 | A Merrie and Pleasant Comedy : Never before Printed, called A Shoo-maker a Gentleman |  |
ACTVS QVINTVS.
A cry within, arme, arme, arme; then enter a sort of Country people at severall doores.All.
Arme, arme, arme; what shall we doe neighbours?
1.
The Beacons are on fire, and my heart freezes in my belly.
2.
They are fir'd round about us, and all the Country in an uproare;
My very nose drops with feare.
3.
If our Enemies finde us in these cold sweats,
We are all sure to goe to th pot for't.
4.
Therefore let's goe to th'pot first;
For when the Drinke's in, the Wit's out:
And when the wit is out, we shall fight like mad men.
1.
Content, and as we goe, let's raise the Countrey.
All.
Arme, arme, arme.
Enter Bassianus and Latius.
Bas.
What Alarum's this?
Why cry yee so like mad men?
1.
Because we have no weapons in our hands Sir.
Lut.
Why are the Beacons fir'd?
2.
We are all affraid to thinke on't;
They say the Enemy is landed Sir.
Bas.
Stand you here like sheepe,
When danger beats so rudely at your doores?
4.
There let 'em beate, he shall not be let in for me.
Come neighbours.
Within.
Arme, arme, arme.
Lut.
The cry is still rais'd, let's put the Court in Armes,
And certifie the Emperour.
Bas.
With all the speed that may be,
Arme, arme, arme.
Exeunt Bassian. & Lut.
2.
Let us be wise neighbours,
And whilst they cry Armes,
Exeunt Neighbours, the cry continued.
Let us cry leggs, and trust unto our heeles.
Enter Crispine and Leodice.
Cris.
The stratagem takes rarely, come faire Leodice,
This tumult in the Court gives meanes to flie.
Leod.
Thus folded in thine Armes I wish to dye.
Cris.
Talke not of Death, live, and be blest for ever,
No frowne of Fate two faithfull hearts can sever.
Exeunt.
Within.
Arme, arme, arme.
Enter Emperour and Lords with weapons drawne.
Max.
My Horse and Armour villaines:
High Iupiter protect us; what neglect is this,
The Beacons fir'd, and a whole Land asleepe,
When Foes come arm'd in Thunder?
Guard the Court, see to our Daughters safety,
I feare these sudden tumults have disturb'd her.
Enter Shoomakers with staves.
All.
Arme, arme, arme.
Bar.
An you be men, shew your selves so.
Max.
Why d'ee cry thus? say, whither run yee?
Bar.
Out of our wits I thinke Sir;
The Beacons all along the Sea-coast burne most horribly.
Max.
And what's the cause on't?
Bar.
Because they are a fire Sir: Ten thousand Kentish men
Which woefull taile's to tell, are knockt downe like sheepe Sir:
The Enemy is landed at Sandwitch, set a shore at Dover,
And arrived at Rumny Marsh: harke, I heare the Drummes already.
Max.
I am amaz'd, what Drumme is this?
(A low march.
Bar.
I would your Guard were here for us to stand upon,
That we might reach the further: Come, feare nothing Sir;
Let your Lords and you stand by, and see
How we Shoomakers will thrash 'em.
Enter Crispianus with Drumme and Souldiers richly attir'd.
Cris.
Health to the Emperour from the Roman State.
Bas.
These are our Brittaine friends, new come from France.
Max.
Whom at your landing saw you up in Armes,
That fright the Countrey thus?
Cris.
None my good Lord, not any;
From France and Dioclesian thus I bring
These Brittaine Souldiers back tryumphant home:
The black storme there is laid, and sure these feares
That bring these home-bred terrours, all are false:
And as I guesse, the firing of the Beacons,
Was at the sight of Dioclesians Fleete,
That with himselfe now rides in Dover-rode,
And is by this on shore: and how in France the die of War hath run,
His Majesty in these Imperiall Letters certifies.
Max.
Thankes for thy newes,
Wee'le read them straight.
Bar.
By St. Hughs bones we were all affraid of our owne shadows,
we shall have no cuffing now I see.
Enter Lutius.
Max.
What newes brings Lutius?
Lut.
Comfort my Lord, the errour's found;
The sudden fire that kindled all this feare,
Is now quencht out; the cloud that threatned stormes,
Is turn'd to drops of heate: some knavish fellow
Hard by the Sea-coast set a Tree on fire,
Which seene, men thought that Dover Beacon flam'd,
And so fir'd all the rest, and rais'd the Alarum.
