EYRE

Leave whining, leave whining, away with this whimpering, this puling, these blubbering tears, and these wet eyes, I'll get thy husband discharged, I warrant thee sweet Jane: go to. Peace Hodge, hushed you knave, hushed. Peace Firk, peace my fine Firk, stand by with your pishery pasherie, away, I am a man of the best presence, I'll speak to them and they were Popes, gentlemen, cap taines, colonels, commanders: brave men, brave leaders, may it please you to give me audience, I am Simon Eyre, the mad Shoomaster of Towerstréete, this wench with the mealy mouth that will never tire, is my wife I can tell you, heres Hodge my man, and my foreman, heres Firk my fine firking journeyman, and this is blubbered Jane, all we come to be suitors for this honest Rafe keep him at home, and as I am a true shoemaker, and a gentleman of the Gentle Craft, buy spurs your self, and I'll find you boots these seven years. Peace Midriff, peace, I know what I do, peace. Well said melancholy Hodge, gramercy my fine foreman. Away with your pisherie pasherie, your polls and your edipolls, peace Midaffe, silence Cisly Bumtrincket, let your head speak. 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, theile make his powder darkish, take him brave men, Hector of Troy was and hackney to him, Hercules and Termagant scoundrelles, Prince Arthurs Round table, by the Lord of Lutgate, never fed such a tall, such a dapper swordman: by the life of Pharo, a brave reso lute swordman, peace Jane, I say no more, mad knaves. Peace you cracked groats, you mustard tokens, dis quiet not the brave soldier, go thy ways Ralph. Let me see thy hand Jane, this fine hand, this white hand, these pretty fingers must spin, must carded, must work, work you bembast cotten-candle-queane, work for your living with a pox to you: hold Thee Ralph, heres five sixpences for Thee, fight for the honour of the Gentle Craft, for the gen tlemen Shoemakers, the courageous Cordwainers, the flow er of S. Martins, the mad knaves of Bedlam, Fléetstréete, Towerstréete, and white Chapel, crack me the crowns of the French knaves, a poor on them, crack them, fight, by the lord of Ludgate, fight my fine boy. Where be these boys, these girls, these drabbes, these scoundrels, they wallow in the fat brewisse of my bou ̄ tie, and I lock up the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed: come out you powder-beefe-queanes, 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 nose of my neigh bours: what Firk I say, what Hodge? open my shop win dowes, what Firk I say. Enter Firk. Ah well said Firk, well said Firk, to work my fine knave, to work, wash thy face, and thou to be more blessed. Away sloven, avant scoundrel, good morrow Hodge, good morrow my fine foreman. Oh haste to work my fine foreman, haste to work. How now dame Margery, can you see to rise? trip and go, call up the drabs your maids. Peace Margery, peace, where Cisty Bumtrin ket your maid? she has a privy fault, she fartes in her sleep, call the quean up, if my men want shooethréed, isle swinge her in a stirrup. Peace Firk, a hard world, let him pass, let him vanish, we have journeymen enough, peace my fine Firk. Stay my fine Hodge. Carry 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 gallimaufry, Hodge if he want work I'll hire him, one of you to him, stay, he comes to us. I care you friend, have you any skill in the mystery of Cordwainers? What is thy name? Give me thy hand, the art welcome, Hodge enter taine him, Fyrk bid him welcome, come Hans, run wife, bid your maids, your Crullibubs, make ready my fine men's breakfasts: to him Hodge. Quick snipper snapper, away Fyrk, scour thy throat, thou shalt wash it with Casulian liquour, come my last of the fives, give me a Can, have to Enter boy. Thee Hans, here Hodge, here Fyrk, drink you mad Greeks, and work Like true Trojans, and pray for Simon Eyre the Shoemaker: here Hans, and th'art welcome. Is't so dame clapper dudgeon, is't seven a clock, and my men's breakfast not ready? trip and go you soused cunger, away, come you mad Hiperboreans, follow me Hodge, follow me Hans, come after my fine Fyrk, to work, to work a while and then to breakfast. Exit. Peace Firk, not I Hodge, by the life of Pharao, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every hair whereof I value at a kings ransom, she shall not meddle with you, peace you bumbast-cotten-candle Quean, away queen of Clubs, quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firk, I'll firk you if you do. Let it pass, let it vanish away: peace, am I not Si mon Eyre? are not these my brave men? brave shoemakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, as being the sole son of a Shooma ker, away rubbish, vanish, melt, melt Like kitchen stuff. Stay my fine knaves, you arms of my trade, you pillars of my professio ̄ . What, shall a tittle tattles words make you forsake Simon Eyre? avant kitchenstuff, rip you brown bred tannikin, out of my sighed, move me not, have not I taken you from selling tripes in Eastcheape, and set you in my shop, and made you hail fellow with Simon Eyre the shoemaker? and now do you deal thus with my Journeymen? Look you powder beef quean on the face of Hodge, heers a face for a Lord. Rip you chitterling, avant boy, bid the tapster of the Boars head fill me a dozen Cannae of beer for my jour neymen. And the knave fills any more then two, he pays for them: a dozen Cans of beer for my journeymen, hear you mad Mesopotamians, wash your livers with this liquour, where be the odd ten? no more Madge, no more, well said, drink & to work: what work dost thou Hodge? what work? Sybil? fie, defile not thy fine workmanly fingers with the feet of Kitchenstuff, and basting ladies, Ladies of the Court, fine Ladies, my lads, commit their feet to our ap parelling, put gross work to Hans; yerk and seam, yerk and seam. Softly Firk, for rearing of the nap, and wearing threadbare my garments: how dost thou Like me Firk? how do I look, my fine Hodge? How sayest thou Maggy, am I not brisk? am I not fine? Peace Firk, come Skipper, I'll go abroad with you, Hans have you made him drink? Come Hans follow me: Skipper, thou shalt have my countenance in the City. Exeunt. Poor Simon Eyre, my Lord, your shoemaker. See here my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre, I shall make thee a Lady, here's a French hood for thee, on with it, on with it, dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, to make Thee look lovely: where be my fine men? Roger, I'll make over my shop and tools to thee: Firk, thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt have and hundred for twenty, be as mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, & you shall live to be Sheriues of London: how dost thou Like me Margery? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born, Firk, Hodge, and Hans. Worship and honour you Babilonion knaves, for the Gentle Craft: but I forgotten my self, I am bidden by my Lord Mayor to ner to old Ford, he's gone before, I must after: come Hodge, on with your trinkets: now my true , my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odd crochets, some morris, or such Like, for the honour of the gentle shoemakers, meet me at old Ford, you know my mind: come Madge, away shut up the shop knaves, and make holiday. exeunt. Good cheer my Lord Mayor, fine cheer, a fine house, fine walls, all fine and neat. Peace Maggy, a fig for gravity, when I go to Guild hall in my scarlet gown, I'll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a Justice of peace, but now I am here at old Ford, at my good Lord Majors house, let it go by, vanish Maggy, I'll be merry, away with flip flap, these fooleries, these gulleries: what honey? prince am I none, yet am I princely born: what says my Lord Mayor? Why what should I do my Lord? a pound of care pays not a dram of debt: hum, lets be merry while we are young, old age, sack and sugar will steal upon us ere we be aware. Be ruled sweet Rose, th'art ripe for a man: marry not with a boy, that has no more hair on his face then thou hast on thy cheeks: a courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pisherie pasherie: those silken fellows are but painted Ima ges, outsides, outsides Rose, their inner linings are torn: no my fine mouse, marry me with a Gentleman Grocer Like my Lord Mayor your Father, a Grocer is a sweet trade, Plums, Plums: had I a son or Daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack: what, the Gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world. Oh my Lord Mayor, a true of good fellows that for love to your honour, are come hither with a morrisdance, come in my Mesopotamians cheerly. All Cordwainers my good Lord Mayor. To these two (my mad lads) Sim Eyre adds and other, then cheerly Firk, tickle it Hance, and all for the honour of shoemakers. Peace Firk, silence tittle tattle: Hodge, I'll go through with it, héers a seal ring, and I have sent for a guarded gown, and a damask Casock, see where it comes, look here Maggy, help me Firk, apparreline Hodge, silk and satin you mad Philistines, silk and satin. Godamercy Hans, welcome skipper, where lies this ship of merchandise? I would not care (my Lord) if you might call me king of Spain, come master Scot. This is the morning then, stay my bully my ho nest Hans, is it not? Away with these iffes and ands Hans, and these et caeteraes, by mine honour Roland Lacy none but the king shall wrong Thee: come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre Lord mayor of London? fear nothing Rose, let them all say what they can, dainty come thou to me: laughest thou? Why my sweet lady Madgy, think you Simon Eyre can forget his fine dutch Journeyman? No vah. Fie I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was un thankful. Lady Madgy, thou hadst never covered thy Sa racens head with this french flap, nor loaded thy bumme with this farthingale, 'tis trash, trumpery, vanity, Simon Eyre had never walkte in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine Journeymans portigues, and shall I leave him? No: Prince am I none, yet bear a princely mind. Lady Madgy, lady Madgy, take two or three of my piecrust eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at Simon Eyres heels, take them good la die Madgy, trip and go, my brown Queen uf Perri wigs, with my delicate Rose, and my jolly Roland to the Savoy, see them linckte, countenance the marriage, and when it is done, cling, cling together, you amborow Turtle Doves, I'll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre, come dwell with me Hans, thou shalt eat minede pies, and marchpane. Rose, away cricket, trip and go, my Lady Madgy to the Savoy, Hans, wed, and to bed, kiss and away, go, vanish. Go, vanish, vanish, avant I say: by the lord of Ludgate, its a mad life to be a lord Mayor, its a stir ring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honour of Saint Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings, his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. This