Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

Firk. Blue coat, be quiet, we’ll give you a new livery else; we’ll make Shrove Tuesday Saint George’s Day for you. Look not, Hammon, leer not! I’ll firk you! For thy head now, one glance, one sheep’s eye, anything, at her! Touch not a rag, lest I and my brethren beat you to clouts.

  Serv. Come, Master Hammon, there’s no striving here.

  Ham. Good fellows, hear me speak; and, honest Ralph,

  Whom I have injured most by loving Jane,

  Mark what I offer thee: here in fair gold

  Is twenty pound, I’ll give it for thy Jane;

  If this content thee not, thou shall have more.

  Hodge. Sell not thy wife, Ralph; make her not a whore.

  Ham. Say, wilt thou freely cease thy claim in her,

  And let her be my wife?

  All. No, do not, Ralph.

  Ralph. Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thy gold, choke with it! Were I not lame, I would make thee eat thy words.

  Firk. A shoemaker sell his flesh and blood? Oh indignity!

  Hodge. Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be packing.

  Ham. I will not touch one penny, but in lieu

  Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane,

  To Jane and thee I give that twenty pound.

  Since I have failed of her, during my life,

  I vow, no woman else shall be my wife.

  Farewell, good fellows of the gentle trade:

  Your morning mirth my mourning day hath made. [Exit.

  Firk. (To the Serving-man.) Touch the gold, creature, if you dare! Y’are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let’s home, my hearts.

  Hodge. Stay! Who comes here? Jane, on again with thy mask!

  Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord Mayor and Servants.

  Lincoln. Yonder’s the lying varlet mocked us so.

  L. Mayor. Come hither, sirrah!

  Firk. I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean me, do you not?

  Lincoln. Where is my nephew married?

  Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.

  L. Mayor. Villain, thou toldst me that my daughter Rose

  This morning should be married at Saint Faith’s;

  We have watched there these three hours at the least,

  Yet see we no such thing.

  Firk. Truly, I am sorry for’t; a bride’s a pretty thing.

  Hodge. Come to the purpose. Yonder’s the bride and bridegroom you look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar by your authority men from women, are you?

  L. Mayor. See, see, my daughter’s masked.

  Lincoln. True, and my nephew,

  To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame.

  Firk. Yea, truly; God help the poor couple, they are lame and blind.

  L. Mayor. I’ll ease her blindness.

  Lincoln. I’ll his lameness cure.

  Firk. Lie down, sirs, and laugh! My fellow Ralph is taken for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all my knavery.

  L. Mayor. What, have I found you, minion?

  Lincoln. O base wretch

  Nay, hide thy face, the horror of thy guilt

  Can hardly be washed off. Where are thy powers?

  What battles have you made? O yes, I see,

  Thou fought’st with Shame, and Shame hath conquered thee.

  This lameness will not serve.

  L. Mayor. Unmask yourself.

  Lincoln. Lead home your daughter.

  L. Mayor. Take your nephew hence.

  Ralph. Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope you cannot enforce my wife from me. Where’s Hammon?

  L. Mayor. Your wife?

  Lincoln. What, Hammon?

  Ralph. Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you that lays hands on her first, I’ll lay my crutch ‘cross his pate.

  Firk. To him, lame Ralph! Here’s brave sport!

  Ralph. Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane. Look here else; do you know her now? [Unmasking Jane.

  Lincoln. Is this your daughter?

  L. Mayor. No, nor this your nephew.

  My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abused

  By this base, crafty varlet.

  Firk. Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I am but mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft.

  L. Mayor. Where is my daughter Rose? Where is my child?

  Lincoln. Where is my nephew Lacy married?

  Firk. Why, here is good laced mutton, as I promised you.

  Lincoln. Villain, I’ll have thee punished for this wrong.

  Firk. Punish the journeyman villain, but not the journeyman shoemaker.

  Enter Dodger.

  Dodger. My lord, I come to bring unwelcome news.

  Your nephew Lacy and your daughter Rose

  Early this morning wedded at the Savoy,

  None being present but the lady mayoress.

  Besides, I learnt among the officers,

  The lord mayor vows to stand in their defence

  ‘Gainst any that shall seek to cross the match.

  Lincoln. Dares Eyre the shoemaker uphold the deed?

  Firk. Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a woman’s quarrel, I warrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too.

  Dodger. Besides, his grace to-day dines with the mayor;

  Who on his knees humbly intends to fall

  And beg a pardon for your nephew’s fault.

  Lincoln. But I’ll prevent him! Come, Sir Roger Oateley;

  The king will do us justice in this cause.

