Chapter LXIV: Act V: Scene I. 2231

_Enter_ EYRE, _his wife_ [MARGERY], HANS, _and_ ROSE.

_Eyre._ This is the morning, then; stay, my bully, my honest Hans, is
it not?

_Hans._ This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable;
therefore, if you—— 5

_Eyre._ Away with these ifs and ans, Hans, and these et caeteras!
By mine honour, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee.
Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor
of London? Fear nothing, (10) Rose: let them all say what they can;
dainty, come thou to me—laughest thou?

_Marg._ Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.

_Eyre._ Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think (15) you Simon Eyre can
forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah! Fie, I scorn it, it shall
never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou
had’st never cover’d thy Saracen’s head with this French flap, nor
(20) loaden thy bum with this farthingale, (’t is trash, trumpery,
vanity); Simon Eyre had never walk’d in a red petticoat, nor wore a
chain of gold, but for my fine journeyman’s Portuguese.—And shall I
leave him? No! Prince am I (25) none, yet bear a princely mind.

_Hans._ My lord, ’t is time for us to part from hence.

_Eyre._ Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take two or three of my
pie-crust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns
at (30) Simon Eyre’s heels; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and
go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my delicate Rose and my jolly
Rowland to the Savoy; see them linkt, countenance the marriage;
and when it is done, cling, (35) cling together, you Hamborow
turtle-doves. I’ll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with
me, Hans, thou shalt eat minc’d-pies and marchpane.[2232] Rose, away,
cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to
bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!

_Marg._ Farewell, my lord. 42

_Rose._ Make haste, sweet love.

_Marg._ She’d fain the deed were done.

_Hans._ Come, my sweet Rose; faster than deer we’ll run. 45
_Exeunt_ HANS, ROSE, _and_ MARGERY.

_Eyre._ Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate,
it’s a mad life to be a lord mayor; it’s a stirring life, a fine
life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good
face on it, in the honour of Saint (50) Hugh. Soft, the king this
day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is
welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer.
This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too,
(55) they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the
mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that
if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and
I’ll do’t, I’ll do’t, by the life (60) of Pharaoh; by this beard, Sim
Eyre will be no flincher. Besides, I have procur’d that upon every
Shrove-Tuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell, my fine dapper
Assyrian lads shall clap up their shop windows, and away. (65) This
is the day, and this day they shall do’t, they shall do’t.

Boys, that day are you free, let masters care,
And prentices shall pray for Simon Eyre.
_Exit._

SCENE II. [2233]

_Enter_ HODGE, FIRK, RALPH, _and five or six_ Shoemakers, _all with cudgels or such weapons_.

_Hodge._ Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the
brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and
perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong:
were Hammon a king (5) of spades, he should not delve in thy close
without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure ’t is thy
wife?

_Ralph._ Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I strokt on her
shoes,[2234] I lookt upon (10) her, and she upon me, and sighed,
askt me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said
she—tears standing in her eyes—and for thou art somewhat like him,
spend this piece of gold. I took it; my lame leg and (15) my travel
beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she’s mine.

_Firk._ Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold!
She’s thine own, ’t is thy wife, and she loves thee; for I’ll stand
to’t, (20) there’s no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks
better of him than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for
Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London! Is not
our old master Eyre, (25) lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.

_All._ Yes, and Hammon shall know it to his cost.

_Enter_ HAMMON, _his man_, JANE, _and Others._

_Hodge._ Peace, my bullies; yonder they come. 29

_Ralph._ Stand to ’t, my hearts. Firk, let me speak first.

_Hodge._ No, Ralph, let me.—Hammon, whither away so early?

_Ham._ Unmannerly, rude slave, what’s that to thee? 34

_Firk._ To him, sir? Yes, sir, and to me, and others. Good-morrow,
Jane, how dost thou? Good Lord, how the world is changed with you!
God be thanked!

_Ham._ Villains, hands off! How dare you touch my love? 39

_All._ Villains? Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices![2235]

_Hodge._ Hold, my hearts! Touch her, Hammon? Yea, and more than that:
we ’ll carry her away with us. My masters and gentlemen, never draw
your bird-spits; shoemakers are steel to the back, men every inch of
them, (46) all spirit.

_All of Hammon’s side._ Well, and what of all this?

_Hodge._ I ’ll show you.—Jane, dost thou (50) know this man? ’T is
Ralph, I can tell thee; nay, ’t is he in faith, though he be lam’d by
the wars. Yet look not strange, but run to him, fold him about the
neck and kiss him.

_Jane._ Lives then my husband? Oh God, let me go, 55
Let me embrace my Ralph.

_Ham._ What means my Jane?

_Jane._ Nay, what meant you, to tell me, he was slain?

_Ham._ Pardon me, dear love, for being misled. [_To_ RALPH.] ’T was
rumour’d here in London, thou wert dead.

_Firk._ Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack home with him. 60
Now, Master Hammon, where ’s your mistress, your wife?

_Serv._ ’Swounds, master, fight for her! Will you thus lose her?

_All._ Down with that creature! Clubs! Down with him! 65

_Hodge._ Hold, hold!

_Ham._ Hold, fool! Sirs, he shall do no wrong. Will my Jane leave me
thus, and break her faith?

_Firk._ Yea, sir! She must, sir! She shall, sir! What then? Mend it!
70

_Hodge._ Hark, fellow Ralph, follow my counsel: set the wench in the
midst, and let her choose her man, and let her be his woman.

_Jane._ Whom shall I choose? Whom should my thoughts affect
But him whom Heaven hath made to be my love? 75
Thou art my husband, and these humble weeds
Make thee more beautiful than all his wealth,
Therefore, I will but put off his attire,
Returning it into the owner’s hand,
And after ever be thy constant wife. 80

_Hodge._ Not a rag, Jane! The law ’s on our side: he that sows in
another man’s ground, forfeits his harvest. Get thee home, Ralph;
follow him, Jane; he shall not have so much as a busk-point[2236]
from thee. 85

_Firk._ Stand to that, Ralph; the appurtenances are thine own.
Hammon, look not at her!

_Serv._ O, swounds, no! 89

_Firk._ Blue coat, be quiet, we ’ll give you a new livery else; we
’ll make Shrove Tuesday Saint George’s Day for you. Look not, Hammon,
leer not! I ’ll firk you! For thy head now, one glance, one sheep’s
eye, anything, at her! Touch not a rag, lest I and my brethren beat
you to clouts. 96

_Serv._ Come, Master Hammon, there ’s no striving here.

_Ham._ Good fellows, hear me speak; and, honest Ralph,
Whom I have injured most by loving Jane,
Mark what I offer thee: here in fair gold 100
Is twenty pound, I ’ll give it for thy Jane;
If this content thee not, thou shalt have more.

_Hodge._ Sell not thy wife, Ralph; make her not a whore.

_Ham._ Say, wilt thou freely cease thy claim in her,
And let her be my wife?

_All._ No, do not, Ralph. 105

_Ralph._ Sirrah Hammon, Hammon, dost thou think a shoemaker is so
base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity? Take thy gold, choke
with it! Were I not lame, I would make, thee eat thy words. 110

_Firk._ A shoemaker sell his flesh and blood? Oh indignity!

_Hodge._ Sirrah, take up your pelf, and be packing.

_Ham._ I will not touch one penny, but in lieu
Of that great wrong I offered thy Jane, 116
To Jane and thee I give that twenty pound.
Since I have fail’d of her, during my life,
I vow, no woman else shall be my wife.
Farewell, good fellows of the gentle trade: 120
Your morning mirth my mourning day hath made. _Exit._

_Firk._ [_to the_ Serving-man.] Touch the gold creature, if you dare!
Y’ are best be trudging. Here, Jane, take thou it. Now let ’s home,
my hearts. 125

_Hodge._ Stay! Who comes here? Jane, on again with thy mask!

_Enter the_ EARL OF LINCOLN, _the_ LORD MAYOR, _and_ Servants.

_Lincoln._ Yonder ’s the lying varlet mockt us so.

_L. Mayor._ Come hither, sirrah!

_Firk._ I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean me, do you not? 130

_Lincoln._ Where is my nephew married?

_Firk._ Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have
a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.

_L. Mayor._ Villain, thou toldst me that my daughter Rose 135
This morning should be married at Saint Faith’s;
We have watch’d there these three hours at the least,
Yet see we no such thing.

_Firk._ Truly, I am sorry for ’t; a bride’s a pretty thing. 140

_Hodge._ Come to the purpose. Yonder ’s the bride and bridegroom you
look for, I hope. Though you be lords, you are not to bar by your
authority men from women, are you?

_L. Mayor._ See, see, my daughter ’s maskt.

_Lincoln._ True, and my nephew, 145
To hide his guilt, counterfeits him lame.

_Firk._ Yea, truly; God help the poor couple, they are lame and blind.

_L. Mayor._ I ’ll ease her blindness.

_Lincoln._ I ’ll his lameness cure. 149

_Firk._ Lie down, sirs, and laugh! My fellow Ralph is taken for
Rowland Lacy, and Jane for Mistress Damask Rose. This is all my
knavery.

_L. Mayor._ What, have I found you, minion?

_Lincoln._ O base wretch!
Nay, hide thy face, the horror of thy guilt
Can hardly be washt off. Where are thy powers? 155
What battles have you made? O yes, I see,
Thou fought’st with Shame, and Shame hath conquer’d thee.
This lameness will not serve.

_L. Mayor._ Unmask yourself.

_Lincoln._ Lead home your daughter.

_L. Mayor._ Take your nephew hence. 159

_Ralph._ Hence! Swounds, what mean you? Are you mad? I hope you
cannot enforce my wife from me. Where ’s Hammon?

_L. Mayor._ Your wife?

_Lincoln._ What, Hammon? 164

_Ralph._ Yea, my wife; and, therefore, the proudest of you that lay
hands on her first, I ’ll lay my crutch ’cross his pate.

_Firk._ To him, lame Ralph! Here ’s brave sport! 169

_Ralph._ Rose call you her? Why, her name is Jane. Look here else; do
you know her now? [_Unmasking_ JANE.]

_Lincoln._ Is this your daughter?

_L. Mayor._ No, nor this your nephew.
My Lord of Lincoln, we are both abus’d
By this base, crafty varlet. 174

_Firk._ Yea, forsooth, no varlet; forsooth, no base; forsooth, I am
but mean; no crafty neither, but of the gentle craft.

_L. Mayor._ Where is my daughter Rose? Where is my child?

_Lincoln._ Where is my nephew Lacy married?

_Firk._ Why, here is good lac’d mutton,[2237] as I promist you. 181

_Lincoln._ Villain, I ’ll have thee punisht for this wrong.

_Firk._ Punish the journeyman villain, but not the journeyman
shoemaker.

_Enter_ DODGER.

_Dodger._ My lord, I come to bring unwelcome news. 185
Your nephew Lacy and your daughter Rose
Early this morning wedded at the Savoy,
None being present but the lady mayoress.
Besides, I learnt among the officers, 189
The lord mayor vows to stand in their defence
’Gainst any that shall seek to cross the match.

_Lincoln._ Dares Eyre the shoemaker uphold the deed?

_Firk._ Yes, sir, shoemakers dare stand in a woman’s quarrel, I
warrant you, as deep as another, and deeper too. 195

_Dodger._ Besides, his grace to-day dines with the mayor;
Who on his knees humbly intends to fall
And beg a pardon for your nephew’s fault.

_Lincoln._ But I ’ll prevent him! Come, Sir Roger Oateley;
The king will do us justice in this cause. 200
Howev’er their hands have made them man and wife,
I will disjoin the match, or lose my life. _Exeunt._

_Firk._ Adieu, Monsieur Dodger! Farewell, fools! Ha, ha! Oh, if they
had stay’d, I (204) would have so lamb’d[2238] them with flouts! O
heart, my codpiece-point is ready to fly in pieces every time I think
upon Mistress Rose. But let that pass, as my lady mayoress says.

_Hodge._ This matter is answer’d. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife.
Come, my fine (210) shoemakers, let ’s to our master’s the new lord
mayor, and there swagger this Shrove Tuesday. I ’ll promise you wine
enough, for Madge keeps the cellar.

_All._ O rare! Madge is a good wench. 215

_Firk._ And I ’ll promise you meat enough, for simp’ring Susan keeps
the larder. I ’ll lead you to victuals, my brave soldiers; follow
your captain. O brave! Hark, hark! _Bell rings._ 219

_All._ The pancake-bell[2239] rings, the pancake-bell! Trilill, my
hearts!

_Firk._ Oh brave! Oh sweet bell! O delicate pancakes! Open the doors,
my hearts, and shut up the windows! keep in the house, let out 224
the pancakes! Oh rare, my hearts! Let ’s march together for the
honour of Saint Hugh to the great new hall[2240] in Gracious Street
corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built.

_Ralph._ O the crew of good fellows that will dine at my lord mayor’s
cost to-day! 230

_Hodge._ By the Lord, my lord mayor is a most brave man. How shall
prentices be bound to pray for him and the honour of the gentlemen
shoemakers! Let ’s feed and be fat with my lord’s bounty. 235

_Firk._ O musical bell, still! O Hodge, O my brethren! There ’s
cheer for the heavens: venison-pasties walk up and down piping
hot, like sergeants; beef and brewess[2241] comes marching 239
in dry-vats,[2242] fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in
wheel-barrows; hens and oranges hopping in porters’-basket, collops
and eggs in scuttles,[2243] and tarts and custards comes quavering in
in malt-shovels.

_Enter more_ Prentices.

_All._ Whoop, look here, look here! 245

_Hodge._ How now, mad lads, whither away so fast?

_1 Prentice._ Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why?
The lord (249) mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to
breakfast this morning.

_All._ Oh brave shoemakers, oh brave lord of incomprehensible
good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings. 254
_Cast up caps._

_Firk._ Nay, more, my hearts! Every Shrove-Tuesday is our year of
jubilee; and when the pancake-bell rings, we are as free as my lord
mayor; we may shut up our shops, and make holiday; I’ll have it
call’d Saint Hugh’s Holiday. 260

_All._ Agreed, agreed! Saint Hugh’s Holiday.

_Hodge._ And this shall continue for ever.

_All._ Oh brave! Come, come, my hearts! Away, away!

_Firk._ O eternal credit to us of the gentle craft! March fair, my
hearts! Oh rare! 265
_Exeunt._

SCENE III.[2244]

_Enter the_ KING _and his_ Train _over the stage_.

_King._ Is our lord mayor of London such a gallant?

_Nobleman._ One of the merriest madcaps in your land.
Your grace will think, when you behold the man,
He’s rather a wild ruffian than a mayor.
Yet thus much I’ll ensure your majesty, 5
In all his actions that concern his state
He is as serious, provident, and wise,
As full of gravity amongst the grave,
As any mayor hath been these many years.

_King._ I am with child[2245] till I behold this huff-cap.[2246] 10
But all my doubt is, when we come in presence,
His madness will be dasht clean out of countenance.

_Nobleman._ It may be so, my liege.

_King._ Which to prevent,
Let some one give him notice, ’t is our pleasure
That he put on his wonted merriment. 15
Set forward!

_All._ On afore! _Exeunt._

SCENE IV.[2247]

_Enter_ EYRE, HODGE, FIRK, RALPH, _and other_ Shoemakers, _all with napkins on their shoulders_.

_Eyre._ Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers; soft,
where be these cannibals, these varlets, my officers? Let them all
walk and wait upon my brethren; for my meaning is, that none but
shoemakers, none but the (5) 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 (15) 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 fathom-healths 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 swag-belly, 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

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. 45

Trowl[2248] the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here, kind mate, to thee:
Let ’s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh’s soul,
And down it merrily.

Down a down heydown a down, 50
(_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. 55
_Repeat as often as there be men to drink;
and 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_ Wife [MARGERY].

_Marg._ Where is my lord? 60

_Eyre._ How now, Lady Madgy?

_Marg._ The king’s most excellent majesty is new come; he sends me
for thy honour; one of his most worshipful peers bade me tell thou
must be merry, and so forth; but let that pass. 65

_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? 69

_Hans._ Let me request you to remember 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 (75) 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. 79

_Eyre._ Away, you Islington whitepot![2249] hence, you hopper-arse!
hence, you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled
carbonado![2250] 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[2251] and
your pishery-pashery, your flewes[2252] and your whirligigs; go,
rub,[2253] 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. 95

_Firk._ Hey, for the honour of the shoemakers! _Exeunt._

SCENE V.[2254]

_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
And your own duty, yet we pardon you.
Rise both, and, Mistress Lacy, thank my lord 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 15
As if thou wert among thy shoemakers;
It does me good to see thee in this humour.

_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.[2255] 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 assure
(25) 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. 30

_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 (35) 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 MAYOR.

_King._ Lincoln, what news with you?

_Lincoln._ My gracious lord, have care unto yourself,
For there are traitors here.

_All._ Traitors? Where? Who?

_Eyre._ Traitors in my house? God forbid! (49) Where be my officers?
I ’ll spend my soul, ers my king feel harm.

_King._ Where is the traitor, Lincoln?

_Lincoln._ Here he stands.

_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, 55
Heapt on the head of this degenerate 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. 60
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 pard’ned him.
’T was not a base want of true valour’s fire, 65
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 forgive you both.

_Lincoln._ Then, good my liege, forbid the boy to wed
One whose mean birth will much disgrace his bed. 70

_King._ Are they not married?

_Lincoln._ No, my liege.

_Both._ 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; 74
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?

_Lincoln._ Yea, my liege, I do.

_King._ Yet canst thou find i’ th’ heart to part these two?
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? 85

_Nobleman._ The same, my liege.

_King._ 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 true,
Although as yet I am a bachelor,
Yet I believe I shall not marry you. 95

_Rose._ Can you divide the body from the soul,
Yet make the body live?

_King._ Yea, so profound?
I cannot, Rose, but you I must divide.
This fair maid, bridegroom, cannot be your bride.
Are you pleas’d, Lincoln? Oateley, are you pleas’d? 100

_Both._ Yes, my lord.

_King._ Then must my heart be eas’d;
For, credit me, my conscience lives in pain,
Till these whom I divorc’d, be join’d again.
Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me thine!
Be what you would be! Kiss now! So, that ’s fine. 105
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 109
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? 115
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, 124
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.

_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,[2256] 140
Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected,
Shall take a name from us; we ’ll have it call’d
The Leadenhall, because in digging it
You found the lead that covereth the same. 144

_Eyre._ I thank your majesty.

_Marg._ God bless your grace!

_King._ Lincoln, a word with you!

_Enter_ HODGE, FIRK, RALPH, _and more_ Shoemakers.

_Eyre._ How now, my road knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the
king.

_King._ With the old troop which there we keep in pay,
We will incorporate a new supply. 150
Before one summer more pass o’er my head,
France shall repent, England was injured.
What are all those?

_Lacy._ All shoemakers, my liege,
Sometime my fellows; in their companies
I liv’d as merry as an emperor. 155

_King._ My mad lord mayor, are all these shoemakers?

_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 all 165
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. 180

_King._ What is it, my lord mayor?

_Eyre._ Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly
waiting for your sweet presence. 184

_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,[2257] which I (189) promist long ago to the prentices of
London.
For, an ’t please your highness, in time past,
I bare the water-tankard,[2258] 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, 195
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.
(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. 205
Friends of the gentle craft, thanks to you all,
Thanks, my kind lady mayoress, for our 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._ 210

THE HONEST[2259] WHORE