The first Three-mans Song.

The second Three-mans Song.

SCENE I

How gladly would your uncle have you gone?

Leave whining, leave whining, away with this whimpring, 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, commanders: 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 workman 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 scoundrelles, 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.

SCENE II

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.

SCENE III

SCENE IV

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 workman: 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 heeleblocke, 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

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.

SCENE I

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.

SCENE II

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.

SCENE III

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 gentlemen 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, kithcinstuffe, 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:

a dozen Cans of beere for my journeymen,

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 threadbare 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.

SCENE IV

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.

SCENE I

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.

SCENE II

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 worshipfull 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,

how 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,

verie wel I 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.

SCENE III

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.

SCENE IV

That which thou wilt not sell, faith yet Ile trie: How do you sell this handkercher?

SCENE I

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.

SCENE II

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 Cripplegates! 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.

SCENE III

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.

SCENE IV

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,

Ile so gull these diggers.

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 together, 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,

SCENE I

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 piecrust 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.

SCENE II

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.

SCENE III

Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant?

SCENE IV

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.

SCENE V

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: