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Kinde Gentlemen, and honest boone Companions, I present you
here with a merrie conceited Comedie, called, the Shoemakers
Holyday, acted by my Lorde
Admiralls Players this present
Christmasse, before
the Queenes most excellent Majestie. For the
mirth
and plesant matter, by her Highnesse graciously
accepted;
being indeed no way offensive. The
Argument of the play I will
set downe in this
Epistle: Sir Hugh Lacie Earle of
Lincolne, had a
yong
Gentleman of his owne name, his nere kinsman, that
loved
the Lorde Maiors daughter of London; to
prevent and crosse which
love, the Earle caused his
kinsman to be sent Coronell of com
panie into France: who resigned his place to another gentleman his
friend, and came disguised like a Dutch Shoomaker, to the house
of Symon Eyre in Tower streete, who served the Maior and his
household with shooes. The merriments that passed in Eyres house, his
comming to be Maior of London, Lacies getting his love, and other
accidents; with two merry Three-mens songs. Take all in good
worth that is well intended, for nothing is purposed bu mirth,
mirht lengthneth long life; which, with all other blessings I heartily
wish you.
Farewell.
How gladly would your uncle have you gone?
Leave whining, leave whining, away with this
whimpr
ing, this pewling, these blubbring teares, and these wet eies, Ile
get thy husband discharg'd, I warrant thee sweete Jane: go to.
Master, here be the captaines.
Peace Hodge, husht ye knave, husht.
Here be the cavaliers, and the coronels, maister.
Peace Firke, peace my fine firke, stand by with
your
pishery pasherie, away, I am a man of the
best presence, Ile speake
to them and they were
Popes: gentlemen, captaines, colonels, com
manders: brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me
audience, I am Simon Eyre, the mad Shoomaker of Towerstreete,
This wench with the mealy mouth that will neve tire, is my iwfe
I can tel you, heres Hodge my man, and my foreman, here Firke
my fine firking journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane, al we
come to be suters for this honest Rafe, keep him at home, and
as I am a true shoomaker, and a gentleman of the Gentle Craft,
buy spurs your self, and Ile find ye bootes these seven yeeres.
Seven yeares husband?
Peace Midriffe, peace, I know what I do, peace.
Truly master cormorant, you shal do God good
service
to let Rafe and his wife stay togehter,
shees a yong new married
woman, if you take her
husband away from her a night, you
undoo her,
she may beg in the day time, for hees as good a
work
man at a pricke and an awle, as any is in our trade.
O let him stay, else I sal be undone.
I truly, she shal be laid at one side like a paire of old shooes
else, and be occupied for no use.
Why then you were as good be a corporall, as a colonel,
if you cannot discharge one good fellow, and I tell you true, I
thinke you doe more then you can answere, to presse a man
within a yeare and a day of his mariage.
Wel said melancholy Hodge, gramercy my fine foreman.
Truly gentlemen, it were il done, for such as you, to
stand so stiffely against a poore young wife: considering her
case, she is new married, but let that passe: I pray deale not
roughly with her, her husband is a yong man and but newly
entred, but let that passe.
Away with your pisherie pasherie, your pols and yoru
edipolls, peace Midriffe, silence Cisly Bumtrincket, let your head
speake.
Yea and the hornes too, master.
Tawsoone, my fine Firk, tawsoone: peace
scoundrels, see
you this man, Captaines? you
will not release him, wel let him go,
hee's a
proper shot, let him vanish, peace Jane, drie up thy
teares,
theile make his powder dankish, take him
brave men, Hector of
Troy was an hackney to him,
Hercules and Termagant scound
relles, Prince Arhturs Round table, by the Lord of Ludgate, nere
fed such a tall, such a dapper swordman, by the life of Pharo, a
brave resolute swordman: peace Jane, I say no more, mad
knaves.
See, see Hodge, how my maister raves in commendation of
Rafe.
Raph, thart a gull by this hand, and thou goest not.
Is thy name Raph?
Yes sir.
Thart a gull by my stirrop, if thou dost not goe, I wil not
have thee strike thy gimblet into these weake vessels, pricke thine
enemies Rafe.
Cosin, let us go.
Feare not good cosen: Raph, hie to your colours.
Alas my Raph.
She cannot speake for weeping.
Peace you crackt groates, you mustard tokens, disquiet
not the brave souldier, goe thy waies Raph.
I, I, you bid him go, what shal I do when he is gone?
Why be doing with me, or my felow Hodge, be not idle.
Let me see thy hand Jane, this fine hand, this white hand,
these prettie fingers must spin, must card, must worke, worke
you bombast cotten-candle-queane, worke for your living with
a pox to you: hold thee Raph, heres five sixpences for thee,
fight for the honour of the Gentle Craft, for the gentlemen
Shoomakers, the couragious Cordwainers, the flower of saint
Martins, the mad knaves of Bedlem, Fleetstreete, Towerstreete,
and white Chappell, cracke me the crownes of the French
knaves, a poxe on them, cracke them, fight, by the lord of
Ludgate, fight my fine boy.
Here Rafe, here's three two pences, two carry into France,
the third shal wash our soules at parting (for sorrow is drie) for
my sake, firke the Basa mon cues.
Raph, I am heavy at parting, but heres a shilling for
thee, God send thee to cramme thy slops with French crownes,
and thy enemies bellies with bullets.
Good morrow yong Mistris, I am sure you make that
garland for me, against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.
Sibil, what news at London?
None but good: my lord Mayor your father, and maister
Philpot your uncle, and maister Scot your coosin, and mistris
Frigbottom by Doctors Commons, doe all (by my troth) send
you most hearty commendations.
Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?
O yes, out of cry, by my troth, I scant knew him, here a
wore a scarffe, and here a scarfe, here a bunch of fethers, and here
pretious stones and jewells, and a paire of garters: O monstrous!
like one of our yellow silke curtains, at home here in Old-ford
house, here in maister Bellymounts chamber. I stoode at our
doore in Cornehill, lookt at him, he at me indeed, spake to him,
but he not to me, not a word, mary gup thought I with a
wanion, he passt by me as prowde, mary foh, are you growne
humourous thought I? and so shut the doore, and in I came.
Milde? yea, as a bushel of stampt crabs, he lookt upon me as
sowre as verjuice: goe thy wayes thought I, thou maist be much
in my gaskins, but nothing in my neatherstockes: this is your
fault mistris, to love him that loves not you, he thinkes scorne
to do as he's done to, but if I were as you, Ide cry, go by Ieronimo,
go by,
Will my love leave me then and go to France?
I knowe not that, but I am sure I see him stalke before
the souldiers, by my troth he is a propper man, but he is proper
that proper doth, let him goe snicke-up yong mistris.
Wil I quoth a? at whose suite? by my troth yes, Ile go, a
cambricke apron, gloves, a paire of purple stockings, and a
stomacher, Ile sweat in purple mistris for you, ile take any thing
that comes a Gods name, O rich, a Cambricke apron; faith then
have at up tailes all, Ile go, Jiggy, Joggy to London, and be here
in a trice yong mistris.
Where be these boyes, these girles, these drabbes, these
scoundrels, they wallow in the fat brewisse of my bountie, and
licke up the crums of my table, yet wil not rise to see my walkes
cleanse: come out you powder-beefe-queanes, what Nan,
what Madge-mumble-crust, come out you fatte Midriffe-swag-
belly whores, and sweepe me these kennels, that the noysome
stench offende not the nose of my neighbours: what Firke I say,
what Hodge? open my shop windowes, what Firke I say.
