 | The Mayor of Quinborough |  |
38
SCENA 3.
Enter Hengist.Heng.
A fair and fortunate Constellation reign'd
When we set foot here, for from his first gift
(Which to a Kings unbounded eyes seem'd nothing)
The Compass of a Hide, I have erected
A strong and spacious Castle, yet contain'd my self
Within my limits, without check or censure.
Thither, with all th'observance of a Subject,
The liveliest witness of a grateful mind,
I purpose to invite him and his Queen
And feast them nobly.
Bar.
We will enter, Sir,
'Tis a state business, of a twelve moneth long,
The chusing of a Mayor.
Heng.
What noise is that?
Tay.
Sir, we must speak with the good Earl of Kent,
Though we were never brought up to keep a door,
We are as honest, Sir, as some that do.
Enter a Gentleman.
Heng.
Now, Sir, what's the occasion of their clamours?
Gen.
Please you, my Lord, a company of Townes-men
Are bent against all denials and resistance
To have speech with your Lordship, and that you
Must end a difference, which none else can do.
Heng.
Why then there's reason in their violence,
Which I ne're look'd for: first let in but one,
Exit Gentleman.
And as we relish him the rest come on.
'Tis no safe wisdom in a rising man
To slight off such as these, nay rather these
Are the foundations of a lofty work,
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He that first ascends to a Mountains top
Must begin at the foot. Now, Sir, who comes?
Enter Gent.
Gen.
They cannot yet agree, my Lord, of that;
They say 'tis worse now then it was before,
For where the difference was but between two,
Upon this coming first th'are all at odds;
One says he shall lose his place in the Church by't,
Another will not do his wife that wrong,
And by their good wills they would all come first.
The strife continues in most heat, my Lord,
Between a Country Barber and a Taylour
Of the same Town, and which your Lordship names
'Tis yielded by consent that he shall enter.
Heng.
Here's no sweet quoyl, I am glad they are so reasonable,
Call in the Barber, if the Tale be long
He'le cut it short I trust, that's all the hope;
Enter Barber.
Now, Sir, are you the Barber?
Bar.
Oh most barbarous!
A Corrector of enormities in hair, my Lord,
A promooter of upper lips, or what your Lordship,
In the neatness of your discretion, shall think fit to call me.
Heng.
Very good, I see you have this without book,
But what's your business?
Bar.
Your Lordship comes to a very high point indeed,
The business, Sir, lyes about the head.
Heng.
That's work for you.
Bar.
No, my good Lord, there is a Corporation,
A Body, a kind of Body.
Heng.
The Barber is out at the Body, let in the Taylour;
This 'tis to reach beyond your own profession,
When you let go your head, you lose your memory:
You have no business with the Body.
Bar.
Yes, Sir,
I am a Barber-Chirurgeon, I have had something to do with it
In my time, my Lord, and I was never so out of the body
As I have been of late, send me good luck, I'le marry some whore
But I'le get in again.
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Now, Sir, a good discovery come from you.
Tay.
I will rip up the Linings to your Lordship,
And shew what stuff 'tis made of; for the Body
Or Corporation—
Heng.
There the Barber left indeed.
Tay.
'Tis piec'd up of two fashions.
Heng.
A patcht Town the whilest.
Tay.
Nor can we go through stitch, my noble Lord,
The choler is so great in the one party.
And as in linsey-woolsey wove together,
One piece makes several suits, so, upright Earl,
Our linsey-woolsey hearts make all this coyl.
Heng.
What's all this now? I am ne're the wiser yet, call in the rest:
Now, Sirs, what are you?
Glo.
Sir, reverence on your Lordship,
I am a Glover.
Heng.
What needs that then?
Glo.
Sometimes I deal in dogs leather, Sir, reverence the while.
Heng.
Well, to the purpose, if there be any towards.
Glo.
I were an Ass else, saving your Lordships presence;
We have a Body, but our Town wants a hand,
A hand of Justice, a worshipful Master Mayor:
Heng.
This is well handled yet, a man may take some hold
On it. You want a Mayor?
Glo.
Right, but there's two at fifty cuffs about it, Sir, as I may say
At daggers drawing, but that I cannot say, because they have none;
And you being Earl of Kent, our Town does say
Your Lordships voice shall part and end the fray.
Heng.
This is strange work for me, well Sir, what be they?
Glo.
The one is a Tanner.
Heng.
Fye, I shall be too partial,
I owe too much affection to that Trade
To put it to my voice; what is his name?
Glo.
Symon.
Heng.
How Symon too?
Glo.
Nay 'tis but Symon one, Sir,
The very same Symon that sold your Lordship a Hide.
Heng.
What sayest thou?
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That's all his glory, Sir, he got his Masters
Widow by it presently, a rich Tanners wife, she has set him up,
He was her Fore-man a long time in her other husbands days.
Heng.
Now let me perish in my first aspiring
If the pretty simplicity of his fortune
Do not most highly take me, 'tis a presage, methinks,
Of bright succeeding happiness to mine
When my Fates Gloworm casts forth such a shine.
And what are those that do contend with him?
Tay.
Marry, my noble Lord, a Fustian Weaver.
Heng.
How, he offer
To compare with Symon! he a fit match for him!
Bar.
Hark, hark, my Lord, here they come both in a pelting chafe
From the Town-house.
Sym.
How, before me? I scorn thee,
Thou wattle-fac'd sing'd Pig.
Oliver.
Pig? I defie thee,
My Uncle was a Jew, and scorn'd the motion.
Sym.
I list not brook thy vaunts, compare with me?
Thou Spindle of Concupiscence, 'tis well known
Thy first wife was a Flax-wench.
Ol.
But such a Flax-wench
Would I might never want at my need, nor any friend of mine,
My Neighbours knew her, thy wife was but a hempen halter to her.
Sym.
Use better words, I'le hang thee in my year else,
Let who will chuse thee afterwards.
Glo.
Peace for shame,
Quench your great spirit, do not you see his Lordship?
Heng.
What, Master Symonides?
Sym.
Symonides?
What a fair name hath he made of Symon!
Then he's an Ass that calls me Symon again,
I am quite out of love with it.
Heng.
Give me thy hand,
I love thy fortunes, and like a man that thrives.
Sym.
I took a widow, my Lord,
To be the best piece of ground to thrive on,
And by my faith, my Lord, there's a young Symonides,
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Heng.
Th'hast a good lucky hand.
Sym.
I have somewhat, Sir.
Heng.
But why to me is this election offer'd?
The chusing of a Mayor goes by most voices.
Sym.
True, Sir, but most of our Towns-men are so hoarse
With drinking, there's not a good voice among them all.
Heng.
Are you content to put it to all these then?
To whom I liberally resign my Interest
To prevent censures.
Sym.
I speak first, my Lord.
Ol.
Though I speak last, my Lord, I am not least,
If they will cast away a Town-born Child, they may,
It is but dying some forty years before my time.
Heng.
I leave you to your choice awhile.
Exit.
All.
Your good Lordship.
Sym.
Look you Neighbours, before you be too hasty, let Oliver
The Fustian-Weaver, stand as fair as I do, and the Devil
Do him good on't.
Ol.
I do, thou upstart Callymoocher, I do,
'Tis well known to the Parish I have been twice Ale-Cunner,
Thou mushrom, that shot'st up in a night;
By lying with thy Mistress.
Sym.
Faith thou art such a spiny Baldrib,
All the Mistresses in the Town will never get thee up.
Ol.
I scorn to rise by a woman, as thou didst,
My Wife shall rise by me.
Glo.
I pray leave your Communication,
We can do nothing else.
Ol.
I gave that Barber a Fustian-Suit,
And twice redeem'd his Cittern, he may remember me.
Sym.
I fear no false measure but in that Taylor,
The Glover and the Button-maker are both cock-sure;
That Colliers eye I like not:
Now they consult, the matter is in brewing,
Poor Gill wy wife lyes longing for the news,
'Twill make her a glad Mother.
All.
A Symon, a Symon.
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Good people I thank you all.
Ol.
Wretch that I am,
Tanner, thou hast curried favour.
Sym.
I curry, I defie thy Fustian fume.
Ol.
But I will prove a Rebel all thy year
And raise up the seven deadly sins against thee.
Exit.
Sym.
The deadly sins will scorn to rise by thee,
If they have any breeding,
As commonly they are well brought up, 'tis not for every scab
To be acquainted with them; but leaving the scab, to you good
Neighbours now I bend my speech. First, to say more then a man
Can say, I hold it not fit to be spoken; but to say what a man
Ought to say, there I leave you also. I must confess your loves
Have chosen a weak and unlearned man; that I can neither write
Nor read you all can witness; yet not altogether so unlearned, but I
Can set my mark to a Bond, if I would be so simple; an excellent
Token of Government. Cheer you then, my hearts, you have done
You know not what, there's a full point. There you must all
Cough and hem.
Here they all cough and hem.
Now touching our common adversary the Fustian-Weaver,
Who threatens he will raise the deadly sins among us,
Let them come, our Town is big enough to hold them,
We will not so much disgrace it; besides you know
A deadly sin will lye in a narrow hole; but when they think
Themselves safest, and the web of their iniquity best woven,
With the horse-strength of my Justice I will break through the
Loom of their concupiscence, and make the Weaver go seek his
Shuttle. Here you may cough and hem again, if you'l do me the
Favour.
They cough and hem again.
Why I thank you all, and it shall not go unrewarded.
Now for the deadly sins, Pride, Sloth, Envy, Wrath; as for
Covetousness and Gluttony, I'le tell you more when I come
Out of my Office; I shall have time to try what they are,
I will prove them soundly, and if I find Gluttony and Covetousness
To be directly sins, I'le bury the one in the bottom of a Chest,
And the other in the end of my Garden. But Sirs, for Leachery,
I'le tickle that home my self, I'le not leave a Whore in the Town.
Bar.
Some of your Neighbours must seek their
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Sym.
Barber, be silent, I will
Cut thy Comb else. To conclude, I will learn the villany of
All Trades, my own I know already; if there be any knavery
In the Baker, I will boult it out; if in the Brewer, I will taste him
Throughly, and piss out his iniquity at his own suck-hole:
In a word, I will knock down all enormities like a Butcher,
And send the Hide to my fellow Tanners.
All.
A Symonides, a true Symonides indeed.
Enter Hengist and Roxena.
Heng.
How now, how goes your choice?
Tay.
This is he, my Lord.
Sym.
To prove I am the man, I am bold to take
The upper hand of your Lordship:
I'le not lose an inch of my honour.
Heng.
Hold Sirs, there's some few Crowns to mend your feast,
Because I like your choice.
Bar.
Joy bless you, Sir,
We'le drink your health with Trumpets.
Sym.
I with Sack-butts,
That's the more solemn drinking for my state,
No malt this year shall fume into my pate.
Exit cum suis.
Heng.
Continue still that favour in his love.
Rox.
Nay with encrease, my Lord, the flame grows greater,
Though he has learn'd a better art of late
To set a skreen before it.
Enter Vortiger and Horsus.
Heng.
Speak lower.
Hor.
Heard every word, my Lord.
Vor.
Plainly?
Hor.
Distinctly;
The course I took was dangerous, but not failing,
For I convey'd my self behind the Hangings
Even just before his entrance.
Vor.
'Twas well ventur'd.
Hor.
I had such a womans first and second longing in me
To hear her how she would bear her mock'd abuse
After she was return'd to privacy,
I could have fasted out an Ember-week,
And never thought of hunger, to have heard her;
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Vor.
Two holy Confessors.
Hor.
At whose first sight
I could perceive her fall upon her breast
And cruelly afflict her self with sorrow;
I never heard a sigh till I heard hers,
Who after her Confession pitying her,
Put her into a way of patience,
Which now she holds, to keep it hid from you,
There's all the pleasure that I took in't now,
When I heard that my pains was well remembred.
So with applying comforts and relief,
They have brought it lower, to an easie grief.
But yet the taste is not quite gone.
Vor.
Still fortune
Sits bettering our Inventions.
Enter Castiza.
Hor.
Here she comes.
Cast.
Yonder's my Lord, oh I'le return again,
Methinks I should not dare to look on him.
Hor.
She's gone again.
Vor.
It works the kindlier, Sir.
Go now and call her back, she winds her self
Into the snare so prettily, 'tis a pleasure
To set toils for her.
Cast.
He may read my shame
Now in my blush.
Vor.
Come y'are so link'd to holiness,
So ta'ne with contemplative desires,
That the world has you, yet enjoys you not;
You have been weeping too.
Cast.
Not I, my Lord.
Vor.
Trust me I fear you have, y'are much to blame
To yield so much to passion without cause.
Is not some time enough for meditation?
Must it lay title to your health and beauty,
And draw them into times consumption too?
'Tis too exacting for a holy faculty.
My Lord of Kent? I prithee wake him, Captain,
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Hor.
My Lord?
Vor.
Nay,
I'le take away your Book and bestow't here.
Heng.
Your pardon, Sir.
Vor.
Lady, you that delight in Virgins stories,
And all chast works, here's excellent reading for you;
Make of that Book as made men do of favours,
Which they grow sick to part from. And now, my Lord,
You that have so conceitedly gone beyond me,
And made so large use of a slender gift,
Which we ne're minded; I commend your thrift.
And that your Building may to all Ages
Carry the stamp and impress of your wit,
It shall be call'd Thong-Castle.
Heng.
How? my Lord,
Thong-Castle! there your Grace quitts me kindly.
Vor.
'Tis fit Art should be known by its right name,
You that can spread my gift, I'le spread your fame.
Heng.
I thank your Grace for that.
Vor.
And loved Lord,
So well we do accept your Invitation,
With all speed we'le set forwards.
Heng.
Your Honour loves me.
Exit.
| The Mayor of Quinborough | |