University of Virginia Library

STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

(1597.)

The Warwickshire dialect in this piece was revised by no less a hand than George Eliot's. Her letter is printed in the Life—“I was born and bred in Warwickshire,” &c.

OLD MASTER GRUNSEY AND GOODMAN DODD.
G.
God save you, Goodman Dodd,—a sight to see you!

D.
Save you, good Master Grunsey,—Sir, how be you?

G.
Middlish, thank Heav'n! Rare weather for the wheat.

D.
Farms will be thirsty, after all this heat.

G.
And so is we. Sit down on this here bench:
We'll drink a pot o' yaäl. Coom then, wench!
My service—ah! I'm well enough, i' fegs,
But for thir plaguey rheum i' both my legs.
Whiles I can't hardly get about: Oh, dear!

D.
You see, we don't get younger every year.

G.
You're a young fellow yet.

D.
Well-nigh threescore.

G.
I be your elder fifteen year and more.
Hast any news?

D.
Not much. New Place be sold,
And Willy Shakespeare's bought it, so I'm told.

G.
What, little Willy Shakespeare bought the Place!
Lord bless us, how young folk gets on apace!
Sir Hugh's girt house down by the grammar-school!—
This Shakespeare's (take my word upon't) no fool.
I minds him sin' he were so high's my knee;
A gallows little chap as e'er ye see;
One day I cotch'd him peltin' o' my geese
Below the church; “Yo' let 'en swim i' peace,
Yong dog!” I says, “or I shall fling 'ee in.”
Will was on t'other bank, and did but grin,
And call out, “Sir, you come across to here!”

D.
I knows old John this five and thirty year.
In old times many a cup he made me drink;
But Willy warn't aborn then, I don't think,
Or might a' been a babe on's mother's arm,
When I did cart 'en fleeces from our farm.
I went a-coortin' then, in Avon Lane,
And, tho' bit furder, I was allays fain
To bring my cart thereby, upon a chance
To catch some foolish little nod or glance,
Or “Meet me, Mary, won't 'ee, Charlcote way,
Or down at Clopton Bridge, next holiday?”—
Here to yer, maäster.

G.

D.
He's wuth as much as Tanner Twigg to-day;
And all by plays in Lunnon.

G.
Folk talks big;
Will Shakespeare wuth as much as Tanner Twigg—
Tut, tut! Be Will a player-man by trade?

D.
O' course he be, o' course he be; and made
A woundy heap o' money, too, and bought
A playhouse for himsen like, out and out;
And makes up plays, beside, for 'en to act;
Tho' I cawn't tell 'ee rightly, for a fact,
If out o' books or's owan yead it be.
We'n other work to think on, yo' and me.
They say Will's doing foinely, howsomiver.

G.
Why, Dodd, the little chap were allays cliver.
I don't know nothing now o' such-like toys;
New fashions plenty, mun', sin' we were boys;
Mummins we used to han, wi' scriptur' hist'ries,
An' puppet-shows, and moralties, and myst'ries;
The Death o' Judas was a pretty thing,
“Ju-dass! Ju-dass!” the Divil used to sing.
But time goes on, for sure, and fashion alters.

D.
At th'Falcon, t'other night, says young Jack Walters,
“Willy's a great man now!”

G.
A jolterhead!
What does it count for, when all's done and said?
Ah! who'll obey, let Will say “Come” or “Go”?
Such like as him don't reckon much, I trow.
Sir, they shall travel first, like you and me,
See Lunnon, to find out what great men be.
Ay, marry, must they. Saints! to see the Court
Take water down to Greenwich; there's fine sport!
Her Highness i' her frills and puffs and pearls,
Barons, and lords, and chamberlains, and earls,
So thick as midges round her,—look at such
An' ye would talk o' greatness! why, the touch
Be on their stewards and lackeys, Goodman Dodd,
Who'll hardly answer Shakespeare wi' a nod,
And let him come, doff'd cap and bended knee.
We knows a trifle, neighbour, you and me.

D.
We may, sir. This here's grand old Stratford brew;
No better yaäl i' Lunnon, search it through.
New Place ben't no such bargain, when all's done;
'Twas dear, I knows it.

G.
Yo' bought better, mun,
At Hoggin Fields: all ain't alike in skill.

D.
Thanks to the Lord above! I've not done ill.
No more han yo', friend Grunsey, in yer trade.

G.
So-so. But here's young Will wi' money made
And money saved; whereon I sets him down,
Say else who likes, a credit to the town;
Tho' some do shake their yeads at player-folk.

D.
A very civil man to chat and joke;
I've ofttimes had a bit o' talk wi' Will.

G.
How doth old Master Shakespeare?

D.
Bravely still.
And so doth madam too, the comely dame.

G.
And Willy's wife—what used to be her name?
Older than Willy, six, seven year or so;
Ann something—Hatchard was it? Hatchway?—no.

D.
Why, Hathaway, fro' down by Shottery gate.
I don't think she's so much about o' late.
Their son, yo' see, the only son they had,
Died last year, and she took on dreadful bad;
And so the fayther did awhile, I'm told.
This boy o' theirs was nine or ten year old.
—Willy himsen may bide here now, mayhap.

G.
He allays were a cliver little chap.
I'm glad o's luck, an' 'twere for old John's sake.
Your arm, sweet sir. Oh, how my legs do ache!