O master, ist you that speake bandog and bedlam this
morning, I was in a dreame, and muzed what madde man was
got into the streete so earlie, have you drunke this morning that
you throate is so cleere?
Ah well said, Firke, well said Firke, to worke my fine
knave, to worke, wash thy face, and thou't be more blest.
Let them wash my face that will eate it, good master send
for a sowce wife, if youle have my face cleaner.
Away sloven, avaunt scoundrell, good morrow Hodge,
good morrow my fine foreman.
O maister, good morrow, yare an earlie stirrer, heeres a
faire morning, good morrow Firke, I could have slept this
howre, heeres a brave day towards.
O haste to worke my fine foreman, haste to worke.
Maister I am drie as dust, to heare my fellow Roger talke
of faire weather, let us pray for good leather, and let clownes and
plowboyes, and those that worke in the fieldes, pray for brave
dayes, wee worke in a drie shop, what care I if it raine?
How now dame Margery, can you see to rise? trip and go,
call up the drabs maides.
See to rise? I hope tis time inough, tis earlie inough
for any woman to be seene abroad, I marvaile how manie wives
in Towerstreet are up so soon? Gods me, tis not noone, heres a
yawling.
Peace Margerie, peace, wheres Cisly Bumtrinket your
maide? she has a privie fault, she fartes in her sleepe, call the
queane up, if my men want shooethreed, ile swinge her in a
stirrop.
Yet thats but a drie beating, heres still a signe of drought.
Maister, for my life yonders a brother of the Gentle Craft,
if he beare not saint Hughes bones, Ile forfeit my bones, hees
some uplandish workman, hire him good master, that I may learne
some gibble, gabble, twill make us worke the faster.
Peace Firke, a hard world, let him passe, let him vanish, we
have journeymen enow, peace my fine Firke.
Nay, nay, y'are best follow your mans councell,
you shal see what wil come on't: we have not men enow, but we
must entertaine everie butter-boxe: but let that passe.
Dame, fore God if my maister follow your counsell,
heele consume little beefe, he shal be glad of men and hee can
catch them.
I that he shall.
Fore God a proper man, and I warrant a fine
work
man: maister farewell, dame adew, if such a man as he cannot find
worke, Hodge is not for you.
Stay my fine Hodge.
Faith, and your foreman goe, dame you must take a
journey to seeke a new jorneyman, if Roger remove, Firke
followes, if saint Hughs bones shall not be set a worke, I may
pricke mine awle in the wals, and goe play: fare ye wel master,
God buy dame.
Tarrie my fine Hodge, my briske foreman, stay Firke,
peace pudding broath, by the lord of Ludgate I love my men as
my life, peace you gallimafrie, Hodge if he want worke Ile hire
him, one of you to him, stay, he comes to us.
Goeden dach meester, ende u vro oak.
Nayls if I should speake after him without drinking, I
shuld choke, and you find Oake, are you of the Gentle Craft?
Yaw, yaw, Ik bin den skomawker.
Den skomaker quoth a, and heark you skomaster, have
you all your tooles, a good rubbing pinne, a good stopper, a
good dresser, your foure sorts of awles, and your two balles of
waxe, your parting knife, your hand and thumb-leathers, and good
saint Hughs bones to smooth up your worke.
Yaw yaw be niet vorveard, Ik hab all de dingen, voour
mack skoes groot and cleane.
Ha ha good maister hire him, heele make me laugh so that
I shal worke more in mirth, then I can in earnest.
Heare ye friend, have ye any skill in the mistery of
Cordwainers?
Ik weet niet wat yow seg ich verstaw you niet.
Why thus man, Ich verste u niet quoth a.
Yaw, yaw, yaw, ick can dat wel doen.
Yaw, yaw, he speakes yawing like a Jacke daw, that gapes
to be fed with cheese curdes, O heele give a villanous pul at a Can
of double Beere, but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must
drinke first, because wee are the eldest journeymen.
What is thy name?
Hans, Hans, Meulter.
Give my thy hand, th'art welcome, Hodge entertaine him,
Fyrk bid him welcome, come Hans, runne wife, bid your maids,
your Trullibubs, make readie my fine mens brekefasts: to him
Hodge.
Hans, th'art welcome, use thy selfe friendly, for we are
good fellowes, if not thou shalt be fought with, wert thou
bigger then a Giant.
Yea and drunke with, wert thou Gargantua, my
maister
keepes no cowards, I tel thee: hoe, boy,
bring him an heele
blocke, heers a new journeyman.
O ich wersto you, Ich moet een halve dossen Cans
betaelen: here boy nempt dis skilling, tap eens freelicke.
Quicke snipper snapper, away: Fyrk,
scowre thy throate,
thou shalt wash it with Castilian licour Enter BOY.
come my last of the fives, give me a Can, have to thee Hans,
here Hodge, here Fyrk, drinke you mad Greeks, and worke like
tru Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre the Shoomaker: here
Hans, and th'art welcome.
Lo dame you would have lost a good fellow that wil teach
us to laugh, this beere came hopping in wel.
Simon it is almost seven.
Is't so dame clapper dudgeon, is't seven a clocke, and my
mens breakefast not readie? trip and goe you sowst cunger, away,
come you madde Hiperboreans, follow me Hodge, follow me
Hans, come after my fine Fyrk, to worke, to worke a while, and
then to breakfast.
Soft, yaw, yaw, good Hans, though my master have no
more wit, but to call you afore mee, I am not so foolish to go
behind you, I being the elder journeyman.
How now boy, wheres the deere? speak, sawst thou
him?
O, yea I saw him leape through a hedge, and then over a
ditch, then at my Lord Maiors pale, over he skipt me and in he
went me, and holla the hunters cride, and there boy there boy,
but there he is a mine honestie.
Boy God amercy, cosen lets away,
I hope we shal find better sport to day.
Why Sibill wilt thou prove a forrester?
Upon some no, forrester, go by: no faith mistris, the deere
came running into the barne through the orchard, and over the
pale, I wot wel, I lookt as pale as a new cheese to see him, but
whip saies goodman Pinne-close, up with his flaile, and our
Nicke with a prong, and downe he fel, and they upon him, and
I upon them, by my troth we had such sport, and in the end we
ended him, his throate we cut, flead him, unhornd him, and my
lord Maior shal eat of him anon when he comes.
God save you faire ladies.
Ladies, O grosse!
Come not a bucke this way?
No, but two Does.
And which way went they? faith weel hunt at those.
At those? upon some no: when, can you tell?
Upon some, I.
Good Lord!
Wounds then farewell.
Boy, which way went he?
This way sir he ranne.
This way he ranne indeede, faire mistris Rose,
Our game was lately in your orchard seene.
Can you advise which way he tooke his flight?
Followe your nose, his hornes will guide you right.
Thart a mad wench.
O rich!
Which way my suger-candie, can you shew?
Come up good honnisops, upon some, no.
Why doe you stay, and not pursue your game?
Ile hold my life their hunting nags be lame.
A deere, more deere is found within this place.
But not the deere (sir) which you had in chace.
I chac'd the deere, but this deere chaceth me.
Tis here: O stay.
Impale me, and then I will not stray.
They wrangle wench, we are more kind then they.
What kind of hart is that (deere hart) you seeke?
A hart, deare hart.
Who ever saw the like?
To loose your heart, is't possible you can?