Max.
I am glad it is no worse; run Bassianus,
And sing this comfort to our Daughters eares,
I shall my Lord.
Exit Bas.
Max.
These Letters of your noble Victories
Are as yourselfe, most welcome, on whose head
Our brother Dioclesian layes the glory of the
Conquest o're the Vandals and the Goths:
He writes, he gave unto thy manly Thigh
The sword of Kight-hood, wishing us to adde more
Honours on thee, which at his arivall,
His, and our hand shall doe with royall bounty.
Cris.
I am your lowly Vassall, royall Soveraigne,
Bar.
Dost heare fellow Ralph,
Me thinkes I should know this Captaine;
He lookes as like Crispianus as can be?
Enter Bassianus.
Max.
Now Bassianus, speake, how fares our daughter?
Bas.
Alas my Lord, the Court is all in mourning,
The Princesse with this suddaine feare
Is fled the Court, not to be found by any.
Max.
Not to be found, why where's her Nurse?
Enter Nurse.
Bas.
See here she comes.
Max.
Speake doating Beldam; where's my daughter.
Nur.
Fie, fie, fie, I have not so much wit left
As to tell yee where I am my selfe, O my side,
Pray let me breath a little;
When this hurly burly beganne i'th' Court,
Shee ranne, and I ranne; she haild, and I puld;
She cry'd, and I roar'd; but her feare being
Stronger than my old bones, away whipt shee
Out at the Court-gates, and I fell in a sound,
Starke dead y'faith; had not a Gentleman Usher
Come by and clapt me soundly, I'de beene
Past telling Tales by this time. Oh my Backe.
Oh dismall chance
Search every roome; This dismall clamour
May so feare her blood, that death may
Seize her haste: if in the Court yon misse her;
See't proclaim'd, that whosoever brings me
Her alive, goes laden with rewards;
If nobly borne, we give her him to wife:
Make haste, slippe not an houre,
While I set on to meete the Emperour.
Exit.
Bar.
I say 'tis he; Ile speake to him what ere come on't.
Crispianus?
Crisp.
My honest fellow Barnaby!
Bar.
O Rumpes and Kidnyes, did not I tell you so?
Ralph.
Honest Crispianus, welcome from France.
Crisp.
I thanke you: how does my Master?
Bar.
In health, and brave as Holly:
So art thou me thinks.
Crisp.
The fortune of the warres: is my Dame well too?
Bar.
The old wench still: she keeps the marke in her mouth.
Crisp.
And how does my brother Crispine?
Bar.
Oh he is the fore-man of the shop since you went
Nay, we have newes to tell thee anon when we are
Drinking; we have given o're the Shooe-makers
Cloakes now, and are become Gentlemen
Of the Gentle Craft, and all our working
Tooles are cald Saint Hugh's bones.
Crisp.
That's excellent.
Enter Shooe-maker.
Shooe.
How now my tall trencher men,
What make you amongst Courtiers?
What my Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum,
The Basselus manus, my noble Crispianus:
And how does the brave Monsiers in France,
My brave Shevaleere? As I am a Gentleman
Of the Gentle Craft, thou art welcome.
I thanke your love and kindnesse Sir.
Shooe.
Away my strong Beere drinkers;
There's a Noble in English, goe drinke a health
To Saint Hugh's Bones; I must have
Some speech in private, and enter parly
With my Man of Warre.
Bar.
As long as this Drumme will strike,
Wee'le fight it out with pike and pot:
Wee'le drinke a health to you both Master.
Exit.
Shoo.
Away my fine leather sellers,
Shrinke awhile i'th wetting; whilst thus
I salute my right worshipfull Cordwainer:
For I heare say the Knightly Dub a Dub
Has been laid on thy shoulders.
Crisp.
It pleas'd the Emperour so to honour me.
Shoo.
He honours me and all my company by it:
By Saint Hughs Bones thou shalt take the
Wall of thy Master now yfaith boy.
Crisp.
The Wall, not so Sir.
Sho.
And the Kennell too by the Spreech-awles:
Nay Sir, I know more than you thinke I doe:
Your Brother has song the three mans song,
And told all yfaith: you were
Once my Princely Prentise.
Crisp.
