RALPH

Content your self wife, 'tis my own recantation, No love song neither, but a carol in beauty's condemnatio ̄ Out of doubt she is mad indeed, See what a coil she does keep, Come forth quoth he marry God bless us. Now you have made my wife mad what shall become of me? Little little seeing God, I shall see you in a spittle. Fool? no fool neither though none of the wisest Dame, But a Prophet one of Merlins kind I am. Ralph Cob. You would it i'faith. Comes there a Pageant by, I'll stand out of the green men's way for burning my vestment. If I had a pen as I have none, For I use no such tool, Thou shouldst have none and it, For at my first coming thou caldst me fool. But are you the Gods of the Scriveners, that you make pens so fast trow we. No, no, 'tis the soldier, heel do ye no hurt I war rant ye. And what am I? Thats some mends yet for calling of me fool. Hark soldier some body mocks thee. Mocks me much. Ralph, thats my name indeed, But how shall I call thee? Dost thou: Mass and I'll come to thee, and I knew where thou art. Art: faith and thou be as pretty a wench as any of these three, my mad wife shall never know that I play a mad partly. Partly: I'll come. Faith and I will, have at thee. I pre thee tell me one thing. Art thou one of God Mars his train? Alas good father thou art lame, To be a soldier far unlusty, Thy beard is grey thy armour rusty Thy bill I think be broken too. And what are you? A Painter with your pencil and your colours brave? Pray sir, can ye Gentleman and knave it both in one man, and ye can sir, I pray you do it in me. Sing one two and three, sing after me, And so shall we right well agree. Are you he I cry you mercy, I promise you I took you for a morris dancer you are so trim. You needs not plain your laps full enough: I pray you bear a while, gentle master mine, And you shall hear my in speech I warrant? And shall I warrant ye to your cost my Lady do-little Mars though thou be a Cock of the game, that wontest to croe by day, And with thy sharpened spurs the craven Cocks didst kill and S ay: Sith now thou dost but prune thy wings, and make thy feathers gay: A dunghill Cock that croes by night, shall slily thee betray, And tread thy Hen, and for a time shall carry her away. And she by him shall hatch a Chick, this Country to decay. And for this pretty Pullets name thou shalt the better learn: When thou shalt only letters fin within one name discern, Three vowels and two consonants, which vowels if thou scan, Does found that which to every place conducteth every man. Then call to mind this Prophecy, for thats the bastards name: Then rouse thy self, then reach thy sword, and win thy wonted fame. Now have I done the task for which I came, And so farewell fine Master and nice Dame. When will these fellows make and end. You are the Duke of all this land, And this I wish ye understand; That Princes give to many bred Which wish them shorter by the head. You have a Courtier Emnius nam, whose flattering tongue hath many blamed. He lowteth low does fawn and kneel, Your worthy meaning for to feel. And quaintly Rome's your person nigh, willing to see it fallen and die. You have a Daughter fair and trim, He loves her and she loves him. Yet as the Fox does win the Kid, So are his secret treasons hid: He dares not once his passion move, For fear your highness should reprove. Yet is it not your Daughter deer, That he desires so fair and clear: He covets your dignity, And therefore this intends he. Today you mean to hunt in wood, And for he does pretend no good: He hath with shot intended ill, And means your noble Grace to kill: I that desire for to explain, The manner of your Graces pain. Give counsel ere the deed be done, That you may all deceiving shun: I see that Emnius comes nigh, My protestation quickly try. And if you find as I have said, That you should be by him betrayed: Remember Ralph the Cobbling knave, You warning of this mischief gave, So leave I you to search the slave. 'Tis true o Duke, that I do say, He still would make thy lie away, He is too frolic and too lusty, Thou too simple and too trusty, Wars shall in thy land begin, For pride, contempt, and other sin, Nothing shall appease heavens ire, Till the cabin of Conte ̄ pt be set on fire And wantonness with lewd desire, Be trampled under foot as mire, The Cobbler has no more to say, But for the peoples sins, good princes oft are ta e away. Faith where you would made a fair piece of work. No faith she's mad, & has been ever since I was a prophet, and cause she saw a dagger without a sheath, she even put it up in his belly. Oh Lord sir, she has been acquainted with me a great while, with mine ears, with every partly of me, why 'tis my wife. Oh sir, whither you will I am content, God Merkedy has served me prettily, Has made my wife mad, and said she should not be well, Till by her hand a traitor fell, And I must even be hanged for company. What soldier, do not you know me? Faith certain pu-fellowes of mine, that have been mued up, & now the exclamation goes we shall have wars, we are all set at liberty, and sent to you to be trailed up. I faith I prophesied so long, that I had Like to have been hanged. My wife killed the courtier man, that would have killed me & the Duke to, but I'll be a prophet no longer thats flat, after I have done being a soldier, I'll to cobbling a gain. A thing of nothing, for when he had stolen him, he were as good ride him as lead him in his hand. I am sure you take me for none of they number. Are ye here i'faith? heres two on ye, Ralph Cobbler may curse the time that here knew your continued ̄ pany I yours, what reason had you to make my wife mad? I and so mad to kill one? and then make me a Prophet? I that it is, that told you your own when it. Near doubt you that: are ye bemembred since you told him, if you set your self against