My heart is lost.
Alacke good gentleman.
This poore lost hart would I wish you might find.
You by such lucke might prove your hart a hind.
Why Lucke had hornes, so have I heard some say.
Now God and't be his wil send Luck into your way.
What maister Hammon, welcome to old Ford.
Gods pittikins, hands off sir, heers my Lord.
I heare you had ill lucke, and lost your game.
Tis true my Lord.
Ick sal yow wat seggen Hans, dis skip dat comen from
Candy is al wol, by gots sacrament, van sugar, civet, almonds,
cambrick, end alle dingen towsand ding, nempt it
Hans, nempt it vor u meester, daer be de bils van laden, your
meester Simon Eyre sal hae good copen, wat seggen yow Hans?
Wat seggen de reggen de copen, slopen, laugh Hodge
laugh.
Mine liever broder Firk, bringt meester Eyre tot ben signe
un swannekin, daer sal yow finde dis skipper end me, wat
seggen yow broder Firk? doot it Hodge, come skipper.
Bring him quoth you, heers no knaverie, to bring my
master to buy a ship, worth the lading of two or three hundred
thousand pounds, alas thats nothing, a trifle, a bable Hodge.
The truth is Firk, that the marchant owner of the ship
dares not shew his head, and therefore this skipper that deales
for him, for the love he beares to Hans, offers my master Eyre
a bargaine in the commodities, he shal have a reasonable day of
payment, he may sel the wares by that time, and be an huge gainer
himselfe.
Yea, but can my fellow Hans lend my master twentie
porpentines as an earnest pennie.
Portegues thou wouldst say, here they be Firke, heark,
they gingle in my pocket like saint Mary Overies bels.
Mum, here comes my dame and my maister, sheele scold
on my life, for loytering this Monday, but al's one, let them al
say what they can, Monday's our holyday.
You sing sir sauce, but I beshrew your heart,
I feare for this your singing we shal smart.
Smart for me dame, why dame, why?
Maister I hope yowle not suffer my dame to take downe
your journeymen.
If she take me downe, Ile take her up, yea and take her
downe too, a button-hole lower.
Peace Firke, not I Hodge, by the life of Pharao, by the
Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every haire whereof I valew at a
kings ransome, shee shal not meddle with you, peace you
bumbast-cotten-candle Queane, away queene of Clubs, quarrel
not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firke, Ile firke
you if you do.
Yea, yea man, you may use me as you please: but let
that passe.
Let it passe, let it vanish away: peace, am I not
Simon
Eyre? are not these my brave men? brave
shoomakers, all gentle
men of the gentle craft? prince am I none, yet am I noblie
borne, as beeing the sole sonne of a Shoomaker, away rubbish,
vanish, melt, melt like kitchinstuffe.
Yea, yea, tis wel, I must be cald rubbish,
kithcin
stuffe, for a sort of knaves.
Nay dame, you shall not weepe and waile in woe for me:
master Ile stay no longer, here's a vennentorie of my shop tooles:
adue master, Hodge farewel.
Nay stay Firke, thou shalt not go alone.
I pray let them goe, there be mo maides then mawkin,
more men then Hodge, and more fooles then Firke.
Fooles? nailes if I tarry nowe, I would my guts might be
turnd to shoo-thread.
And if I stay, I pray God I may be turnd to a Turke,
and set in Finsbury for boyes to shoot at: come Firk.
Stay my fine knaves, you armes of my trade, you pillars of
my profession. What, shal a tittle tattles words make you forsake
Simon Eyre? avaunt kitchinstuffe, rip you brown bread tannikin,
out of my sight, move me not, have not I tane you from selling
tripes in Eastcheape, and set you in my shop, and made you haile
fellowe with Simon Eyre the shoomaker? and now do you deale
thus with my Journeymen? Looke you powder beefe queane on
the face of Hodge, heers a face for a Lord.
And heers a face for any Lady in Christendome.
A doozen Cans? O brave, Hodge now Ile stay.
And the knave fils any more then two, he payes for
them:
Aside
a dozen Cans of beere for my journeymen,
Enter BOY with two cans and exit
heare you mad Mesopotamians, wash your livers with this
liquor, where be the odde ten? no more Madge, no more, wel
saide, drinke and to work: what worke dost thou Hodge? what
work?
I am a making a paire of shooes for my Lord Maiors
daughter, mistresse Rose.
And I a paire of shooes for Sybill my Lords maid, I deale
with her.
Sybil? fie, defile not thy fine workemanly fingers with the
feete of Kitchinstuffe, and basting ladles, Ladies of the Court,
fine Ladies, my lads, commit their feete to our apparelling, put
grosse worke to Hans: yarke and seame, yarke and seame.
For yarking and seaming let me alone, and I come toot.
Wel maister, al this is from the bias, do you remember
the ship my fellow Hans told you of? the Skipper and he are
both drinking at the Swan, here be the Portigues to give earnest,
if you go through with it, you can not choose but be a Lord at
least.
Nay dame, if my master prove not a Lord, and you a Ladie,
hang me.
Yea like inough, if you may loiter and tipple thus.
Tipple dame? no, we have beene bargaining with Skellum
Skanderbag can you Dutch spreaken for a ship of silke Cipresse,
laden with sugar Candie.
Peace Firk, silence tittle tattle: Hodge, Ile go through with
it, heers a seale ring, and I have sent for a garded gown, and a
damask Casock, see where it comes, looke here Maggy, help me
Firk, apparrel me Hodge, silke and satten you mad Philistines,
silke and satten.
Ha, ha, my maister wil be as proud as a dogge in a dublet,
al in beaten damaske and velvet.
Softly Firke, for rearing of the npa, and wearing
thread
bare my garments: how dost thou like mee Firke? how do I
looke, my fine Hodge?
Why now you looke like your self master, I warrant you,
ther's few in the city, but wil give you the wal, and come upon
you with the right worshipful.
Nailes my master lookes like a thred-bare cloake new
turn'd, and drest: Lord, Lord, to see what good raiment doth?
dame, dame, are you not enamoured?
How saist thou Maggy, am I not brisk? am I not fine?
Fine? by my troth sweet hart very fine: by my troth
I never likte thee so wel in my life sweete heart. But let that
passe, I warrant there by many women in the citie have not such
handsome husbands but only for their apparell, but let that passe
too.
Godden day mester, dis be de skipper dat heb de skip van
marchandice, de commodity ben good, nempt it master, nempt it.
Godamercy Hans, welcome skipper, where lies this ship of
marchandice?
De skip ben in revere: dor be van Sugar, Cyvet,
Almonds, Cambricke, and a towsand towsand tings, gotz
sacrament, nempt it mester, yo sal heb good copen.
To him maister, O sweete maister, O sweet wares, prunes,
almons, suger-candy, carrat roots, turnups, O brave fatting
meate, let not a man buye a nutmeg but your selfe.
Peace Firke, come Skipper, Ile go aboarde with you, Hans
have you made him drinke?
Yaw, yaw, ic heb veale ge drunck.
Come Hans follow me: Skipper, thou shalt have my
countenance in the Cittie.
Yaw heb veale ge drunck, quoth a: they may well be
called butter-boxes, when they drinke fat veale, and thick beare
too: but come dame, I hope you'le chide us no more.
No faith Firke, no perdy Hodge, I do feele honour
creepe upon me, and which is more, a certaine rising in my flesh,
but let that passe.
