SCENE V.--_An Open Yard before the Hall.

_A long flourish, or two. Enter the_ KING, Nobles, EYRE, 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.

_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 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 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, 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.[115]

[115] Magpie.

_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 thy majesty, that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre values at the King of Babylon’s ransom, Tamar Cham’s[116] beard was a rubbing brush to’t: yet I’ll shave it off, and stuff tennis-balls with it, to please my bully king.

[116] Tamerlane (Tamburlaine), Cham, or Khan of Tartary. Compare Shakespeare’s _Much Ado about Nothing_, Act II. Sc. i.

_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 honour 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 yourself, 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, 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 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, 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 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?

_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; I would not for my crown disjoin their hands, That are conjoïned 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 asked that question, she’d say no.

_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?

_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, 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.

_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 pleased, Lincoln? Oateley, are you pleased?

_Both._ Yes, my lord.

_King._ Then must my heart be eased; For, credit me, my conscience lives in pain, Till these whom I divorced, be joined again. Lacy, give me thy hand; Rose, lend me thine! Be what you would be! Kiss now! So, that’s fine. 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 honours and all courtly pleasures, 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, 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. 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 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,[117] 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 same.

[117] “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_, ii., p. 187.

_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 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. 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 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 Trojans, courageous cordwainers; they all kneel to the shrine of holy Saint Hugh.

_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 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.

_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.

_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,[118] which I promised long ago to the prentices of London.

[118] Merry-making.

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, 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._

_THE HONEST WHORE._

IN TWO PARTS.

_PART THE FIRST._

BETWEEN the publication of the first, and of the second, parts of _The Honest Whore_, a quarter of a century passed. The first part appeared in 1604, having the sub-title “With the Humours of the Patient Man, and the Longing Wife.” In 1630 followed the second part, in which the sub-title is further expanded:--“With the Humours of the Patient Man, the Impatient Wife: the Honest Whore, persuaded by strong arguments to turne Courtesan again: her brave refuting those Arguments.--And lastly, the Comical Passages of an Italian Bridewell, where the scene ends.” Both title-pages give Dekker’s name alone as author, although from a passage in Henslow’s Diary, we learn that Middleton collaborated with him in the play.

It is impossible now to decide exactly what Middleton’s share was, but it was certainly not inconsiderable. Mr. Bullen points out, in his introduction to Middleton’s works, the close resemblance between the scene where Bellafront prepares for her visitors, and the first scene in the 3rd Act of Middleton’s _Michaelmas Term_; but this play did not appear until three years after the first part of Dekker’s. Still the fact of Middleton’s repeating the scene, goes to show that he had some special share in it, and certain other scenes in the first part are somewhat reminiscent of his style, as those in Acts I. and III., indicated by Mr. Bullen, where the gallants try to irritate Candido. The second part contains nothing that I should be inclined to allot to Middleton, agreeing in this with Mr. Swinburne, who remarks that it “seems so thoroughly of one piece and pattern, so apparently the result of one man’s invention and composition, that without more positive evidence I should hesitate to assign a share in it to any colleague of the poet under whose name it first appeared.” Mr. J. Addington Symonds has conjectured that the work as a whole has “the movement of one of Middleton’s acknowledged plays,” and it is possible that the main direction of the plot may have owed something to his more restraining dramatic sense of form. However this may be, the essential heart and spirit of the play are Dekker’s beyond all question. Bellafront, Matheo, Friscobaldo, Candido, are creatures not to be mistaken; and their interplay is managed throughout in Dekker’s individual manner. The source whence these, with the rest of the characters and episodes of the play, have been derived, has not been discovered: they were no doubt transcribed from life, and their secret lies hidden probably in Dekker’s brain alone.

“There is in the second part of _The Honest Whore_, where Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honour and shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without immodesty, which is worth all the _strong lines_ against the harlot’s profession, with which both parts of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions, which in his unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men.”--C. LAMB: _Specimens of English Dramatic Poets_.

GASPARO TREBAZZI, Duke of Milan. HIPPOLITO, a Count. CASTRUCHIO. SINEZI. PIORATTO. FLUELLO. MATHEO. BENEDICT, a Doctor. ANSELMO, a Friar. FUSTIGO, Brother of VIOLA. CANDIDO, a Linen-draper. GEORGE, his Servant. First Prentice. Second Prentice. CRAMBO. POH. ROGER, Servant of BELLAFRONT. Porter, Sweeper. Madmen, Servants, &c.

INFELICE, Daughter of the Duke. BELLAFRONT, a Harlot. VIOLA, Wife of Candido. Mistress FINGERLOCK, a Bawd.

SCENE--MILAN and the Neighbourhood.

_THE HONEST WHORE._

_PART THE FIRST._

ACT THE FIRST.