TAWNY-COAT

God bless you M. Hobson. After the old sort sir, they visit the Toulebooth, and the Bulring still. We have for you sir, as white as Bears teeth. Faith sir, our Country girls are a kin to your London Courtiers, every month sick of a new fashion, the horning busk and silken bridelaces are in good request with the Parsons wife, your huge poking stick, and french perewig, with Chambermaids, and waiting-gentlewomen, now your Puritans poker is not so huge, but somewhat longer, a long slender poking stick is the all in all with your Suffolk Puritane, your silkband, half farthingales, and changeable Foreparts are common, not a wench of thirteen but wears a changeable forepart. Beside sir, mauy of our young married men, have taken and order to wear yellow Garters, Points, & Shootyings, and us thought, yellow will grow a custom. I sure 'tis in this Lane, I turned on the right hand come ming from the Stocks, nay, though there was master carls, man carels, and all careless, isle still be honest John, and scorn to take any men beware but isle pay them for it: I warrant they think me and arrant knave, for going away and not paying, and in my con science the master cudgeld the men, and the men the master, and all about me, when as God save me I did it innocently. But sure this is the Lane, there's the Windmill, there's the Dogs head in the pot, and hers the Fryer whipping the Nuns arse: ti's here about sure. Sure it is here about, the kennel was on my right hand, and I think in my conscience I shall never have the grace of God and good luck, if I do not pay it: Gods foot, look here, look here, I know this is the shop by that same stretch-halter, Oh my Master's, by your leave good fellows. Indeed that's the common saying about London, if men bring money with them. You say well, so they should be. come turn over your books, I am come to pay this same ten pound. Why my name is John Goodfellow, I hope I am not a shamed of my name. Nay prithee not too fast, let's pay for the old before we talk of any new. I had it some ten days ago. Why Sir, for beware I had some month ago, Being Pins, Points, and Laces, Poting sticks for young wives, for young wenches glasses, Beware of all sorts which I boar at my back To sell where I come, with what do you lack, what do you lack? What do you lack? My name sir is John Goodfellow, And honest poor Pedlar of Kenned. Oh sir, Nomine & naturae, by name and nature, I am as well known for a Goodfellow in Kenned, As your City Summer's known for a knave, Come sir will you be ttelling. How, owe you none say you! this is but a trick to try my honesty now. Gods dickens here's a jest indeed, master mad, men mad, and all mad, here's a mad household: do you hear M. Hobson, I do not greatly care to take your groat, and I care as little to spend it, yet you shall know I am John, honest John, and I will not be out faced of my honesty, here I had ten pounds worth of beware, and I w'll pay for it. Why that's I, that's I: I was John Tawny-cote then, Though I am John Gray-cote now. Foot do you think isle be out faced of my honesty? Nay, isle assure you we are honest all the generation of us, There t'is to a Doyt I warrant it, you needs not tell it after me, Foot do you think isle be out sac't of mine honesty? I thank you Master Hobson, and this is the fruit of ho nesty. Make up my pack and isle along from you Singing merrily on the way, Points, Points, Gloves, and Purses, Pokingsticks, and black Iet-rings, Cambricks, lawns, and pretty things: Come maids and buy my back does croak, I have all that you want: what do you lack? What do you lack? Hard world, when men dig living out of stones, As wretched miserable I am enforced: And yet there lives more pity in the earth, Then in the flint-bosoms of her children, For she's content to have her aged breast Mangled with matrocks, rend and torn with spades, To give her children and their children bred, When man more flinty then her stonic Ribs That was their mother, neither by intreats, Tears, nor complaints will yield them sustenance, But 'tis our ages fault the mightier, Tear living out of us, we out of her. Either mine ear's deceived, Or I should know that tongue: 'tis so indeed, Each word he speaks makes my torn heart to bleed. 'Tis he alas, when the rough hand of want Hath cast us down, it loads us with mishaps: I broke my day with him, Oh had that fatal hour Broken me heart: and Villain that I was, Never so much as write in my excuse, And he for that default hath sewed my bill. And with and execution is come down To seize my household stuff, imprison me, And turn my wife and children out of doors. What shall I fly him? no he's pitiful: Then with my tears I will importune him: God save you M. Hobson. What should I think? He knows me, and for fear I should escape him, He would entice me to the Officers. Oh Master Hobson though not for mine own, Yet sor my wife and my poor children's sakes, If your intent be to imprison me, Upon my knees I do entreat you spare me: The goods you trusted me withal, I have not wasted In royot and excess, but my kind heart, Seeing my helpless neighbours in distress, By reason of the long and extreme dearth, Some I relieved, some trusted with my goods, Whose poverties not able to repay. Then bear with me a little, your rich store Hath saved my life and fed a hundredth more. John Rouland sir, I am the man whom you called Tawniecote. This spade alas, 'tis all the wealth I have, When my poor wife and children cry for bred, They still must cry till these have purchased it: They must go naked till these hardened hands, When the cold breath of Winter strikes on them, Till these have earned it. Little God knows: Though I be stirring earelier then the Lark, And at my labour later then the Lamb, Towards my wife and children's maintenance, I scarcely earn me threepence by the day. God bless my labours, I hope I shall, I have this quarter by exceeding thrift, Bore clothing, and spare diet scraped together Five shillings in a purse which I lay up, Towards your worships debt. Dedford and it Like your worship. I know not how. Where's master Hobson? O sir, the love I bear you makes me chary Of your good name, your credit's deer to me; You never were condemned for any thing, Since I had first acquaintance with your name; As now you are, you have done a deed this day, That hath from you taken all good thoughts away. This day, you have pursued the law severely Against one Timothy, that stole from you A hundred pound, and he's condemned for it, And this day he must die. He is by this, half way to Tyburn gone; The suit was followed in John Greshams name, How can you then avow you know it not? Young Gresham in his name pursued his life. He rid to fast for me he hath been at buffets With a poor Collier, and upon his horse, Is without saddle, bridle, boots or spurs, Gallop't towards S. Gyles. Also one to him he does not stand on bravery So he may do men good, good deeds excel: And though but homely done, may be done well: Fut, art not thou drunk this morning, canst not receive the money that's endue to thee? I tell thee I had ten pounds worth of beware here. Gods precious, there's a jest indeed, so a man may be sworn out of himself, had not I ten pounds worth of beware here? Hyday, here's excellent fellows, are able to make their masters horns grow through his head in a month, they cannot only carelessly deliver away his beware, but also they will not take money for it when it comes. By the mass I think your master had more needs knock you about the ears, for playing the Jacks with him, ther's your ten pounds, tell it out with a wanion, and take it for your pains. By the mass, I think you will sooner make your master stark mad, if you play thus with every body. Good morrow to you sir, have you any more stomach to receive money, than your men have this morning? Here's mounsiermalapart your man, scorns to receive it. And 'tis thought will come in request in the Country too, t'is a fashion, that three or four young wenches have pro mised me their husbands shall wear, or theyle miss of their marks: then your mask, silk-lace, washed Gloves, carnation girdles, and busk-point suitable, as common as Coals from Newcastle, you shall not have a Kitchenmaid scrape trenchets without her washed Gloves, a Darie-wench will not ride to mar ket to fell her Buttermilk, without her mask and her busk. Five pounds worth in such Commodities, as I bespoke last night. Ten pound.