Rising in your flesh do you feele say you? I you may be
with childe, but why should not my maister feele a rising in his
flesh, having a gowne and a gold ring on, but you are such a
shrew, you'le soone pull him downe.
Ha, ha, prethee peace, thou mak'st my worshippe
laugh, but let that passe: come Ile go in, Hodge prethee goe
before me, Firke follow me.
Firke doth follow, Hodge passe out in state.
How now good Dodger, whats the newes in France?
My Lord, your cosen Lacie was not there.
Not there?
No, my good Lord.
I warrant you my Lord.
Why how now lovers, are you both agreede?
Yes faith my Lord.
Tis well, give me your hand, give me yours
daughter.
How now, both pull backe, what meanes this, girle?
I meane to live a maide.
But not to die one, pawse ere that be said.
Wil you stil crosse me? still be obstinate?
See where he comes: good morrow master Eyre.
Poore Simon Eyre, my Lord, your shoomaker.
Ide gladly speake in private to your honour.
Thou goest too fast for me Roger. O Firke.
I forsooth.
I pray thee runne (doe you heare) runne to
Guild
Hall, and learne if my husband master Eyre
wil take that wor
shipfull vocation of maister Shiriffe upon him, hie thee good
Firke.
Take it? well I goe, and he should not take it, Firk
sweares to forsweare him, yes forsooth I goe to Guild Hall.
Nay when? thou art tooo compendious, and tedious.
O rare, your excellence is full of eloquence,
Aside
like a new cart wheele my dame speakes, and she lookes like an
old musty ale-bottle going to scalding.
Nay when? thou wilt make me melancholy.
God forbid your worship should fall into that humour, I
runne.
Let me see now Roger and Hans.
I forsooth dame (mistris I should say) but the old terme
so stickes to the roofe of my mouth, I can hardly like it off.
Even what thou wilt good Roger, dame is a faire
name for any honest christian, but let that passe, how dost thou
Hans?
Mee tanck you vro.
Wel Hans and Roger you see God hath blest your
master, and perdie if ever he comes to be maister Shiriffe of
London (as we are al mortal) you shal see I wil have some odde
thing or other in a corner for you: I wil not be your backe
friend, but let that passe, Hans pray thee tie my shooe.
Yaw ic sal vro.
Roger, thou knowst the length of my foote, as it is
none of the biggest, so I thanke God it is handsome enough,
prethee let me have a paire of shooes made, corke good Roger,
woodden heele too.
You shall.
Art thou acquainted with never a fardingale-maker,
nor a French-hoode maker, I must enlarge my bumme, ha ha,
how shall I looke in a hoode I wonder? perdie odly I thinke.
As a catte of a pillorie,
warrant you mistresse.
Indeed all flesh is grasse, and Roger, canst thou tel
where I may buye a good haire?
Yes forsooth, at the poulterers in Gracious street.
Thou art an ungratious wag, perdy, I meane a false
haire for my periwig.
Why mistris, the next time I cut my beard, you shall
have the shavings of it, but they are all true haires.
It is verie hot, I must get me a fan or else a maske.
So you had neede, to hide your wicked face.
Fie upon it, how costly this world's calling is, perdy,
but that it is one of the wonderfull works of God, I would not
deale with it: is not Firke come yet? Hans, bee not so sad, let it
passe and vanish, as my husbands worshippe saies.
Ick bin vrolicke, lot see yow soo.
Mistris, wil you drinke a pipe of Tobacco?
O fie uppon it Roger, perdy, these filthie Tobacco
pipes are the most idle slavering bables that ever I felt: out uppon
it, God blesse us, men looke not like men that use them.
What fellow Rafe? Mistres looke here, Janes husband:
why how now, lame? Hans make much of him, hees a brother of
our trade, a good workeman, and a tall souldier.
You be welcome broder.
Pardie I knew him not, how dost thou good Rafe?
I am glad to see thee wel.
I would God you saw me dame as wel,
As when I went from London into France.
Trust mee I am sorie Rafe to see thee impotent, Lord
how the warres have made him Sunburnt: the left leg is not wel:
t'was a faire gift of God the infirmitie tooke not hold a little
higher, considering thou camest from France: but let that passe.
Limbs? hast thou not hands man? thou shalt never see
a shoomaker want bread, though he have but three fingers on a
hand.
Yet all this while I heare not of my Jane.
O Rafe your wife, perdie we knowe not whats become
of her: she was here a while, and because she was married grewe
more stately then became her, I checkt her, and so forth, away she
flung, never returned, nor saide bih nor bah: and Rafe you knowe
ka me, ka thee. And so as I tell ye. Roger is not Firke come yet?
No forsooth.
And so indeed we heard not of her, but I heare shee
lives in London: but let that passe. If she had wanted, shee might
have opened her case to me or my husband, or to any of my men,
I am sure theres not any of them perdie, but would have done
her good to his power. Hans looke if Firke be come.
Yaw ic sal vro.
And so as I saide: but Rafe, why dost thou weepe?
thou knowest that naked wee came out of our mothers wombe,
and naked we must returne, and therefore thanke God for al
things.
No faith Jane is a straunger heere, but Rafe pull up a good
heart, I knowe thou hast one, thy wife man, is in London, one
tolde mee hee sawe her a while agoe verie brave and neate,
weele ferret her out, and London holde her.
Alas poore soule, hees overcome with sorrowe, he
does but as I doe, weepe for the losse of any good thing: but
Rafe, get thee in, call for some meate and drinke, thou shalt find
me worshipful towards thee.
I thanke you dame, since I want lims and lands,
Ile to God, my good friends, and to these my hands.
Runne good Hans, O Hodge, O mistres, Hodge heave up
thine eares, mistresse smugge up your lookes, on with your best
apparell, my maister is chosen, my master is called, nay condemn'd
by the crie of the countrie to be shiriffe of the Citie, for this
famous yeare nowe to come, and time now being: a great many
men in blacke gownes were askt for their voyces, and their
hands, and my master had al their fists about his eares presently,
and they cried I, I, I, I, and so I came away,
Wherefore without all other grieve,
I doe salute you mistresse shrieve.
Yaw, my mester is de groot man, de shrieve.
Did not I tell you mistris? nowe I may boldly say, good
morrow to your worship.
Good morrow good Roger, I thanke you my good
people all. Firke, hold up thy hand, heer's a three-peny peece
for thy tidings.
Tis but three half pence, I thinke: yes, tis three
pence, I smel the Rose.
But mistresse, he rulde by me, and doe not speake so
pulingly.
Tis her worship speakes so, and not she, no faith mistresse,
speake mee in the olde key, too it Firke, there good Firke, plie
your businesse Hodge, Hodge, with a full mouth: Ile fill your
bellies with good cheare til they crie twang.
See myn liever broder, heer compt my meester.
Welcome home maister shrieve, I pray God continue
you in health and wealth.
See here my Maggy, a chaine, a gold chaine for Simon
Eyre, I shal make thee a Lady, heer's a French hood for thee,
on with it, on with it, dresse thy browes with this flap of a
shoulder of mutton, to make thee looke lovely: where be my fine
men? Roger, Ile make over my shop and tooles to thee: Firke,
thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for
twentie, bee as mad knaves as your maister Sim Eyre hath bin,
and you shall live to be Sherives of London: how dost thou like
me Margerie? Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne,
Firke, Hodge, and Hans.
I forsooth, what saies your worship mistris Sherife?