day my fe low prentices of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the mad Cappidosians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be Mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I'll doot, I'll doot by the life of Pharaoh, by this beard Sim Eire will be no flincher. Beside, I have procured, that upon every Shrouetuesday, at the found of the pancake bell: my fine dapper Allyrian lads, shall clap up their shop windows, and away, this is the day, and this day they shall doot, they shall doot: boys, that day are you free, let Master's care, and prentices shall pray for Simon Eyre. exit. Come my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shooema kers, soft, where be these Caniballes, these varlets my offi cers, let them all walk and wait upon my brothers, for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the livery of my Company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign. Is my Sovereign come? vanish my tall shooma kers, my nimble brothers, look to my guests the prentices: yet stay a little, how now Hans, how looks my little Rose? Have done my good Hans, my honest journeyman, look cheerly, I'll fallen upon both my knees till they be as hard as horn, but I'll get thy pardon. Away you I slington whitepot, hence you hap perarse, you barley pudding full of maggots, you broiled carbo nado, avant, avant, avoid Mephostophilus: shall Sim Eyre leave to speak of you Lady Madgie? vanish mother Miniver cap, vanish, go, trip and go, meddle with your partlets, and your pishery pasherie, your flewes and your whirligigs, go, rub, out of mine alley: Sim Eyre knows how to speak to a Pope, to Sultan Soliman, to Tambur lain and he were here: and shall I melt? shall I droop before my Sovereign? no, come my Lady Madgie, follow me Hans, about your business my frolic freebooters: Firk, frisk about, and about, and about, for the honour of mad Si mon Eyre Lord Mayor of London. So my dear liege, Sim Eyre and my brothers 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 beseeth your grace pardon my rude behaviour, I am a handicrafts man, yet my heart is without craft, I would be sorry at my soul, that my boldness should offend my king. Sayest thou me so my sweet Dioclesian? then hump, Prince am I none, yet am I princely born, by the Lord of Ludgate my Liege, I'll be as merry as a pie. My Liege a very boy, a stripling, a younker, you see not a white hair on my head, not a grey in this beard, every hair I assure thy majesty that sticks in this beard, Sim Eyre value's at the king of Babylons ransom, Tama Chams beard was a rubbing brush toot: yet I'll shave it off, and stuff tennis balls with it to please my bully king. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry humpe, with a found heart for the honour of Saint Hugh: mark this old wench, my king, I danced the shaking of the sheets with her six and their tie years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young Lord Majors 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 humpe: Prince am I none, yet am I princely born. Traitors in my house? God forbid, where be my of ficers? I'll spend my soul ere my king feel harm. Oh my liege, this honour you have done to my fine journeyman here, Roland 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 summer's more then he should. I thank your Majesty. How now my mad knaves? Peace, speak softly, yonder is the king. All Shoemakers, my Liege, all gentlemen of the Gentle Craft, true Trojans, courageous Cordwainers, they all kneel to the shrine of holy saint Hugh. Mum mad knaves, not a word, I'll doot, 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 ho nor of poor Simon Eyre, and the good of his brothers these mad knaves, your Grace would vouchsafe some privilege to my new Leden hall, that it may be lawful for us to buy and fell leather there two days a week. In the name of these my poor brothers shoemakers, I most humbly thank your Grace. But before I rise, see king you are in the Giving vain, and we in the Begging, grant Sim Eyre one boon more. Vouchsafe to taste of a poor banquet that stands sweetly waiting for your sweet presence. Oh my deer king, Sim Eyre was taken unawares upon a day of shroving which I promised long ago to the pren tises of London: for andt please your Highness, in time passed I bore the water tanker my coat Sits not a whit the world my back: And then upon a morning some mad boys, It was Shrouetuesday éeune as 'tis now, Gave me my breakfast, and I swore then by the stopple of my tankerd, 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 and hundred tables five times covered, they are gone home and vanished: yet add more honour to the Gentle Trade, taste of Eyres banquet, Simon's happy made. No more Firk, come lively, let your fellow pren tises want no cheer, let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water, hang these penny pinching father's, that cram wealth in innocent lamb skins, rip knaves, anaunt, look to my guests Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted: avoid Hodge, run Rafe, frisk about my numble Firk, carouse me fa dome healths to the honour of the shoemakers: do they drink lively Hodge? do they tickle it Firk? Want they meat? where this swagbelly, this greasy kitchenstuff cook, call the varlet to me: want meat! Firk, Hodge, lame Rafe, run my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables Like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat! vanish Firk, avant Hodge. How now lady Madgy.