  Howe’er their hands have made them man and wife,

  I will disjoin the match, or lose my life. [Exeunt.

  Firk. Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Farewell, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they had stayed, I would have so lambed them with flouts! O heart, my codpiece-point is ready to fly in pieces every time I think upon Mistress Rose; but let that pass, as my lady mayoress says.

  Hodge. This matter is answered. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my fine shoemakers, let’s to our master’s, the new lord mayor, and there swagger this Shrove-Tuesday. I’ll promise you wine enough, for Madge keeps the cellar.

  All. O rare! Madge is a good wench.

  Firk. And I’ll promise you meat enough, for simp’ring Susan keeps the larder. I’ll lead you to victuals, my brave soldiers; follow your captain. O brave! Hark, hark! [Bell rings.

  All. The pancake-bell rings, the pancake-bell! Tri-lill, my hearts!

  Firk. Oh brave! Oh sweet bell! O delicate pancakes! Open the doors, my hearts, and shut up the windows! keep in the house, let out the pancakes! Oh rare, my hearts! Let’s march together for the honour of Saint Hugh to the great new hall in Gracious Street-corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built.

  Ralph. O the crew of good fellows that will dine at my lord mayor’s cost to-day!

  Hodge. By the Lord, my lord mayor is a most brave man. How shall prentices be bound to pray for him and the honour of the gentlemen shoemakers! Let’s feed and be fat with my lord’s bounty.

  Firk. O musical bell, still! O Hodge, O my brethren! There’s cheer for the heavens: venison-pasties walk up and down piping hot, like sergeants; beef and brewess comes marching in dry-vats, fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheel-barrows; hens and oranges hopping in porters’-baskets, collops and eggs in scuttles, and tarts and custards comes quavering in in malt-shovels.

  Enter more Prentices.

  All. Whoop, look here, look here!

  Hodge. How now, mad lads, whither away so fast?

  1st Prentice. Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why? The lord mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to breakfast this morning.

  All. Oh brave shoemaker, oh brave lord of incomprehensible good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings. [Cast up caps.

  Firk. Nay, more, my hearts! Every Shrove-Tuesday is our year of jubilee;
and when the pancake-bell rings, we are as free as my lord mayor; we may shut up our shops, and make holiday. I’ll have it called Saint Hugh’s Holiday.

  All. Agreed, agreed! Saint Hugh’s Holiday.

  Hodge. And this shall continue for ever.

  All. Oh brave! Come, come, my hearts! Away, away!

  Firk. O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft! March fair, my hearts! Oh rare! [Exeunt.

  SCENE III. — A Street in London.

  ENTER THE KING and his Train across the stage.

  King. Is our lord mayor of London such a gallant?

  Nobleman. One of the merriest madcaps in your land.

  Your grace will think, when you behold the man,

  He’s rather a wild ruffian than a mayor.

  Yet thus much I’ll ensure your majesty.

  In all his actions that concern his state,

  He is as serious, provident, and wise,

  As full of gravity amongst the grave,

  As any mayor hath been these many years.

  King. I am with child, till I behold this huff-cap.

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

  His madness will be dashed clean out of countenance.

  Nobleman. It may be so, my liege.

  King. Which to prevent,

  Let some one give him notice, ’tis our pleasure

  That he put on his wonted merriment.

  Set forward!

  All. On afore! [Exeunt.

  SCENE IV. — A Great Hall.

  ENTER EYRE, HODGE, Firk, Ralph, and other Shoemakers, all with napkins on their shoulders.

  Eyre. Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers; soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers? Let them all walk and wait upon my brethren; for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the livery of my company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign.

  Firk. O my lord, it will be rare!

  Eyre. No more, Firk; come, lively! Let your fellow-prentices want no cheer; let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water. Hang these penny-pinching fathers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb-skins. Rip, knaves, avaunt! Look to my guests!

  Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits’ end for room; those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them.

  Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, Ralph! Frisk about, my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathom-healths to the honour of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk?

  Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have taken their liquor standing so long that they can stand no longer; but for meat, they would eat it, an they had it.

  Eyre. Want they meat? Where’s this swag-belly, this greasy kitchenstuff cook? Call the varlet to me! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat? Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge!

  Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firk; he means, their bellies want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much, they can eat nothing.

  The Second Three Men’s Song.

  Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain,

  Saint Hugh be our good speed:

  Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,

  Nor helps good hearts in need.

  Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,

  And here, kind mate, to thee:

  Let’s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh’s soul,

  And down it merrily.

  Down a down heydown a down,

  Hey derry derry, down a down! (Close with the tenor boy)

  Ho, well done; to me let come!

