Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Read online

  Marg. Seven years, husband?

  Eyre. Peace, midriff, peace! I know what I do. Peace!

  Firk. Truly, master cormorant, you shall do God good service to let Ralph and his wife stay together. She’s a young new-married woman; if you take her husband away from her a night, you undo her; she may beg in the day-time; for he’s as good a workman at a prick and an awl, as any is in our trade.

  Jane. O let him stay, else I shall be undone.

  Firk. Ay, truly, she shall be laid at one side like a pair of old shoes else, and be occupied for no use.

  Lacy. Truly, my friends, it lies not in my power:

  The Londoners are pressed, paid, and set forth

  By the lord mayor; I cannot change a man.

  Hodge. Why, then you were as good be a corporal as a colonel, if you cannot discharge one good fellow; and I tell you 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.

  Marg. 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 pishery-pashery, your pols and your edipols! 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 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!

  Hodge. Ralph, th’art a gull, by this hand, an thou goest not.

  Askew. I am glad, good Master Eyre, it is my hap

  To meet so resolute a soldier.

  Trust me, for your report and love to him,

  A common slight regard shall not respect him.

  Lacy. Is thy name Ralph?

  Ralph. Yes, sir.

  Lacy. Give me thy hand;

  Thou shalt not want, as I am a gentleman.

  Woman, be patient; God, no doubt, will send

  Thy husband safe again; but he must go,

  His country’s quarrel says it shall be so.

  Hodge. Th’art a gull, by my stirrup, if thou dost not go. I will not have thee strike thy gimlet into these weak vessels; prick thine enemies, Ralph.

  Enter Dodger.

  Dodger. My lord, your uncle on the Tower-hill

  Stays with the lord mayor and the aldermen,

  And doth request you with all speed you may,

  To hasten thither.

  Askew. Cousin, let’s go.

  Lacy. Dodger, run you before, tell them we come. —

  This Dodger is mine uncle’s parasite, [Exit Dodger.

  The arrant’st varlet that e’er breathed on earth;

  He sets more discord in a noble house

  By one day’s broaching of his pickthank tales,

  Than can be salved again in twenty years,

  And he, I fear, shall go with us to France,

  To pry into our actions.

  Askew. Therefore, coz,

  It shall behove you to be circumspect.

  Lacy. Fear not, good cousin. — Ralph, hie to your colours.

  Ralph. I must, because there’s no remedy;

  But, gentle master and my loving dame,

  As you have always been a friend to me,

  So in mine absence think upon my wife.

  Jane. Alas, my Ralph.

  Marg. 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-candle-quean; work for your living, with a pox to you. — Hold thee, Ralph, here’s five sixpences for thee; fight for the honour 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 them; fight, by the Lord of Ludgate; fight, my fine boy!

  Firk. Here, Ralph, here’s three twopences: two carry into France, the third shall wash our souls at parting, for sorrow is dry. For my sake, firk the Basa mon cues.

  Hodge. Ralph, I am heavy at parting; but here’s a shilling for thee. God send thee to cram thy slops with French crowns, and thy enemies’ bellies with bullets.

  Ralph. I thank you, master, and I 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, seamed by myself,

  Made up and pinked with letters for thy name.

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

  And every morning, when thou pull’st them on,

  Remember me, and pray for my return.

  Make much of them; for I have made them so,

  That I can know them from a thousand mo.

  Drum sounds. 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 THE SECOND.

  SCENE I. — A Garden at Old Ford.

  ENTER ROSE, ALONE, making a garland.

  Rose. Here sit thou 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,

  As the sweet countenance of my Lacy doth.

  O my most unkind father! O my stars,

  Why lowered you so at my nativity,

  To make me love, yet live robbed of my love?

  Here as a thief am I imprisonëd

  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. I am sure you make that garland for me; 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 uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and 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 Belly-mount’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 y
ou grown humorous, thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.

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

  My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb,

  No dove was ever half so mild as he.

  Sybil. Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs. He looked upon me as sour as verjuice. Go thy ways, thought I; thou may’st be much in my gaskins, but nothing in my nether-stocks. This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he’s done to; but if I were as you, I’d cry: Go by, Jeronimo, go by!

  I’d set mine old debts against my new driblets,

  And the hare’s foot against the goose giblets,

  For if ever I sigh, when sleep I should take,

  Pray God I may lose my maidenhead when I wake.