Sir. If my brother has disclos'd
To you our Births, I doe conjure you,
As my dearest friend, for to conceale it.
Shoo.
Mum, mum boyes,
As close as my Currier and I in a Taverne
On a munday morning: tut, my Princely
Prentise, thy brother knowes that I am leather
That will hold all waters when he trusts
Me with a secret: Harke in thine eare boy,
Has got a Wench with child by th'masse.
Crisp.
How, a wench with child?
Shoo.
Yes, and a great one too:
No lesse than the Emperours daughter,
Has entred the best Chamber ith' Court,
Has tickled her shooe sole for a girle or a boy
By this time; and harke once more,
She lyes in at my house too, but mum; no more words boy.
Crisp.
Pray heaven you catch no hurt by it,
For the Emperour sends forth wondrous search to find her.
Shoo.
No matter,
She shall be welcome home when e're she comes,
I hope shee's deliver'd too by this time,
For I heard such a Catterwalling,
And my wife stirres up and downe that she stinkes:
Nay more, the Beacons were fired on purpose
To steale her from Court, and onely
By the knavery and policy of
Gillian Ginger-taile my wife.
Crisp.
The accident is strange;
See, here comes my Dame and Brother.
Enter Crispinus, and Shooe-makers wife with a child.
Shooe.
Gods me shee's delivered:
Ha boy, art come? come hither Crispine,
Know yee this Shevaleere?
Crisp.
My dearest Brother.
Crispian.
I am glad to see you:
I heare strange newes brother.
Crisp.
If from my Master Sir the newes did come,
Tis true, and Ile with life maintaine.
Shoo.
Looke here old Sis,
Your other Prentise is come.
Crispian.
My gentle Dame.
Wife.
Sweete Crispianus, welcome home from the warres;
Nay sir, your brother has beene in Armes too:
Doe you you see what exployts has done?
Shoo.
Is't a boy wife?
Wife.
A boy I'me sure,
Nay come Sir, you shall kisse your kinseman:
Here's his Fathers owne nose yfaith.
Crispian.
A Princely babe,
The eye of Heaven looke on thee,
And maist thou spread like to the
Bay Tree, which the whole yeare springs,
And through this land plant a whole race of Kings.
Crisp.
Nor shall he scorne,
Till that race be runne,
To call himselfe a Prince,
Yet a Shooe-makers sonne.
Shoo.
Of the Brittaines blood Royall yfaith boyes:
Let no man therefore henceforth take it scorne,
To say a shooe-makers Sonne was a Prince borne.
Crispian.
Good Fate succeede it:
Brother my Master hath told all your strange proceedings:
Have you heard of the Proclamations?
Crisp.
Yes, and meane ere long
To use it for my profit.
Crispian.
Till when, muffle this Sonne
In some darke Cloud, whilst I at Court
Waite on the Emperour, that's gone to
Meete great Dioclesian; Fortune
May turne her Wheele, and wee
May stand as erst wee did,
And with our owne beames shine.
Crisp.
Play you your game at Court, the next trick's mine.
Shoo.
And by Saint Hugh,
Though I neither shuffle nor cut,
Ile hold Cards too.
Wife.
And Ile not fit out, though I turne up Noddy.
Crispia.
Worke wisely then, and part.
Shoo.
Doe so till time ripen, which being knowne,
A Shooe-makers subtile wit shall then be shewne.
Exeunt.
Max.
Great Dioclesian, our renowned Brother,
In France your happy and tryumphant deeds
We here in Brittaine thus congratulate:
The Vandall and the Goth we heare, have paid
The price at full for daring insolence.
Diocl.
Even with their bloods they have:
Their daring and their downfalls fill one grave,
And yet our Conquest had not spred such wings
But for those Brittaine forces you sent o're:
They from the French Field pluckt the noblest Flower,
And of them all, a Souldier too, whose Fame
I cannot sing too much, carryed the name
Of Honour from us all: his good sword flew like Lightning,
And where it went, o'rethrew: the King of Goths
Call'd me his prisoner, but then this brave Opponent
Fetcht me off in ransome with his blood, and that being done,
He like a Lyon on the Vandall runne:
Tooke him, and clos'd the battell in his fall,
The worke was bloody, rough, and Tragicall;
And therefore for my love pray crowne his head
That twice sav'd mine: It is a man, whose Fate
Vpheld the glory of the Roman State.
Max.