Worship and honour you Babilonion knaves, for the Gentle
Craft: but I forget my selfe, I am bidden by my Lord Maior to
dinner to old Ford, hees gone before, I must after: come Madge,
on with your trinkets: nowe my true Trojans, my fine Firke, my
dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odde
crochets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentle
shooemakers, meete me at old Foord, you know my minde:
Come Madge, away,
Shutte up the shop knaves, and make holiday.
O rare, O brave, come Hodge, follow me Hans,
Weele be with them for a morris daunce.
Trust mee you are as welcome to old Foord,
As I my selfe.
Truely I thanke your Lordship.
Would our bad cheere were worth the thanks
you give.
Good cheere my Lord Maior, fine cheere, a fine house,
fine walles, all fine and neat.
I but my Lord, hee must learne nowe to putte on
gravitie.
Peace Maggy, a fig for gravitie, when I go to Guildhal in
my scarlet gowne, Ile look as demurely as a saint, and speake as
gravely as a Justice of peace, but now I am here at old Foord, at
my good Lord Maiors house, let it go by, vanish Maggy, Ile be
merrie, away with flip flap, these fooleries, these gulleries: what
hunnie? prince am I none, yet am I princly borne: what sayes my
Lord Maior?
Ha, ha, ha, I had rather then a thousand pound,
I had an heart but halfe so light as yours.
Why what should I do my Lord? a pound of care paies not
a dram of debt: hum, lets be merry whiles we are yong, olde age,
sacke and sugar will steale upon us ere we be aware.
Its wel done: mistris Eyre, pray give good
counsell to my daughter.
I hope mistris Rose wil have the grace to take
nothing thats bad.
Be rulde sweete Rose, th'art ripe for a man: marrie not
with a boy, that has no more haire on his face then thou hast on
thy cheekes: a courtier, wash, go by, stand not uppon pisherie
pasherie: those silken fellowes are but painted Images, outsides,
outsides Rose, their inner linings are torne: no my fine mourse,
marry me with a Gentleman Grocer like my Lord Maior your
Father, a Grocer is a sweete trade, Plums, Plums: had I a sonne or
Daughter should marrie out of the generation and bloud of the
shoe-makers, eh should packe: what, the Gentle trade is a living
for a man through Europe, through the world.
What noyse is this?
O my Lord Maior, a crue of good fellowes that for love to
your honour, are come hither with a morrisdance, come in my
Mesaopotamians cheerely.
Maister Eyre, are al these shoe-makers?
Al Cordwainers my good Lord Maior.
How like my Lacie lookes yond shooe-maker.
O that I durst but speake unto my love!
Sibil, go fetch some wine to make these drinke,You are al welcome.
We thanke your Lordship.
For his sake whose faire shape thou representst,
Good friend I drinke to thee.
Ic be dancke good frister.
I see mistris Rose you do not want judgement, you
have drunke to the prosperest man I keepe.
Here bee some have done their parts to be as proper as he.
To these two (my madde lads) Sim Eyre ads another, then
cheerely Firke, tickle it Haunce, and al for the honour of shoe-
makers.
Come maister Eyre, lets have your companie.
Sibil What shal I do?
Why whats the matter?
What mistris, never feare, I dare venter my maidenhead
to nothing, and thats great oddes, that Haunce the Dutchman
when we come to London, shal not onely see and speake with
you, but in spight of al your Fathers pollicies, steale you away
and marrie you, will not this please you?
Do this, and ever be assured of my love.
Away then and follow your father to London, lest your
absence cause him to suspect something:
To morrow if my counsel be obayde,
Ile binde you prentise to the gentle trade.
That which thou wilt not sell, faith yet Ile
trie:
How do you sell this handkercher?
Hey downe, a downe downe derie.
Well said my hearts, plie your worke to day, we loytred
yesterday, to it pell mel, that we may live to be Lord Maiors, or
Alderman at least.
Hey downe a downe derie.
Well said yfaith, how saist thou Hauns, doth not Firke
tickle it?
Yaw mester.
Not so neither, my organe pipe squeaks this morning for
want of licoring: hey downe a downe derie.
Forware Firk, tow best un jolly yongster, hort I mester ic
bid yo cut me un pair vampies vor mester Jeffres bootes.
Thou shalt Hauns.
Master.
How now, boy?
Pray, now you are in the cutting vaine, cut mee out a
paire of counterfeits, or else my worke will not passe currant,
hey downe a downe.
Tell me sirs, are my coosin Mistress Priscillaes shooes
done?
Your coosin? no maister, one of your auntes, hang her,
let them alone.
I am in hand with them, she gave charge that none but I
should doe them for her.
Thou do for her? then twill be a lame doing, and that she
loves not: Rafe, thou mightst have sent her to me, in faith I
would have yearkt and firkt your Priscilla, hey downe a downe
derry, this geere will not holde.
How saist thou Firke? were we not merry at old Ford?
How merry? why our buttockes went Jiggy joggy like a
quagmyre: wel sir Roger Oatemeale, if I thought all meale of that
nature, I would eate nothing but bagpuddings.
Of all good fortunes, my fellow Hance had the best.
Tis true, because mistris Rose dranke to him.
Wel, wel, worke apace, they say seven of the Aldermen
be dead, or very sicke.
I care not, Ile be none.
No nor I, but then my maister Eyre wil come quickly to be
Lord Mayor.
Whoop, yonder comes Sibil.
Sibil, welcome yfaith, and how dost thou madde wench?
Sib whoore, welcome to London.
Godamercy sweete Firke: good Lord Hodge, what a
delitious shop you have got, you tickle it yfaith.
Godamercy Sibil for our good cheere at old Ford.
That you shal have Rafe.
Nay by the masse, we hadde tickling cheere Sibil, and how
the plague dost thou and mistris Rose, and my Lord Mayor?
I put the women in first.
Wel Godamercy: but Gods me, I forget my self, wheres
Haunce the Fleming?
Hearke butter-boxe, nowe you must yelp out some
spreken.
Vat begaie you, vat vod you Frister.
Marrie you must come to my yong mistris, to pull on her
shooes you made last.
Vare ben you edle from vare ben your mistris?
Marrie here at our London house in Cornewalle.
Will no bodie serve her turne but Hans?
No sir, come Hans, I stand upon needles.
Why then Sibil, take heede of pricking.
For that let me alone, I have a tricke in my budget, come
Hans.
Yaw, yaw, ic sall meete you gane.
Go Hans, make haste againe: come, who lacks worke?
I maister, for I lacke my breakfast, tis munching time, and
past.
Ist so? why then leave worke Raph, to breakfast, boy
looke to the tooles, come Raph, come Firke.
Let me see now, the signe of the last in Tower-
street, mas yonders the house: what haw, whoes within?
Who calles there, what want you sir?
Marrie I would have a paire of shooes made for
a Gentlewoman against to morrow morning, what can you do
them?
Yes sir, you shall have them, but what lengths her foote?
Why you must make them in all parts like this
shoe, but at any hand faile not to do them, for the Gentlewoman
is to be married very early in the morning.
How? by this shoe must it be made? by this, are you sure
sir by this?
How, by this am I sure, by this? art thou in thy
wits? I tell thee I must have a paire of shooes, dost thou marke,
me? a paire of shooes, two shooes, made by this verie shoe, this
same shoe, against to morrow morning by foure a clock, dost
understand me, canst thou do't?
Yes sir, yes, I, I, I can do't, by this shoe you say: I should
knowe this shoe, yes sir, yes, by this shoe, I can do't, foure a
clocke, well, whither shall I bring them?
To the signe of the golden ball in Watling-
streete, enquire for one maister Hamon a gentleman, my maister.
Yea sir, by this shoe you say.
I say maister Hammon at the golden ball, hee's
the Bridegroome, and those shooes are for his bride.
They shal be done by this shoe: wel, well, Maister Hammon
at the golden shoe, I would say the golden Ball, verie well, verie
well, but I pray you sir where must maister Hammon be
married?
At Saint Faiths Church under Paules: but whats
that to thee? prethee dispatch those shooes, and so farewel.
Snaile Raph thou hast lost thy part of three pots, a
countrieman of mine gave me to breakfast.
I care not, I have found a better thing.
A thing? away, is it a mans thing, or a womans thing?
Firke, dost thou know this shooe?
No by my troth, neither doth that know me? I have no
acquaintance with it, tis a meere stranger to me.
Ha ha old shoo, that wert new, how a murren came this
ague fit of foolishnes upon thee?
Thou lie with a woman to builde nothing but
Cripple
gates! Well, God sends fooles fortune, and it may be he may
light upon his matrimony by such a device, for wedding and
hanging goes by destiny.
Oh God, what will you doe mistris? shift for your selfe,
your father is at hand, hees comming, hees comming, master
Lacie hide your selfe in my mistris, for Gods sake shift for your
selves.
Your father come, sweete Rose, what shall I doe?
Where shall I hide me? How shall I escape?
A man and want wit in extremitie,
Come, come, be Hauns still, play the shoomaker,
Pull on my shooe.
Mas, and thats well remembred.
Here comes your father.
Forware metresse, tis un good skow, it sal vel dute, or ye
sal neit betallen.
Oh God it pincheth me, what wil you do?
Your fathers presence pincheth, not the shoo.
Well done, fit my daughter well, and shee shall
please thee well.
Yaw, yaw, ick weit dat well, forware tis un good skoo, tis
gi mait van neits leither, se ever mine here.
I do beleev it, whats the newes with you?
Please you, the Earle of Lincolne at the gate is newly
lighted, and would speake with you.
Oh Lord, help for Gods sake, my mistris, oh my yong
mistris.
Where is thy mistris? whats become of her?
Shees gone, shees fled.
Gone? whither is she fled?
I know not forsooth, shees fled out of doores with Hauns
the Shoomaker, I saw them scud, scud, scud, apace, apace.
Which way? what John, where by my men?
which way?
I know not, and it please your worship.
Fled with a shoomaker, can this be true?
Oh Lord sir, as true as Gods in heaven.
Her love turnd shoomaker? I am glad of
this.
Yea forsooth, tis a very brave shooe, and as fit as a pudding,
How now, what knave is this, from whence
comest thou?
No knave sir, I am Firke the shoomaker, lusty Rogers cheese
lustie jorneyman, and I come hither to take up the prettie legge
of sweete mistris Rose, and thus hoping your worshippe is in as
good health as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell,
yours Firke.
Stay stay sir knave.
Come hither shoomaker.
Tis happie the knave is put before the shoomaker, or else
I would not have vouchsafed to come backe to you, I am
moved, for I stirre.
My Lorde, this villaine calles us knaves by craft.
Then tis by the Gentle Craft, and to cal one knave gently,
is no harme: sit your worship merie:
Sib your yong
mistris, Ile bob them, now my maister maister Eyre is Lorde
Maior of London.
Tell me sirra, whoes man are you?
I am glad to see your worship so merrie, I have no maw to
this geere, no stomacke as yet to a red peticote.
He means not sir to wooe you to his maid,
But onely doth demand whose man you are.
I sing now to the tune of Rogero, Roger my felow is now
master.
Sirra, knowst thou one Hauns a shoomaker?
Hauns shoomaker, oh yes, stay, yes I have him, I tel you
what, I speake it in secret, mistris 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 sheetes? it is that Hauns,
Knowst thou then where he is?
Yes forsooth, yea marry.
Canst thou in sadnesse?
No forsooth, no marrie.
Tell me good honest fellow where he is,
And thou shalt see what Ile bestow of thee.
Honest fellow, no sir, not so sir, my profession is the
Gentle Craft, I care not for seeing, I love feeling, let me feele it
here, aurium tenus, tne peeces of gold, gennum tenus, ten
peeces of silver, and then Firke is your man in a new paire of
strechers.
Here is an Angel, part of thy reward,
Which I will give thee, tell me where he is.
No point: shal I betray my brother? no, shal I prove
Judas to Hans? no, shall I crie treason to my corporation? no, I
shall be firkt and yerkt then, but give me your angell, your
angell shall tel you.
Doe so good fellow, tis no hurt to thee.
Send simpering Sib away.
Huswife, get you in.
Pitchers have eares, and maides have wide
mouthes: but
for Hauns prauns, upon my word to
morrow morning, he and
yong mistris Rose goe to
this geere, they shall be married to
gether, by this rush, or else tourne Firke to a firkin of butter to
tanne leather withall.
But art thou sure of this?
Am I sure that Paules steeple is a handfull higher then
London stone? or that the pissing conduit leakes nothing but
pure mother Bunch? am I sure I am lustie Firke, Gods nailes doe
you thinke I am so base to gull you?
Where are they married? dost thou know the church?
I never goe to church, but I know the name of it, it is a
swearing church, stay a while, tis: I by the mas, no, no, tis I by my
troth, no nor that, tis I by my faith, that that, tis I by my Faithes
church under Paules crosse, there they sahll be knit like a paire
of stockings in matrimonie, there theile be in conie.
Upon my life, my Nephew Lacie walkes
In the disguise of this Dutch shoomaker.
Yes forsooth.
Doth he not honest fellow?
No forsooth, I thinke Hauns is no bodie but Hans, no spirite.
My mind misgives me now tis so indeede.
My cosen speakes the language, knowes the trade.
This, or what else.
Then you must rise betimes, for they meane to fall to their
hey passe, and repasse, pindy pandy, which hand will you have,
very earely.
My care shal every way equal their haste,
This night accept your lodging in my house,
The earlier shal we stir, and at Saint Faithes
Prevent this giddy hare-braind nuptiall,
This trafficke of hot love shal yeeld cold gaines,
They ban our loves, and weele forbid their baines.
At Saint Faithes churh thou saist.
Yes, by their troth.
Be secret on thy life.
Yes, when I kisse your wife, ha, ha, heres no craft in the
Gentle Craft, I came hither of purpose with shooes to sir Rogers
worship, whilst Rose his daughter be coniecatcht by Hauns: soft
nowe, these two gulles will be at Saint Faithes church to morrow
morning, to take master Bridegroome, and mistris Bride napping,
and they in the meane time shal chop up the matter at the Savoy:
but the best sport is, sir Roger Otly wil find my felow, lame
Rafes wife going to marry a gentleman, and then heele stop her in
steede of his daughter: oh brave, there wil be fine tickling sport:
soft now, what have I to doe? oh I know, now a messe of
shoomakers meate at the wooll sack in Ivie lane, to cozen my
gentleman of lame Rafes wife, thats true,
This is the morning then, stay my bully, my honest
Hauns, is it not?
This is the morning that must make us two happy, or
miserable, therefore if you
Away with these iffes and ands Hauns, and these et
caeteraes, by mine honor Rowland Lacie none but the king shall
wrong thee: come, feare nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim
Eyre Lord mayor of London? feare nothing Rose, let them al say
what they can, dainty come thou to me: laughest thou?
Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you
may.
Why my sweete lady Madgy, thincke you Simon Eyre can
forget his fine dutch Journeyman? No vah. Fie I scorne it, it shall
never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankeful. Lady Madgy,
thou hadst never coverd thy Saracens head with this french
flappe, nor loaden thy bumme with this farthingale, tis trash,
trumpery, vanity, Simon Eyre had never walkte in a redde
petticoate, nor wore a chaine of golde, but for my fine Journey-
mans portigues, and shall I leave him? No: Prince am I none, yet
beare a princely minde.
My Lorde, tis time for us to part from hence.
Lady Madgy, lady Madgy, take two or three of my
pie
crust eaters, my buffe-jerkin varlets, that doe walke in blacke
gownes at Simon Eyres heeles, take them good lady Madgy, trippe
and goe, my browne Queene of Perriwigs, with my delicate
Rose, and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy, see them linckte,
countenaunce the marriage, and when it is done, cling, cling
together, you Hamborow Turtle Dobes, Ile beare you out,
come to Simon Eyre, come dwell with me Hauns, thou shalt eate
mincde pies, and marchpane. Rose, away cricket, trippe and goe
my Lady Madgy to the Savoy, Hauns, wed, and to bed, kisse and
and away, go, vanish.
Farewel my lord.
Make haste sweete love.
Sheede faine the deede were done.
Come my sweete Rose, faster than Deere weele runne.
Goe, vanish, vanish, avaunt I say: by the lorde of Ludgate,
its a madde life to be a lorde Mayor, its a stirring life, a fine life, a
velvet life, a carefull life. Well Simon Eyre, yet set a good face
on it, in the honor of sainct Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to
dine with me, to see my new buildings, his majesty is welcome,
he shal have good cheere, delicate cheere, princely cheere. This
day my felow prentises of London come to dine with me too,
they shall have fine cheere, genltemanlike cheere. I promised the
mad Cappidosians, when we all served at the Conduit together,
that if ever I came to be Mayor of London, I would feast them
al, and Ile doot, Ile doot by the life of Pharaoh, by this beard Sim
Eire wil be no flincher. Besides, I have procurd, that upon every
Shrovetuesday, 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 doot, they sahll doot:
Boyes, that day are you free, let masters care,
And prentises shall pray Simon Eyre.
Come Rafe, stand to it Firke: my masters, as we are the
brave bloods of the shooemakers, heires apparant to saint Hugh,
and perpetuall benefactors to all good fellowes, thou shalt have no
wrong: were Hammon a king of spades he should not delve in thy
close without thy sufferaunce: but tell me Rafe, art thou sure tis
thy wife?
Am I sure this is Firke? This morning when I strokte on
her shooes, I lookte upon her, and she upon me, and sighed,
askte me if ever I knew one Rafe. Yes sayde I: for his sake saide
she (teares standing in her eyes) and for thou art somewhat like
him, spend this peece of golde: I tooke it: my lame leg, and my
travel beyond sea made me unknown, all is one for that, I know
shees mine.
Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold;
shees thine owne, tis thy wife, and she loves thee, for Ile stand
toot, theres no woman wil give golde to any man, but she thinkes
better of him than she thinkes of them shee gives silver to: and for
Hamon, neither Hamon nor Hangman shall wrong thee in
London: Is not our olde maister Eire lord Mayor? Speake my
hearts.
Yes, and Hamon shall know it to his cost.
Peace my bullies, yonder they come.
Stand toot my hearts, Firke, let me speake first.
No Rafe, let me: Hammon, whither away so earely?
Unmannerly rude slave, whats that to thee?
To him sir? yes sir, and to me, and others: good morrow
Jane, how doost thou? good Lord, how the world is changed
with you, God be thanked.
Villaines, handes off, howe dare you touch my love?
Villaines? downe with them, cry clubs for prentises.
Hold, my hearts: touch her Hamon? yea and more than
that, weele carry her away with us. My maisters and gentlemen,
never draw your bird spittes, shooemakers are steele to the backe,
men every inch of them, al spirite.
Wel, and what of all this?
Ile shew you: Jane, dost thou know this man? tis Rafe I
can tell thee: nay, tis he in faith, though he be lamde by the warres,
yet looke not strange, but run to him, fold him about the necke
and kisse him.
Lives then my husband? oh God let me go,
Let me embrace my Rafe.
What meanes my Jane?
Nay, what meant you to tell me he was slaine?
Thou seest he lives: Lasse, goe packe home with him: now
maister Hamon, wheres your mistris your wife?
Swounds maister fight for her, will you thus lose her?
Downe with that creature, clubs, downe with him.
Hold, hold.
Hold foole, sirs he shal do no wrong,
Wil my Jane leave me thus, and breake her faith?
Yea sir, she must sir, she shal sir, what then? mend it.
Hearke fellow Rafe, folowe my counsel, set the wench in
the midst, and let her chuse her man, and let her be his woman.
Not a ragge Jane, the law's on our side, he that sowes in
another mans ground forfets his harvest, get thee home Rafe,
follow him Jane, he shall not have so much as a buske point from
thee.
Stand to that Rafe, the appurtenances are thine owne,
Hammon, looke not at her.
O swounds no.
Blew coate be quiet, weele give you a new liverie else, weele
make Shrove Tuesday Saint Georges day for you: looke not
Hammon, leare not, Ile firke you, for thy head now, one galnce,
one sheepes eie, any thing at her, touch not a ragge, least I and
my brethren beate you to clowtes.
Come master Hammon, theres no striving here.
Sell not thy wife Rafe, make her not a whore.
Say, wilt thou freely cease thy claime in her,
And let her be my wife?
No, do not Rafe.
Sirra Hammon Hammon, dost thou thinke a Shooe-maker
is so base, to bee a bawde to his owne wife for commoditie,
take thy golde, choake with it, were I not lame, I would make
thee eate thy words.
A shoomaker sell his flesh and bloud, oh indignitie!
Sirra, take up your pelfe, and be packing.
Touch the gold creature if you dare, ya're best be trudging:
here Jane take thou it, now lets home my hearts.
Stay, who comes here? Jane, on againe with thy maske.
Yonders the lying varlet mockt us so.
Come hither sirra.
I sir, I am sirra, you meane me, do you not?
Where is my Nephew married?
Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it: they have
a faire day, and the signe is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.
Truly I am sorie for't, a Bride's a prettie thing.
Come to the purpose, yonder's the Bride and Bride-
groome you looke for I hope: though you be Lordes, you are
not to barre, by your authoritie, men from women, are you?
See see my daughters maskt.
True, and my Nephew,
To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame.
Yea truely god helpe the poore couple, they are lame and
blind.
Ile ease her blindnes.
Ile his lamenes cure.
Lie downe sirs, and laugh, my felow Rafe is taken
for Rowland Lacy, and Jane for mistris damaske Rose, this is al
my knavery.
What, have I found you minion?
Yea forsooth no valet, forsooth no base, forsooth I am but
meane, no craftie neither, but of the Gentle Craft.
Where is my daughter Rose? where is my child?
Where is my nephew Lacie married?
Why here is good lacde mutton as I promist you.
Villaine, Ile have thee punisht for this wrong.
Punish the jornyman villaine, but not the jorneyman
shoomaker.
