SCENE II.--_A Street near St. Faith’s Church.

_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 of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure ’tis thy wife?

_Ralph._ Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I stroked[99] on her shoes, I looked upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, asked 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 my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she’s mine.

[99] Fitted.

_Firk._ Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold! She’s thine own, ’tis thy wife, and she loves thee; for I’ll stand to’t, 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, lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.

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

_Enter_ HAMMON, _his ~Serving-man~_, JANE _and ~Others~_.

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

_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?

_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?

_All._ Villains? Down with them! Cry clubs for prentices![100]

[100] In any public affray, the cry was “Clubs, Clubs!” by way of calling for help (particularly by the London ’prentices).--_Nares._

_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, all spirit.

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

_Hodge._ I’ll show you.--Jane, dost thou know this man? ’Tis Ralph, I can tell thee; nay, ’tis he in faith, though he be lamed 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, 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.) ’Twas rumoured here in London, thou wert dead.

_Firk._ Thou seest he lives. Lass, go, pack home with him. 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!

_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!

_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 should I choose? Whom should my thoughts affect But him whom Heaven hath made to be my love? Thou art my husband, and these humble weeds Makes 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.

_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[101] from thee.

[101] A piece of lace with a tag, which fastened the busk, or piece of whalebone, used to keep the stays in position.

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

_Serv._ O, swounds, no!

_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.

_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 Is twenty pound, I’ll give it for thy Jane; If this content thee not, thou shall 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.

_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.

_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, To Jane and thee I give that twenty pound. Since I have failed of her, during my life, I vow, no woman else shall be my wife. Farewell, good fellows of the gentle trade: 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.

_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 mocked us so.

_L. Mayor._ Come hither, sirrah!

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

_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 This morning should be married at Saint Faith’s; We have watched 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.

_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 masked.

_Lincoln._ True, and my nephew, 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.

_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 washed off. Where are thy powers? What battles have you made? O yes, I see, Thou fought’st with Shame, and Shame hath conquered thee. This lameness will not serve.

_L. Mayor._ Unmask yourself.

_Lincoln._ Lead home your daughter.

_L. Mayor._ Take your nephew hence.

_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?

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

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

_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 abused By this base, crafty varlet.

_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 laced mutton, as I promised you.

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

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

_Enter_ DODGER.

_Dodger._ My lord, I come to bring unwelcome news. 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, 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.

_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. Howe’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 stayed, I would have so lambed[102] 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.

[102] Whipped.

_Hodge._ This matter is answered. Come, Ralph; home with thy wife. Come, my fine 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.

_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._

_All._ The pancake-bell rings, the pancake-bell! Tri-lill, 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 the pancakes! Oh rare, my hearts! Let’s march together for the honour of Saint Hugh to the great new hall[103] in Gracious Street-corner, which our master, the new lord mayor, hath built.

[103] Leadenhall. [See note _post_, p. 85.]

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

_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.

_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[104] comes marching in dry-vats,[105] fritters and pancakes comes trowling in in wheel-barrows; hens and oranges hopping in porters’-baskets, collops and eggs in scuttles, and tarts and custards comes quavering in in malt-shovels.

[104] See note _ante_, p. 19.

[105] Barrels.

_Enter more ~Prentices~._

_All._ Whoop, look here, look here!

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

_1st Prentice._ Whither? Why, to the great new hall, know you not why? The lord mayor hath bidden all the prentices in London to breakfast this morning.

_All._ Oh brave shoemaker, oh brave lord of incomprehensible good-fellowship! Whoo! Hark you! The pancake-bell rings. [_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 called Saint Hugh’s Holiday.

_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! [_Exeunt._