  Rose. Will my love leave me then, and go to France?

  Sybil. I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper man; but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up, young mistress.

  Rose. Get thee to London, and learn perfectly,

  Whether my Lacy go to France, or no.

  Do this, and I will give thee for thy pains

  My cambric apron and my Romish gloves,

  My purple stockings and a stomacher.

  Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my sake?

  Sybil. Will I, quoth a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes I’ll go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I’ll sweat in purple, mistress, for you; I’ll take anything that comes a God’s name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at ‘up tails all.’ I’ll go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress. [Exit.

  Rose. Do so, good Sybil. Meantime wretched I

  Will sit and sigh for his lost company. [Exit.

  SCENE II. — A Street in London.

  ENTER LACY, DISGUISED as a Dutch Shoemaker.

  Lacy. How many shapes have gods and kings devised,

  Thereby to compass their desired loves!

  It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then,

  To clothe his cunning with the gentle craft,

  That, thus disguised, I may unknown possess

  The only happy presence of my Rose.

  For her have I forsook my charge in France,

  Incurred the king’s displeasure, and stirred up

  Rough hatred in mine uncle Lincoln’s breast.

  O love, how powerful art thou, that canst change

  High birth to baseness, and a noble mind

  To the mean semblance of a shoemaker!

  But thus it must be. For her cruel father,

  Hating the single union of our souls,

  Has secretly conveyed my Rose from London,

  To bar me of her presence; but I trust,

  Fortune and this disguise will further me

  Once more to view her beauty, gain her sight.

  Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoemaker

  Mean I a while to work; I know the trade,

  I learnt it when I was in Wittenberg.

  Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not dismayed,

  Thou canst not want: do Fortune what she can,

  The gentle craft is living for a man. [Exit.

  SCENE III. — An open Yard before Eyre’s House.

  ENTER EYRE, MAKING himself ready.

  Eyre. Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels? They wallow in the fat brewiss of my bounty, and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed. Come out, you powder-beef queans! What, Nan! what, Madge Mumble-crust. Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly-whores, and sweep me these kennels that the noisome stench offend not the noses of my neighbours. What, Firk, I say; what, Hodge! Open my shop-windows! What, Firk, I say!

  Enter Firk.

  Firk. O master, is’t you that speak bandog and Bedlam this morning? I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the street so early; have you drunk this morning that your throat is so clear?

  Eyre. Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work! Wash thy face, and thou’lt be more blest.

  Firk. Let them wash my face that will eat it. Good master, send for a souse-wife, if you’ll have my face cleaner.

  Enter Hodge.

  Eyre. Away, sloven! avaunt, scoundrel! — Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my fine foreman.

  Hodge. O master, good-morrow; y’are an early stirrer. Here’s a fair morning. — Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept this hour. Here’s a brave day towards.

  Eyre. Oh, haste to work, my fine foreman, haste to work.

  Firk. Master, I am dry as dust to hear my fellow Roger talk of fair weather; let us pray for good leather, and let clowns and ploughboys and those that work in the fields pray for brave days. We work in a dry shop; what care I if it rain?

  Enter Margery.

  Eyre. How now, Dame Margery, can you see to rise? Trip and go, call up the drabs, your maids.

  Marg. See to rise? I hope ’tis time enough, ’tis early enough for any woman to be seen abroad. I marvel how many wives in Tower Street are up so soon. Gods me, ’tis not noon, — here’s a yawling!

  Eyre. Peace, Margery, peace! Where’s Cicely Bumtrinket, your maid? She has a privy fault, she farts in her sleep. Call the quean up; if my men want shoe-thread, I’ll swinge her in a stirrup.

  Firk. Yet, that’s but a dry beating; here’s still a sign of drought.

  Enter Lacy disguised, singing.

  Lacy. Der was een bore van Gelderland

  Frolick sie byen;

  He was als dronck he cold nyet stand,

  Upsolce sie byen.

  Tap eens de canneken,

  Drincke, schone mannekin.

  Firk. Master, for my life, yonder’s a brother of the gentle craft; if he bear not Saint Hugh’s bones, I’ll forfeit my bones; he’s some uplandish workman: hire him, good master, that I may learn some gibble-gabble; ‘twill make us work the faster.