Dares Eyre the shoomaker uphold the deede?
Yes sir, shoomakers dre stand in a womans quarrel I
warrant you, as deepe as another, and deeper too.
Adue monsieur Dodger, farewel fooles, ha ha, Oh if they
had staide I would have so lambde them with floutes, O heart,
my codpeece point is readie to flie in peeces every time I thinke
upon mistris Rose, but let that passe, as my Ladie Mairesse saies.
This matter is answerd: come Rafe, home with thy wife,
come my fine shoomakers, lets to our masters the new lord Maior
and there swagger this shrove Tuesday, ile promise you wine
enough, for Madge keepes the seller.
O rare! Madge is a good wench.
And Ile promise you meate enough, for simpring Susan
keepes the larder, Ile leade you to victuals my brave souldiers,
follow your captaine, O brave, hearke, hearke.
The Pancake bell rings, the pancake bel, tri-lill my hearts.
Oh brave, oh sweete bell, O delicate pancakes, open the
doores my hearts, and shup up the windowes, keepe in the house,
let out the pancakes: oh rare my heartes, lets march together for
the honor of saint Hugh to the great new hall in Gratious streete
corner, which our Maister the newe lord Maior hath built.
O the crew of good fellows that wil dine at my lord Maiors
cost to day!
By the lord, my lord Maior is a most brave man, how
shal prentises be bound to pray for him, and the honour of the
gentlemen shoomakers? lets feede and be fat with my lordes
bountye.
O musical bel stil! O Hodge, O my brethren! theres
cheere for the heavens, venson pasties walke up and down
piping hote, like sergeants, beefe and brewesse comes marchin
in drie fattes, fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheele
barrowes, hennes and orenges hopping in porters baskets,
colloppes and egges in scuttles, and tartes and custardes comes
quavering in in mault shovels.
Whoop, look here, looke here.
And this shal continue for ever.
Oh brave! come come my hearts, away, away.
O eternall credite to us of the gentle Craft, march faire my
hearts, oh rare.
Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant?
Come my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shooemakers,
soft, where be these Caniballes, these varlets my officers, let
them al walke and waite upon my brethren, for my meaning is,
that none but shoomakers, none but the livery of my Company
shall in their sattin hoodes waite uppon the trencher of my
sovereigne.
O my Lord, it will be rare.
No more Firke, come lively, let your fellowe prentises
want no cheere, let wine be plentiful as beere, and beere as water,
hang these penny pinching fathers, that cramme wealth in
innocent lamb skinnes, rip knaves, avaunt, looke to my guests.
My Lord, we are at our wits end for roome, those
hundred tables wil not feast the fourth part of them.
Then cover me those hundred tables againe, and againe,
til all my jolly prentises be feasted: avoyde Hodge, runne Rafe,
friske about my nimble Firke, carowse me fadome healths to
the honor of the shoomakers: do they drink lively Hodge? do they
tickle it Firke?
Tickle it? some of them have taken their licour standing
so long, that they can stand no longer: but for meate, they
would eate it and they had it.
Want they meate? wheres this swaf-belly, this greasie
kitchinstuffe cooke, call the varlet to me: want meat! Firke,
Hodge, lame Rafe, runne my tall men, beleager the shambles,
beggar al East-Cheape, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and
let sheepe whine upon the tables like pigges for want of good
felowes to eate them. Want meate! vanish Firke, avaunt Hodge.
Your lordship mistakes my man Firke, he means their
bellies want meate, not the boords, for they have drunk so much
they can eate nothing.
Where is my Lord.
How now lady Madgy.
The kings most excelent majesty is new come, hee
sends me for thy honor: one of his most worshipful Peeres bade
me tel thou must be mery, and so forth: but let that passe.
Is my Soveraigne come? vanish my tall shoomakers, my
nimble brethren, looke to my guests the prentises: yet stay a
little, how now Hans, how lookes my little Rose?
Have done my good Hans, my honest jorneyman, looke
cheerely, Ile fall upon both my knees till they be as hard as horne,
but Ile get thy pardon.
Good my Lords have a care what you speake to his
grace.
Away you Islington whitepot, hence you happerarse,
you barly pudding ful of magots, you broyld carbonado,
avaunt, avaunt, avoide Mephostophilus: shall Sim Eyre learne to
speake of you Ladie Madgie? vanish mother Miniver cap,
vanish, goe, trip and goe, meddle with your partlets, and your
pishery pasherie, your flewes and your whirligigs, go, rub, out of
mine alley: Sim Eyre knowes how to speake to a Pope, to Sultan
Soliman, to Tamburlaine and he were here: and shal I melt? shal
I droope before my Soveraigne? no, come my Ladie Madgie,
follow me Hauns, about your businesse my frolicke free-
bootes: Firke, friske about, and about, and about, for the
honour of mad Simon Eyre Lord Maior of London.
Hey for the honour of the shoomakers.
So my deere liege, Sim Eyre and my brethren the gentle-
men shoomakers shal set your sweete majesties image, cheeke
by jowle by Saint Hugh, for this honour you have done poore
Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace pardon my rude behaviour, I
am a handiscrafts man, yet my heart is without craft, I would be
sory at my soule, that my boldnesse should offend my king.
Tel me infaith mad Eyre, how old thou art.
My Liege a verie boy, a stripling, a yonker, you see not a
white haire on my head, not a gray in this beard, everie haire I
assure thy majestie that stickes in this beard, Sim Eyre values at
the king of Babilons ransome, Tamar Chams beard was a
rubbing brush toot: yet Ile shave it off, and stuffe tennis balls with
it to please my bully king.
But all this while I do not know your age.
My liege, I am sixe and fiftie yeare olde, yet I can crie
humpe, with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh: marke
this olde wench, my king, I dauncde the shaking of the sheetes
with her sixe and thirtie yeares agoe, and yet I hope to get two
or three yong Lorde Maiors ere I die: I am lustie still, Sim Eyre
still: care, and colde lodging brings white haires. My sweete
Majestie, let car vanish, cast it uppon thy Nobles, it will make
thee looke alwayes young like Apollo, and crye humpe: Prince
am I none, yet am I princely borne.
Ha ha: saye Cornewall, didst thou ever see his like?
Not I, my lorde.
O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine
journeyman here, Rowland Lacie, and all these favours which
you have showne to me this daye in my poore house, will make
Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warme summers more
then he should.
How now my mad knaves? Peace, speake softly, yonder
is the king.
Mum mad knaves, not a word, Ile doot, I warrant you.
They are all beggars, my Liege, all for themselves: and I for them
all, on both my knees do intreate, that for the honor of poore
Simon Eyre, and the good of his brethren these mad knaves, your
Grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leden hall,
that it may be lawfull for us to buy and sell leather there two
dayes a weeke.
Jesus blesse your Grace.
In the name of these my poore brethren shoomakers, I
most humbly thanke your Grace. But before I rise, seeing you
are in the Giving vaine, and we in the Begging, graunt Sim
Eyre one boone more.
What is it my Lord Maior?
Vouchsafe to taste of a poore banquet that standes sweetely
waiting for your sweete presence.
O my deere king, Sim Eyre was taken
unawares upon a day
of shroving which I promist long ago to the
prentises of London:
for andt please your Highnes, in time past
Gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my
tankerd, if ever I came to be Lord Maior of London, I would
feast al the prentises. This day (my liege) I did it, and the slaves
had an hundred tables five times covered, they are gone home
and vanisht: