SCENE I: A Street in London

(Enter the LORD MAYOR and the EARL OF LINCOLN)

Lincoln. My lord mayor, you have
sundry times

Feasted myself and many courtiers more:
Seldom or never can we be so kind
To make requital of your courtesy.
But leaving this, I hear my cousin Lacy
Is much affected to your daughter Rose.
L. Mayor. True, my good lord, and
she loves him so well

That I mislike her boldness in the chase. Lincoln. Why, my lord mayor, think you it then a shame,

To join a Lacy with an Oateley's name? L. Mayor. Too mean is my poor girl for his high birth;

Poor citizens must not with courtiers wed, Who will in silks and gay apparel spend More in one year than I am worth, by far:

Therefore your honor need not doubt my girl.

Lincoln. Take heed, my lord, advise you what you do!

A verier unthrift lives not in the world, Than is my cousin; for I'll tell you what: 'Tis now almost a year since he requested To travel countries for experience;

I furnished him with coin, bills of exchange,

Letters of credit, men to wait on him,
Solicited my friends in Italy

Well to respect him. But to see the end:
Scant had he journeyed through half
Germany,

But all his coin was spent, his men cast off,

His bills embezzled,' and my jolly coz, Ashamed to show his bankrupt presence here,

Became a shoemaker in Wittenberg,
A goodly science for a gentleman
Of such descent! Now judge the rest by
this:

Suppose your daughter have a thousand pound,

He did consume me more in one half year;

And make him heir to all the wealth you have,

One twelvemonth's rioting will waste it all.

Then seek, my lord, some honest citizen To wed your daughter to.

L. Mayor. I thank your lordship. (Aside) Well, fox, I understand your subtilty.

(To LINCOLN) As for your nephew, let your lordship's eye

But watch his actions, and you need not fear,

For I have sent my daughter far enough. And yet your cousin Rowland might do well,

Now he hath learned an occupation;
And yet I scorn to call him son-in-law.
Lincoln. Ay, but I have a better
trade for him:

I thank his grace, he hath appointed him
Chief colonel of all those companies
Mustered in London and the shires about,
To serve his highness in those wars of
France.

See where he comes!

(Enter LOVELL, LACY, and ASKEW)

Lovell, what news with you? Lovell. My lord of Lincoln, 'tis his highness' will,

That presently your cousin ship for France

1 squandered

Have care to our great charge; I know, your wisdom

Hath tried itself in higher consequence. Askew. Coz, all myself am yours: yet have this care,

To lodge in London with all secrecy;
Our uncle Lincoln hath, besides his own,
Many a jealous eye, that in your face
Stares only to watch means for your dis-
grace.

Lacy. Stay, cousin, who be these?

(Enter SIMON EYRE, MARGERY his wife, HODGE, FIRK, JANE, and RALPH with a piece 1)

Eyre. Leave whining, leave whining! Away with this whimpering, this puling, these blubbering tears, and these wet eyes! I'll get thy husband discharged, I warrant thee, sweet Jane; go to! 2 Hodge. Master, here be the captains. Eyre. Peace, Hodge; hush, ye knave, hush!

4

Eyre. Peace, Firk; peace, my fine Firk! Stand by with your pisherypashery, away! I am a man of the best presence; I'll speak to them, an they were Popes.-Gentlemen, captains, colonels, commanders! Brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience. I am Simon Eyre, the mad shoemaker of Tower Street; this wench with the mealy mouth that will never tire, is my wife, I can tell you; here's Hodge, my man and my foreman; here's Firk, my fine firking journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane. All we come to be suitors for this honest Ralph. Keep him at home, and as I am a true shoemaker and a gentleman of the gentle craft, buy spurs yourself, and I'll find ye boots these seven years.

5

true, I think you do more than you can answer, to press a man within a year and a day of his marriage.

Eyre. Well said, melancholy Hodge; gramercy, my fine foreman.

Wife. Truly, gentlemen, it were ill done for such as you, to stand so stiffly against a poor young wife, considering her case, she is new-married, but let that pass: I pray, deal not roughly with her; her husband is a young man, and but newly entered, but let that pass.

Eyre. Away with your pisherypashery, your pols and your edipols! 6 Peace, midriff; silence, Cicely Bumtrinket! Let your head speak.

Firk. Yea, and the horns too, master. Eyre. Too soon, my fine Firk, too soon! Peace, scoundrels! See you this man? Captains, you will not release him? Well, let him go; he's a proper shot; let him vanish! Peace, Jane, dry up thy

6 repetitions: edipol is a mild asseveration

tears, they'll make his powder dankish. Take him, brave men; Hector of Troy was an hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant scoundrels, Prince Arthur's Round Table-by the Lord of Ludgate -ne'er fed such a tall, such a dapper swordsman; by the life of Pharaoh, a brave, resolute swordsman! Peace, Jane! I say no more, mad knaves.

Firk. See, see, Hodge, how my master raves in commendation of Ralph!

As you have always been a friend to me, So in mine absence think upon my wife.

Jane. Alas, my Ralph.

Wife. She cannot speak for weeping.

Eyre. Peace, you cracked groats, you mustard tokens, disquiet not the brave soldier. Go thy ways, Ralph!

Jane. Ay, ay, you bid him go; what shall I do when he is gone?

Firk. Why, be doing with me or my fellow Hodge; be not idle.

Eyre. Let me see thy hand, Jane. This fine hand, this white hand, these pretty fingers must spin, must card, must work; work, you bombast-cotton-candlequean; work for your living, with a pox to you.-Hold thee, Ralph, here's five sixpences for thee; fight for the honor of the gentle craft, for the gentlemen shoemakers, the courageous cordwainers, the flower of St. Martin's, the mad knaves. of Bedlam, Fleet Street, Tower Street and Whitechapel; crack me the crowns of the French knaves; a pox on them, crack

doth.

thank you all.

Now, gentle wife, my loving lovely Jane, Rich men, at parting, give their wives rich gifts,

Jewels and rings, to grace their lily hands. Thou know'st our trade makes rings for women's heels:

Here take this pair of shoes, cut out by Hodge,

Stitched by my fellow Firk, seemed by myself,

Made up and pinked with letters for thy

name.

Wear them, my dear Jane, for thy husband's sake;

Why lowered you so at my nativity, To make me love, yet live robbed of my love?

Here as a thief am I imprisoned

For my dear Lacy's sake within those walls,

Which by my father's cost were builded up

For better purposes; here must I languish For him that doth as much lament, I know,

Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.

(Enter SYBIL)

Sybil. Good morrow, young mistress.

Remember me and pray for my return. Make much of them; for I have made them so,

against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.

Rose. Sybil, what news at London? Sybil. None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your

mo.

(Sound drum. Enter the LORD MAYOR, the EARL OF LINCOLN, LACY, ASKEW, DODGER, and Soldiers. They pass over the stage; RALPH falls in amongst them; FIRK and the rest cry "Farewell," etc., and so exeunt.)

ACT II

SCENE I: A Garden at Old Ford

(Enter ROSE, alone, making a garland) Rose. Here sit you down upon this flow'ry bank,

And make a garland for thy Lacy's head. These pinks, these roses, and these violets,

These blushing gilliflowers, these marigolds,

The fair embroidery of his coronet, Carry not half such beauty in their cheeks,

Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors' Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations.

Rose. Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?

Sybil. O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here 'a' wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,-O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford house, here in Master Bellymount's chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, looked at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion! He passed by me as proud-Marry foh! are you grown humorous, thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.

1 he

Rose. O Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy wrong!