  Eyre. Peace, Firk! A hard world! Let him pass, let him vanish; we have journeymen enow. Peace, my fine Firk!

  Marg. Nay, nay, y’are best follow your man’s counsel; you shall see what will come on’t: we have not men enow, but we must entertain every butter-box; but let that pass.

  Hodge. Dame, ‘fore God, if my master follow your counsel, he’ll consume little beef. He shall be glad of men, and he can catch them.

  Firk. Ay, that he shall.

  Hodge. ‘Fore God, a proper man, and I warrant, a fine workman. Master, farewell; dame, adieu; if such a man as he cannot find work, Hodge is not for you. [Offers to go.

  Eyre. Stay, my fine Hodge.

  Firk. Faith, an your foreman go, dame, you must take a journey to seek a new journeyman; if Roger remove, Firk follows. If Saint Hugh’s bones shall not be set a-work, I may prick mine awl in the walls, and go play. Fare ye well, master; good-bye, dame.

  Eyre. Tarry, my fine Hodge, my brisk foreman! Stay, Firk! Peace, pudding-broth! By the Lord of Ludgate, I love my men as my life. Peace, you gallimafry Hodge, if he want work, I’ll hire him. One of you to him; stay, — he comes to us.

  Lacy. Goeden dach, meester, ende u vro oak.

  Firk. Nails, if I should speak after him without drinking, I should choke. And you, friend Oake, are you of the gentle craft?

  Lacy. Yaw, yaw, ik bin den skomawker.

  Firk. Den skomaker, quoth a! And hark you, skomaker, have you all your tools, a good rubbing-pin, a good stopper, a good dresser, your four sorts of awls, and your two balls of wax, your paring knife, your hand- and thumb-leathers, and good St. Hugh’s bones to smooth up your work?

  Lacy. Yaw, yaw; be niet vorveard. Ik hab all de dingen voour mack skooes groot and cleane.

  Firk. Ha, ha! Good master, hire him; he’ll make me laugh so that I shall work more in mirth than I can in earnest.

  Eyre. Hear ye, friend, have ye any skill in the mystery of cordwainers?

  Lacy. Ik weet niet wat yow seg; ich verstaw you niet.

 
; Firk. Why, thus, man: (Imitating by gesture a shoemaker at work) Ick verste u niet, quoth a.

  Lacy. Yaw, yaw, yaw; ick can dat wel doen.

  Firk. Yaw, yaw! He speaks yawing like a jackdaw that gapes to be fed with cheese-curds. Oh, he’ll give a villanous pull at a can of double-beer; but Hodge and I have the vantage, we must drink first, because we are the eldest journeymen.

  Eyre. What is thy name?

  Lacy. Hans — Hans Meulter.

  Eyre. Give me thy hand; th’art welcome. — Hodge, entertain him; Firk, bid him welcome; come, Hans. Run, wife, bid your maids, your trullibubs, make ready my fine men’s breakfasts. To him, Hodge!

  Hodge. Hans, th’art welcome; use thyself friendly, for we are good fellows; if not, thou shalt be fought with, wert thou bigger than a giant.

  Firk. Yea, and drunk with, wert thou Gargantua. My master keeps no cowards, I tell thee. — Ho, boy, bring him an heel-block, here’s a new journeyman.

  Enter Boy.

  Lacy. O, ich wersto you; ich moet een halve dossen cans betaelen; here, boy, nempt dis skilling, tap eens freelicke. [Exit Boy.

  Eyre. Quick, snipper-snapper, away! Firk, scour thy throat, thou shalt wash it with Castilian liquor.

  Enter Boy.

  Come, my last of the fives, give me a can. Have to thee, Hans; here, Hodge; here, Firk; drink, you mad Greeks, and work like true Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre, the shoemaker. — Here, Hans, and th’art welcome.

  Firk. Lo, dame, you would have lost a good fellow that will teach us to laugh. This beer came hopping in well.

  Marg. Simon, it is almost seven.

  Eyre. Is’t so, Dame Clapper-dudgeon? Is’t seven a clock, and my men’s breakfast not ready? Trip and go, you soused conger, away! Come, you mad hyperboreans; follow me, Hodge; follow me, Hans; come after, my fine Firk; to work, to work a while, and then to breakfast! [Exit.