Part 8

_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,[94] or that the Pissing-Conduit[95] 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?

[94] A stone in St. Swithin’s (now cased in the wall of the church), which marked the centre from which the old Roman-roads radiated.

[95] A small conduit near the Royal Exchange.

_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.[96]

[96] A pretty sight. See p, 74, l. 1. Compare Shakespeare’s “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” Act III., Sc. 1, 136, and Act IV., Sc. 1, 144.

_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,[97] very early.

[97] Terms used in a common children’s game, the point being to discover in which of the two hands some small object was hidden.

_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._

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

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.[98] Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!

[98] A sweet biscuit, similar to a macaroon.--_Nares._

_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._

[Illustration]

## 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[99] 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.

[99] Fitted.

_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 with you! God be thanked!

_Ham._ Villains, hands off! How dare you touch my love?

_All._ Villains? Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices![100]

[100] In any public affray, the cry was “Clubs, Clubs!” by way of calling for help (particularly by the London ’prentices).--_Nares._

_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[101] from thee.

[101] A piece of lace with a tag, which fastened the busk, or piece of whalebone, used to keep the stays in position.

_Firk._ Stand to that, Ralph; the appurtenances are thine own. Hammon, look not at her!

_Serv._ O, swounds, no!

_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[102] 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.

[102] Whipped.

_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[103] in Gracious Street-corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built.

[103] Leadenhall. [See note _post_, p. 85.]

_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[104] comes marching in dry-vats,[105] 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.

[104] See note _ante_, p. 19.

[105] Barrels.

_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._

[Illustration]

## 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,[106] till I behold this huff-cap.[107] But all my doubt is, when we come in presence, His madness will be dashed clean out of countenance.

[106] In suspense.

[107] _i.e._ Swaggerer.

_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._

[Illustration]

## 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.[108]

[108] See note to First Three Men’s Song, p. 46.

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[109] 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.

[109] Pass, push about from one to the other, in drinking.

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.