the Gods they would driven you out of heaven. Faith at that time the world might well have afforded you a Cart to ride in. I, I, and great folk do amiss, Poor folk must hold their peace. What shall I do then, and my wife? Faith then farewell the Court; For now I'll not run and ride, nor no more abide, But since my mad wife, has change her mad life, I'll even leave to be a Prophet speaker, Take clouting leather and naule, and fallen to my old trade of the gentle craft the Cobbler. I so live, and ye are blessed. How sayest thou Zelote is not that life best. And you were best leave your scolding to, & get you a way. Course me snowns, I would thou durst come out of door, And thou dost I'll knock thee on the head thou arrant thou. was not this lustily spoken? I warrant she dare not come out Oh no body tell her that I am under the stool. She lies i'faith, I am here under the stool. Waha how, uva how, holla how whoop: Did no body see the mocking sprite, I am sure I have followed her up and down all this day crying and calling while my throat is hoarse again. I'll conjure her too but 'tis in vain, for knowledge hath knocked that in the brain, but be it devil or be it spright, I'll call again to have a sighed. Ya would how: Nay I'll call again. Over stix I and over stones, Heres a question for the nonce, Why what art thou I pray thee tell? Why what a devil do I with thee? Three or four within: A boat, a boat, a boat. This should be the voice of a woman, comes women thither too. This should be the voice of some great man. Mass and may well be, for theres little money stirring on the earth. Why Charon this calling makes thee mad I guess, Why I am no spirit but living Ralph, And God Markedie sends me of business. Botesman? Theres a scoff, thats a waterman indeed. Well I must to God Mars for all this, I would I could meet my soldier again. I and I'll end with a Prophecy for your good will: You think it is a pleasant jest, To tell the times of peace and rest, But he that lives to ninety nine, Into the hundreds shall decline, Then shall they speak of a strange time: For it will be a wondrous thing, To see a Carter lodge with a King. Towns shall be unpeopled seen, And markets made upon the green: This will be as true I tell ye all, As Cobblers use the thread and nall. And so because that all men are but mortar, I leave the paltry Herald and the Porter. Nay she is mad enough already, For she will do nothing with me but fight, And you make his more mad, she'll kill me out right. Well I'll trust you for once, what say ye. Nay I prithee let them tarry and harken to the poor. Charon why does thy face look so black, and thou use somuch the water? A Prophet speaker? Would, would, would, heres a coil. What are you, I pray? And I am Ralph Cobbler, betwixt us there is some odds. But hear you God Markedy, have you tetoritie To take a free man of his company, And hinder him to be your Prophet speaker, And when you set him a work give him nothing for his labour. Now I am set, would I had a pot of ale. Heigh ho, wake quoth you, I think 'tis time, for I have slept soundly: And me thought in my sleep this was God Markedy, that had chanted my wife mad for good cause why. Above me thought I saw God Shebiter, that marlously did frown, With a dart of fire in his hand ready to throw it down. Below me thought there were false knaves walking Like honest men very craftily: And few or none could be plainly seen to thrive in the world by honesty. Me thought I saw one that was wondrous fat, Pick two men's purses while they were striving for a gnat. And some that dwelled in streets were large and fair, Kept back shops to utter their badst beware. What meddle I with trades? Men Master's and maids, Yea and wives too and all are too too bade, Be judged by my wife, that was never well till she ran mad. But Oh the Baker, how he played false with the balance, And ran away from the takers tallants. The Bruer was as bade, the Butcher as ill, For its their trick to blow up lean meat with a quill And with the stroke a Butcher gave and ox that loud bellowing did make, I lost sighed of all the other tricks, and so suddenly did wake. But now must Ralph trudge about his prophetation, Faith you shall hear me troll it out after my fashion. Nay and you speak Latin, reach me my last. Hark you mass Scholar, harkeye. The time shall come not long before the doom, That in despite of Room, Lat in shall lack, And Greek shall beg with a wallet at his back. For all are not sober that goes in black. Go too scholar, theres a learning for your knack. But for all this ill and wrong, Mark the Cobblers song. The High hill and the deep ditch, Which you dug to make your selves rich, The chimneys so many, and alms not any, The widows woeful cries, And babes in street that lies, The bitter sweat and pain That tenants poor sustain, Will turn to your bane I tell you plain, When burning fire shall rain, And fill with botch and blain The sinew and each vain. Then these poor that cry, Being lifted up on High, When you are all forlorn, Shall laugh you loud to scorn. Then where will be the scholars allegories, Where the Lawyer with his dilatories, Where the Courtier with his bravery, And the money monging mate with all his knavery Bethink me can I no where else, But in hell where Dives dwells. But I see you care not yet, And think these words for me unfit, And guess I speak for lack of wit: Stand aside, stand aside, for I am disposed to spit. I give him retoritie: to it. I thought you were a proper man of your hands to come behind one. But thou makest no hast thither. Is there any room in hell for cursed wives and Cobblers shops. What, riding running, braving, bralling, I see you pass not for a Prophets calling: Therefore I will not be so mad, To cast Pearls to swine so bade. Who I? Good Lord there hangs a matter by.