The man you sent, and praise so Royall Sir,
Shall ever live within our Princely favour:
One call the Captaine hither.
Bas.
Here he comes.
Enter Crispianus.
Max.
Brave Souldier, your high spoken merit
Breath'd from an Emperours love, claimes due regard
From his and our hands: cast therefore but your eye
On all the Kingdome, what you can espye to please you,
Aske, and take it.
Diocl.
Which wee'le confirme brave Crispianus,
Make thy princely boone worthy thy fame,
The Masters of the triple world, to give,
And by our gods thou shalt the same receive.
Cris.
I humbly thanke my Lords;
Ile aske no Gold, nor Lands, nor Offices; but thus high,
To beg a prisoners life and liberty.
Max.
A prisoner noble Sir, what is he?
Crisp.
'Tis a sad Queene, my Mother Royall Sir,
Imprison'd by your Grace at Rochester.
Max.
King Allureds Queene thy Mother?
Cris.
Yes my good Lord, my Kingly Father slaine,
I and my brother did disguis'd remaine,
Till I was prest for France.
Diocl.
This wonder doth amaze me:
Is Crispianus then a Kings sonne found?
'Twas voyc'd abroad, thou and thy brother dyed in the battell.
Cris.
Fame speakes not alwayes troth: I live,
But of my brother what's become, as yet I have not heard.
Max.
Thou here shalt live right deare in our regard;
Lutius by this our Signet free the Queene from Prison,
And give her knowledge of her Princely sonne:
O were our Daughter found, so much I love thee,
Thou should'st enjoy my bright Leodice.
Diocl.
We thanke our Brothers love to grace our friend,
For to his worth we can no gift extend.
Max.
What shouts are these? Looke out.
A shout within: Enter Nurse.
Nurs.
Out of my way Sir: oh my heart!
Max.
Why what's the matter?
Nurs.
The matter say yee? pray let me gape a little;
I was out of my wits before with feare, and now for joy.
Oh my heart, I thinke in my conscience I have not so much winde
left in my belly as will blow out a Candle:
Max.
Ha? my Daughter?
Say, where is she?
Nurs.
O my sweet Lambkin's found,
And come to Court too.
Where? who found her?
Nurs.
A pretty handsome stripling by my Holydame;
Her owne Shoomaker belike, poore duckling:
Shee was wandring, and he met with her;
And belike shee had worne out her shooes, and he fitted her finely:
So drew on her shooes first, and drew her to Court after;
And he and all the Company of the Gentle Craft Sir,
Brings her home most sumptuously.
Max.
With Musicks sweetest straines conduct 'em in,
Our sorrows wither, as our joyes begin.
Musick: Enter Shoomaker, and other in their Liveries, then Leodice and Wife with the Child: Crispine bare-headed before, Barnaby and the rest after: Leodice kneeles, and Maximinus embraceth her.
Max.
Life cannot be more welcome; which is he
Doubles my joyes in my Leodice?
Nurs.
This is the youth that doubles 'em:
O my sweet Honey-suckle, have I found thee agen?
Max.
Ile treble his rewards for finding her:
And to be sure my Daughter, not to loose thee more,
Great Emperour see
To doe all honour unto this Prince, and thee,
I give my onely daughter for his wife.
Leod.
His wife my Lord?
Max.
Ey my Daughter:
Though a stranger to thee, hee's a Prince borne,
Sonne to a King, and well deserves thy love.
Leod.
Here's one deserves it more, he sav'd my life
When I was almost dead with griefe;
These can witnesse it.
Bar.
'Tis very true Sir; when shee was the lost sheepe,
He was the Shepheard that found her;
When shee was a cold, he cover'd her;
Nay more, when shee was hungry, he fill'd her belly:
Wif.
Here's one, if it could speake, would be a witnesse to that.
Leod.
And by the Proclamation, your selfe are bound
Ile sweare Ile wed with none, except this Shoomaker.
Max.
Sure her sudden fright hath made her mad:
Was she not frantick when thou foundst her first?
Nay, shee's mad still; how dare you stand this scorne?
This is a Prince, that but a begger borne.
Leod.
A Beggar? looke on this Babe:
'Tis his owne; 'tis Princely borne,
And a Shoomakers sonne.
Max.
Fond Girle.
Leod.
Good Father heare,
You know not what brave men these shoomakers are.
Bar.
'Tis knowne we can get Children Sir.
