bals, 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 [10 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 [18 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 (20 about, my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathomhealths to the honour of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk? Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have taken [25 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 swagbelly, this greasy kitchen stuff cook? Call [30 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 [35 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 [40 can eat nothing. THE SECOND THREE MEN'S SONG Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Trowl & the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily. Down a down heydown a down, (Close with the tenor boy) Hey derry derry, down a down! 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. 45 55 Repeat as often as there be men to drink; and at last when all have drunk, this verse: Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my honest journeyman; look cheerily! I'll fall upon [76 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. 5 70 Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot! 1 hence, you hopper-arse! hence, you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled carbonado!2 avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; [85 meddle with your partlets and your pisherypashery, 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, [90 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.6 95 A long flourish, or two. Enter the KING, Nobles, EYRE, his Wife [MARGERY], LACY, ROSE. LACY and ROSE kneel. King. Well, Lacy, though the fact was very foul Of your revolting from our kingly love mayor For your young bridegroom here. 5 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 [10 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; 15 Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Dioclesian? Then, hump! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the Lord of Ludgate, my liege, I'll be as merry as a pie.? 21 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 as- (15 sure 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 hump! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danc'd 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, [40 it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry hump! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. King. Ha, ha! Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like? 45 Nobleman. Not I, my lord. Enter the EARL OF LINCOLN and the LORD King. For there are traitors here. King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln ? 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, "ned him. 'T was not a base want of true valour's fire, a That held him out of France, but love's desire. Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon my back. ↑ Magpie. 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? Both. No, my liege. 70 74 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 conjoin'd 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 askt that question, she'd say no. 80 King. You hear them, Lincoln ? Who seeks, besides you, to divorce these lovers? L. Mayor. I do, my gracious lord, I am her father. King. Sir Roger Oateley, our last mayor, I think? Nobleman. The same, my liege. 85 Would you offend Love's laws? Well, you shall have your wills, you sue to me, To prohibit the match. Soft, let me see You both are married, Lacy, art thou not? Lacy. I am, dread sovereign. King. Then, upon thy life, 90 I charge thee, not to call this woman wife. L. Mayor. I thank your grace. Rose. O my most gracious lord! Kneels. King. Nay, Rose, never woo me; I tell you As bright in the world's eye as the gay beams Yea, but, my gracious lord, I do mislike the match far more than he; Her blood is too too base. 115 King. Lincoln, no more. Dost thou not know that love respects no blood, Cares not for difference of birth or state? The maid is young, well born, fair, virtuous, A worthy bride for any gentleman. Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoop To bear necessity, and, as I hear, Forgetting honours and all courtly pleasures, 120 To gain her love, became a shoemaker. As for the honour which he lost in France, Thus I redeem it: Lacy, kneel thee down!Arise, Sir Rowland Lacy! Tell me now, Tell me in earnest, Oateley, canst thou chide, Seeing thy Rose a lady and a bride? 134 L. Mayor. I am content with what your grace hath done. Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there's no remedy. King. Come on, then, all shake hands: I'll. have you friends; Where there is much love, all discord ends. 130 What says my mad lord mayor to all this love? Eyre. O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacy, and all these favours which you have shown to [134 me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should. King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall be thy name; If any grace of mine can length thy life, One honour more I'll do thee: that new building,1 140 Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected, God bless your grace! Eyre. How now, my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king. King. With the old troop which there we keep in pay, 150 We will incorporate a new supply. 155 1 "A. D. 1419. This year Sir Symon Eyre built Leadenhall, at his proper expense, as it now appears, and gave the same to the City to be employed as a public granary for laying up corn against a time of scarcity." -Maitland's History and Survey of London, II. 187. According to Stow, Eyre was a draper, became Mayor in 1445, and died in 1459. Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh. 160 All the Shoemakers. God save your majesty! King. Mad Simon, would they anything with us? Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! I'll do 't; I warrant you. They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them [165 all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week. 171 King. Mad Sim, I grant your suit, you shall have patent To hold two market-days in Leadenhall, Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the times. Will this content you? All. Jesus bless your grace! 175 Eyre. In the name of these my poor brethren shoemakers, I most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more. King. What is it, my lord mayor? 180 Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet pre King. I shall undo thee, Eyre, only with feasts; Already have I been too troublesome; Say, have I not? Eyre. O my dear king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving, which I [1 promist long ago to the prentices of London. For, an 't please your highness, in time past, I bare the water-tankard,2 and my coat Sits not a whit the worse upon my back; And then, upon a morning, some mad boys, It was Shrove Tuesday, even as 't is now, gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feast all the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered; they are gone home and vanisht, 195 201 Yet add more honour to the gentle trade, Taste of Eyre's banquet, Simon's happy made. King. Eyre, I will taste of thy banquet, and will say, I have not met more pleasure on a day. cheer. Come, lords, a while let's revel it at home! When all our sports and banquetings are done, Wars must right wrongs which Frenchmen have begun. Exeunt. 10 As an apprentice. 1 Merry-making. Enter at one door a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by GASPARO TREBAZZI, Duke of Milan, CASTRUCHIO, SINEZI, PIORATTO, FLUELLO, and others. At another door enter HIPPOLITO, in discontented appearance; and MATHEO, a Gentleman, his friend, labouring to hold him back. Duke. Behold, yon comet shows his head again! Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us Prodigious looks; twice hath he troubled The waters of our eyes. See, he 's turn'd wild :Go on, in God's name. Cas., Sin. Your weapons to keep back the desperate boy Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath let your 15 If he proceed to vex us, Hip. Mat. O my lord! You're wrong! I'th' open street? You see she's dead. Hip. I know she is not dead. Frantic young man, Wilt thou believe these gentlemen? - Pray speak. 20 Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak. |