  Ring, compass, gentle joy.

  Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,

  And here, kind mate, to thee: etc.

  [Repeat as often as there be men to drink; and at last when all have drunk, this verse:

  Cold’s the wind, and wet’s the rain,

  Saint Hugh be our good speed:

  Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,

  Nor helps good hearts in need.

  Enter Hans, Rose, and Margery.

  Marg. Where is my lord?

  Eyre. How now, Lady Madgy?

  Marg. The king’s most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me for thy honour; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass.

  Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren; look to my guests, the prentices. Yet stay a little! How now, Hans? How looks my little Rose?

  Hans. Let me request you to remember me.

  I know, your honour easily may obtain

  Free pardon of the king for me and Rose,

  And reconcile me to my uncle’s grace.

  Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my honest journeyman; look cheerily! I’ll fall upon both my knees, till they be as hard as horn, but I’ll get thy pardon.

  Marg. Good my lord, have a care what you speak to his grace.

  Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot! hence, you hopperarse! you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled carbonado! avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; meddle with your partlets and your pishery-pashery, your flewes and your whirligigs; go, rub, out of mine alley! Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an he were here; and shall I melt, shall I droop before my sovereign? No, come, my Lady Madgy! Follow me, Hans! About your business, my frolic free-booters! Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London.

  Firk. Hey, for the honour of the shoemakers. [Exeunt.

  SCENE V. — An Open Yard before the Hall.

  A LONG FLOURISH, or two. Enter the King, Nobles, Eyre, Margery, Lacy, Rose. Lacy and Rose kneel.

  King. Well, Lacy, though the fact was very foul

  Of your revolting from our kingly love

  And your own duty, yet we pardon you.

  Rise both, and, Mistress Lacy, thank my lord mayor

  For your young bridegroom here.

  Eyre. So, my dear liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren, the gentlemen shoemakers, shall set your sweet majesty’s image cheek by jowl by Saint Hugh for this honour you have done poor Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace, pardon my rude behaviour; I am a handicraftsman, yet my heart is without craft; I would be sorry at my soul, that my boldness should offend my king.

  King. Nay, I pray thee, good lord mayor, be even as merry

  As if thou wert among thy shoemakers;

  It does me good to see thee in this humour.

  Eyre. Say’st thou me so, my sweet Dioclesian? Then, humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the Lord of Ludgate, my liege, I’ll be as merry as a pie.

  King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how old thou art.

  Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling, a younker; you see not a white hair on my head, not a gray in this beard. Every hair, I assure thy majesty, that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon’s ransom, Tamar Cham’s beard was a rubbing brush to’t: yet I’ll shave it off, and stuff 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 six and fifty year old, yet I can cry humph! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danced the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Care and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy nobles, it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born.

  King. Ha, ha!

  Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like?

  Cornwall. Not I, my lord.

  E
nter the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord Mayor.

  King. Lincoln, what news with you?

  Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto yourself,

  For there are traitors here.

  All. Traitors? Where? Who?

  Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid! Where be my officers? I’ll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm.

  King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln?

  Lincoln. Here he stands.

  King. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacy! — Lincoln, speak,

  What canst thou lay unto thy nephew’s charge?

  Lincoln. This, my dear liege: your Grace, to do me honour,

  Heaped on the head of this degenerate boy

  Desertless favours; you made choice of him,

  To be commander over powers in France.

  But he ——

  King. Good Lincoln, prithee, pause a while!

  Even in thine eyes I read what thou wouldst speak.

  I know how Lacy did neglect our love,

  Ran himself deeply, in the highest degree,

  Into vile treason ——

  Lincoln. Is he not a traitor?

  King. Lincoln, he was; now have we pardoned him.

  ’Twas not a base want of true valour’s fire,

  That held him out of France, but love’s desire.

  Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon my back.

  King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln; I forgive you both.

  Lincoln. Then, good my liege, forbid the boy to wed

  One whose mean 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 far,

  That any hand on earth should dare untie

  The sacred knot, knit by God’s majesty;

  I would not for my crown disjoin their hands,

  That are conjoïned in holy nuptial bands.

  How say’st thou, Lacy, wouldst thou lose thy Rose?

  Lacy. Not for all India’s wealth, my sovereign.

  King. But Rose, I am sure, her Lacy would forego?

  Rose. If Rose were asked that question, she’d say no.

  King. You hear them, Lincoln?

  Lincoln. Yea, my liege, I do.

  King. Yet canst thou find i’th’ heart to part these two?

  Who seeks, besides you, to divorce these lovers?

  L. Mayor. I do, my gracious lord, I am her father.