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! 1 hence, you hopper-arse! hence, you barley-pudding, full of maggots! you broiled carbonado!2avaunt, avaunt, avoid, Mephistophiles! Shall Sim Eyre learn to speak of you, Lady Madgy? Vanish, Mother Miniver-cap; vanish, go, trip and go; [85 meddle with your partlets and your pisherypashery, your Hewes and your whirligigs; go, rub, out of mine alley! Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tamburlaine, an he were here, and shall I melt, [90 shall I droop before my sovereign? No, come, my Lady Madgy! Follow me, Hans! About your business, my frolic free-booters! Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Simon Eyre, lord mayor of London. Firk. Hey, for the honour of the shoemakers! Exeunt. SCENE V.6 Eyre. Say'st thou me so, my sweet Diocle sian? 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.7 King. Tell me, in faith, mad Eyre, how old thou art. Eyre. My liege, a very boy, a stripling. a younker; you see not a white hair on my head, not a gray in this beard. Every hair, I as sure thy majesty, that sticks in this beard. Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon's ransom, Tamar Cham's beard was a rubbing brush to 't: yet I'll shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls with it, to please my bully king. King. But all this while I do not know your age. Eyre. My liege, I am six and fifty year old. yet Ï can cry hump! with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh. Mark this old wench, try king: I danc'd the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young lord mayors, ere I die. I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still. Ĉare and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Ma jesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy nobles. 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? * Nobleman. Not I, my lord. Enter the EARL OF LINCOLN and the LORD MAYOR. speak, What canst thou lay unto thy nephew's charge? Lincoln. This, my dear liege: your Grace, to do me honour, 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. I know how Lacy did neglect our love, Is he not a traitor? King. Lincoln, he was; now have we pard 'ned 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. 7 Magpie. King. Nor shalt thou, Lincoln; I forgive you both. Lincoln. Then, good my liege, forbid the boy to wed One whose mean birth will much disgrace his bed. King. Are they not married? Both. No, my liege. 70 74 We are. King. Shall I divorce them then? O be it far That any hand on earth should dare untie The sacred knot, knit by God's majesty ; I would not for my crown disjoin their hands That are conjoin'd in holy nuptial bands. How say'st thou, Lacy, wouldst thou lose thy Rose? Lacy. Not for all India's wealth, my sovereign. King. But Rose, I am sure, her Lacy would forego? Rose. If Rose were askt that question, she'd say no. King. You hear them, Lincoln ? 80 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. Muyor. 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, 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. The maid is young, well born, fair, virtuous, ve Besides, your nephew for her sake did stoop 124 L. Mayor. I am content with what your grace hath done. Lincoln. And I, my liege, since there's no remedy. King. Come on, then, all shake hands: I'll have you friends; Where there is much love, all discord ends. 130 What says my mad lord mayor to all this love? Eyre. O my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Rowland Lacy, and all these favours which you have shown to [134 me this day in my poor house, will make Simon Eyre live longer by one dozen of warm summers more than he should. King. Nay, my mad lord mayor, that shall be thy name; If any grace of mine can length thy life, One honour more I'll do thee: that new building,1 140 Which at thy cost in Cornhill is erected, God bless your grace! Eyre. How now, my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king. King. With the old troop which there we keep in pay, We will incorporate a new supply. 150 Lacy. All shoemakers, my liege, Sometime my fellows; in their companies I liv'd as merry as an emperor. King. My mad lord mayor, are all these shoe makers? 