Max.
How am I vext with fooles and mad men!
Leod.
I doe beseech you Sir, my Royall Father,
Take this lovely Child to kisse, and blesse it.
Max.
Defend me Iupiter, shee's mad,
Starke mad.
Diocl.
Why does the faire Leodice
So vexe her Kingly Father
With so base a brat?
Cris.
Zoonds base?
Shoo.
Peace knave, peace:
What wilt thou doe?
Leod.
Base Brat?
Alas, had the poore foole a tongue or power to speake,
Hee'd sweare you did him wrong:
By all our gods it is as nobly borne
As the proudest here.
Max.
Strange frenzy,
Why does my Daughter so dishonour me?
Leod.
I take but this poore Childs part, and so should you:
For looke you Father, this base Brats Mother
Lay in my Mothers belly; were shee alive,
Shee would acknowledge it, and comfort give,
And it shall call you Grandsir if it live.
Max.
Here's strange and darke Enigmaes,
Leod.
This shoomakers.
Max.
And yours?
'Slife he has layne with her,
Shee's his Whoore; attach the Villaine,
Tortures shall force his basenesse to confesse it.
Cris.
Most Royall Soveraigne,
Suffer not wrath to kindle in your bosome,
His basenesse and mine runne even in one streame:
It is my brother, Princes by birth, the King of Brittaines sonnes;
Our names Eldred and Offa; for these names
Of Crispine and Crispianus we but borrowed
To keepe our lives in safety.
Max.
Can this be true?
Leod.
Father it is, and this long since I knew,
Lov'd, and then married, a twelve Moneth since:
This token, could it speake, would tell you all.
Max.
Whom Heaven would save from danger, ne're can fall.
My blessing compasse both:
Nurse, what say you to this?
Nurs.
Nay, I was asleepe when 'twas done yfaith.
Diocl.
Shee winkt a purpose.
Enter Queene.
Lut.
The Queene my Lord.
Max.
Most welcome, and most wisht for,
Royall Princesse, your fetters off,
Imprisonment wee here take off,
Goe, imbrace your sonnes.
Quee.
O my deare sonnes!
Max.
With them receive your Daughter
To your love: Wonders hath falne
Since you have a Prisoner beene;
You, and your Sonnes, and we are growne a kinne.
Quee.
Fame spread abroad the wonder,
And the fame of our dread Lords the
Emperours, which in stead of death
Hath given an happy passage to our lives.
But Royall Sir, should I forget this shooe-maker,
My sonnes of you hath loving Parents found.
Shoo.
Faith Madam,
I did the best I could for 'em:
I have seene one married to the Emperours daughter.
Bar.
Wou'd you had marryed me no worse.
Max.
You all have done your best
To make our comforts full: for which wee'le pay
Rewards to all, and crowne this happy day.
Bar.
Wee have a boone my Lord the Emperour.
Max.
What is't?
Bar.
That seeing these two Princes,
Fellow servants with us, being of the Gentle Craft,
May have one Holy-day to our selves.
Max.
What Month would you have it kept in?
Bar.
The five and twentieth of October,
That none of our Trade may goe to bed sober.
Max.
Take it:
These lines of Fate thus in one circle met,
If Dioclesian please shall here close up.
Dioc.
In what circumference?
Max.
Thus; 'tis more honour to make Kings,
Than be such: then let these twaine,
Being English borne, be Brittaine Kings againe.
This in the North shall rule.
Dioc.
This in the South:
Brave Crispianus, to requite thy deed,
Great Dioclesians hand shall Crowne thy head.
Max.
To Crispine this:
A Crowne presented.
And this rich gift beside;
The faire Leodice to be his Bride.
Crisp.
I have an humble suit unto your Highnesse.
Max.
What is't my Sonne?
Crisp.
'Tis this;
A Church then, and a beauteous Monastery
On Holmhurst-Hill, where Albon lost his head,
Offa shall build; which Ile St. Albons name,
Max.
Build what Religious Monuments you please,
Be true to Rome, none shall disturbe your peace.
Set forward Princes, Fortunes Wheele turnes round;
We Kingdomes lose, you the same houre sit Crownd.
And thus about the World she spreads her wings,
To ruine, or raise up the Thrones of Kings.
FINIS.
| A Merrie and Pleasant Comedy : Never before Printed, called A Shoo-maker a Gentleman | |