Hodge. My lord, we are at our wits' end for room; those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them.

Eyre. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge! Run, Ralph! Frisk about, my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathom-healths to the honor of the shoemakers. Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk?

Firk. Tickle it? Some of them have taken their liquor standing so long that they can stand no longer; but for meat, they would eat it, and they had it.

Eyre. Want they meat? Where's this swag-belly, this greasy kitchenstuff cook? Call the varlet to me! Want meat? Firk, Hodge, lame Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat? Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge!

Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firk; he means, their bellies want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much, they can eat nothing.

THE SECOND THREE-MEN'S SONG

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,

Saint Hugh be our good speed: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need.

Trowl the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate, to thee:

Trowl the bowl, the nut-brown bowl, And here, kind mate to thee: etc.

(Repeat as often as there be men to drink; at last when all have drunk, this verse:)

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed:
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

(Enter HANS, ROSE and EYRE'S WIFE) Wife. Where is my lord? Eyre.

How now, Lady Madgy?

Wife. The king's most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me for thy honor; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass.

Eyre. Is my sovereign come? Vanish, my tall shoemakers, my nimble brethren; look to my guests, the prentices. Yet stay a little! How now, Hans? How looks my little Rose?

Hans. Let me request you to remem

ber me.

I know, your honour easily may obtain Free pardon of the king for me and Rose, And reconcile me to my uncle's grace.

Eyre. Have done, my good Hans, my honest journeyman; look cheerily! I'll fall upon both my knees, till they be as hard as horn, but I'll get thy pardon.

Wife. Good my lord, have a care what you speak to his grace.

Eyre. Away, you Islington whitepot! hence, you hopperarse! you barley

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.

carbonado! 2 avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Minivercap; 3 vanish, go, trip and go; meddle with your partlets and your

1 rice pudding

2 meat scored across and broiled

4

3 Cf. p. 211, note 3. • neckpieces

pishery-pashery, 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, 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 honor of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London.

Firk. Hey, for the honour of the shoe-
makers.
(Exeunt)

SCENE V. An Open Yard before the Hall (A long flourish, or two. Enter KING, Nobles, EYRE, his WIFE, LACY, ROSE. LACY and Rose kneel.)

King. Well, Lacy, though the fact was very foul

Of your revolting from our kingly love And your own duty, yet we pardon you. Rise both, and, Mistress Lacy, thank my lord mayor

For your young bridegroom here.

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 honor you have done poor Simon Eyre. I beseech your grace, pardon my rude behavior; 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; It does me good to see thee in this humor.

Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Dioclesian? Then, humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. By the Lord of Ludgate, my liege, I'll be as merry as a pie.1

1 magpie

King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how old thou art.

2

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 assure 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 humph! with a sound heart for the honor of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, my king: I danced 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; it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry humph! Prince am I none, yet am I princely born.

King. Ha, ha!

Say, Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like?

Cornwall. Not I, my lord.

(Enter the EARL OF LINCOLN and the LORD MAYOR)

King. Lincoln, what news with you? Lincoln. My gracious lord, have care unto your self,

For there are traitors here.

All. Traitors? Where? Who?

Eyre. Traitors in my house? God forbid! Where be my officers? I'll spend my soul, ere my king feel harm.

King. Where is the traitor, Lincoln?
Lincoln.
Here he stands.
King. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacy!—
Lincoln, speak,

z stripling

What canst thou lay unto thy nephew's charge?

Lincoln. This, my dear liege: your
Grace, to do me honour,

Heaped on the head of this degenerous boy

Desertless favours; you made choice of him,

To be commander over powers in France. But he

King. Good Lincoln, prithee, pause a while!

Even in thine eyes I read what thou wouldst speak.

I know how Lacy did neglect our love,
Ran himself deeply, in the highest degree,
Into vile treason-

Lincoln.
Is he not a traitor?
King. Lincoln, he was; now have we
pardoned him.

'Twas not a base want of true valour's fire,

That held him out of France, but love's desire.

Lincoln. I will not bear his shame upon my back.

King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln; I for

Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me thine!

Eyre. O my liege, this honor you have done to my fine journeyman here,

At night, lovers, to bed!-Now, let me

see,

Which of you all mislikes this harmony. L. Mayor. Will you then take from me my child perforce?

King. Why, tell me, Oateley: shines not Lacy's name

As bright in the world's eye as the gay beams

Of any citizen?
Lincoln. Yea, but, my gracious lord,
I do mislike the match far more than he;
Her blood is too too base.

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 bare necessity, and, as I hear,

Forgetting honors and all courtly pleasures,

To gain her love, became a shoemaker. As for the honor 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?

L. Mayor. I am content with what your grace hath done.

Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there's no remedy.

you have shown to 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 honor more I'll do thee: that new building,

Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected, Shall take a name from us; we'll have it called

The Leadenhall, because in digging it
You found the lead that covereth the

Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege, Sometimes my fellows; in their companies I lived as merry as an emperor.

King. My mad lord mayor, are all these shoemakers?

Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft, true Tro

are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honor of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leaden hall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week.

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.

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?

Eyre. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet presence.

For, an't please your highness, in time past,

I bare the water-tankard, 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 'tis

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 vanished;

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. Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to you all,

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 promised long ago to the prentices of London.

cheer.