no!
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 6