155 1 "A. D. 1419. This year Sir Symon Eyre built Leadenhall, at his proper expense, as it now appears, and gave the same to the City to be employed as a public granary for laying up corn against a time of scarcity." Maitland's History and Survey of London, II. 187. According to Stow, Eyre was a draper, became Mayor in 1445, and died in 1459. birthe Eyre. All shoemakers, my liege; all gentlemen of the gentle craft, true Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh. 160 All the Shoemakers. God save your majesty! King. Mad Simon, would they anything with us? Eyre. Mum, mad knaves! Not a word! I'll do 't; I warrant you. They are all beggars, my liege; all for themselves, and I for them [165 all on both my knees do entreat, that for the honour of poor Simon Eyre and the good of his brethren, these mad knaves, your grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leadenhall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and sell leather there two days a week. 171 King. Mad Sim, I grant your suit, you shall have patent To hold two market-days in Leadenhall, Mondays and Fridays, those shall be the times. Will this content you? All. Jesus bless your grace! 175 Eyre. In the name of these my poor brethren shoemakers, I most humbly thank your grace. But before I rise, seeing you are in the giving vein and we in the begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more. King. What is it, my lord mayor? 180 King. I shall undo thee, Eyre, only with feasts; Already have I been too troublesome; Say, have I not? Eyre. O my dear king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving, which I ̧* promist long ago to the prentices of London. 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 't is now, gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankard, if ever I came to be lord mayor of London, I would feast all the prentices. This day, my liege, I did it, and the slaves had an hundred tables five times covered; they are gone home and vanisht, 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, 205 I have not met more pleasure on a day. Enter at one door a Funeral (a coronet lying on the hearse, scutcheons and garlands hanging on the sides), attended by GASPARO TREBAZZI, Duke of Milan, CASTRUCHIO, SINEZI, PIORATTO, FLUELLO, and others. At another door enter HIPPOLITO, in discontented appearance; and MATHEO, a Gentleman, his friend, labouring to hold him back. Duke. Behold, yon comet shows his head again! Twice hath he thus at cross-turns thrown on us Prodigious looks; twice hath he troubled The waters of our eyes. See, he 's turn'd wild :Go on, in God's name. Cas., Sin. Your weapons to keep back the desperate boy Send hence your milder spirits, and let wrath Join in confederacy with your weapons' points; 2 A street in Milan. 3 Portentous. 1 Chaste. 15 If he proceed to vex us, let your swords Hip. Mat. You're wrong dead. O my lord! I'th' open street? You see she 's Hip. I know she is not dead. Frantic young man, Wilt thou believe these gentlemen? speak. Pray 20 Thou dost abuse my child, and mock'st the tears 25 Frozen and dried up: if these be signs of death, curst 30 Even to thy face, by those that scarce can speak. Pass on. 45 Exeunt with funeral, [all except the DUKE, HIPPOLITO and MATHEO]. Hip. Matheo, thou dost wound me more. Mut. I give you physic, noble friend, not wounds. Duke. O, well said, well done, a true gentleman! Alack, I know the sea of lovers' rage Comes rushing with so strong a tide, it beats 50 55 What but fair sand-dust are earth's purest forms? Queen's bodies are but trunks to put in worms. Mat. Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits; I'll rule him, I warrant ye. Ay, so, tread gingerly; your grace is here somewhat too long already. Erit DUKE.] 'Sblood, the jest were now, if, [62 having ta'en some knocks o' th' pate already, he should get loose again, and like a mad ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must humour his lordship. - My Lord Hip- [c polito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner? Hip. Where is the body? Mat. The body, as the duke spake very wisely, is gone to be worm'd. 70 Hip. I cannot rest; I'll meet it at next turn: I'll see how my love looks. MATHEO holds him in 's arms. Mat. How your love looks? Worse than a scare-crow. Wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fall for a ducat. Hip. I shall forget myself. 75 Mat. Pray, do so, leave yourself behind yourself, and go whither you will. 'Sfoot, do you long to have base rogues that maintain a Saint Anthony's fire in their noses by nothing but [so twopenny ale, make ballads of you? If the duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobbler's awl, he would ha' been a vext thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powder has taken the wet of cowards. You'll bleed three pottles of Alicant, by [86 this light, if you follow 'em, and then we shall have a hole made in a wrong place, to have surgeons roll thee up like a baby in swaddling clouts. 1 Dyce conj. forrent. 2 Because. A red Spanish wine made at Alicant. 90 & Gutter. |