 | A Merrie and Pleasant Comedy : Never before Printed, called A Shoo-maker a Gentleman |  |
ACTUS QUARTUS.
Enter Crispinus and Leodice with childe.Cris.
Be comforted my deare Leodice.
Leod.
How can I want sweete comfort, having thee? alack, that
Pleasure stolne, being backe returnd, should taste so sower:
It seemes a shallow Ford, when first 'tis tride;
But when the depth we sound,
It is a gulfe of raging whirle-pooles found.
Cris.
I know it Princely Love, and feare the event;
Love in the paths of danger ever went:
The morning flames of our desires burne bright,
And shall doe still in scorne of fortunes spight,
If you but feede the fire.
Leod.
O me! 'tis this I feare,
The burthen in my wombe our deaths doe beare.
Cris.
Why shouldst thou feare the knot our hearts hath tide?
Had heavens strength to it; and heaven will sure provide
For those whose names and faiths are written there.
Leod.
What vaile can now be drawne to hide our cares,
Or keepe this secret from our Fathers eares.
Of our stolne marriage?
Cris.
Stay, lets devise.
Leod.
It must be a thicke cloud darkens the Sunne:
This day my Father sits to cast deaths doome
Upon the Christians: and that doome I know
The fruit this Land brings next, must be my woe.
Cris.
I prethee peace, the clocke of misery goes alwaies
Too true: yet let me set it now.
Leod.
Dearest I will.
Cris.
Doe this then; if the Emperour call for thee,
Be sicke and keepe thy chamber,
Untill I get some place for thy delivery.
Sweare to me one thing first.
Cris.
What ever thou desirest.
Leod.
Then as thou art Princely bred, I charge thee sweare,
That as above the world I hold thee deare,
Thou wilt not leave me, whatsoever Thunder
My Father throwes at thee:
Kings frownes can be but death:
From thee Ile never part unto my latest breath.
Cris.
By all the truths that man ere swore by,
No force of strength shall part us.
Leod.
Peace, no more, Ile aske thee pardon for this base
Mistrust: kisse thy gentle cheeke, loving and mild:
I know thou canst not leave thy wife and child.
O me, I shall forget my present safety:
Deare heart stand by.
Nurse, Who's within there? Nurse.
Enter Nurse.
Nurs.
Anon sweet mouse.
Leod.
Sweet honey Nurse,
If the Emperour my father askes for me,
Say I am not well, and keepe my chamber.
You Shooe-maker a word,
Nurs.
Yet more worke for your Shooe-maker, well, well,
You play the wagge, and I the lye must tell.
I feare me there's a shooe wrings her i'th instep, of my yong Shooe-makers
making: such fellowes as hee cannot chuse but bee slippery
companions; for first they know the length of a Ladies foote, and
then they have such trickes to smooth her shooe, and tickle her sole;
as I protest, if I were a Shooe-maker my selfe, it would make my teeth
water: what a sweete thing it is, to have a round sweete, plumpe, delicate
Calve of a Ladies legge lye roling on his thigh, whilst he lies
smoothing her fine silke stocking, slippes his hand to her garters, and
sometimes higher birlady; I have beene serv'd so my selfe: there's many
a Gallant, I can tell you, would give all the shooes in's shoppe to
have a shooe-makers office in a morning: Well, well, I say nothing,
but I suspect something: Pitty of me, shee's as broad behinde as I am,
and round enough before: I doubt me he has made her a paire of
given instructions to your Shooe-maker? Why what a fellow art
thou, canst not finde a Last to fit her yet?
Leod.
Yes Nurse, he has fitted me now.
Nurse.
That's well:
You must be carefull sirrah, you must take true measure,
And fit her to a haire, I charge you.
Cris.
I warrant you Mistris.
Nurse.
Mistris! gods me; I am a Madam sir knave, though I am a
Nurse, I can tell you: Goe too, learne your duty, and you shall worke
to me too: when you have done with my Lady, you shall take up my
legge too: Come sweet honey.
Exit.
Leod.
Adeu my comfort.
Cris.
Even so my heart goes from me:
O what waves swim Lovers in! of feares, of hopes, of cares,
Of discontents, terrours, and dispaires.
A thousand feares doe now my poore heart shake,
What medcine's best? Counsell, and that Ile take.
Enter Barnaby, Raph, and Hugh.
Bar.
Come, come, an you be men, make haste:
You 'tis a hanging matter; the Emperour and all the Prisoners
Are gone by already.
Raph.
Stay, stay, here's our fellow Crispin, let's take him with us.
Wilt thou goe along Crispin?
Cris.
Whither should I goe? prethee tell me,
What make you all at Canterbury?
Bar.
Not to buy the Cat a Bell Crispin, but to make loyter-pins.
For this day Boy, we have made holy at Feversham,
Shut up shop, throwne by our shooe-thred, and wash't our faces:
And now my Master and Dame, and all of us are come
To see the Emperour, and the Christians that must dye to day.
They say there's a fine young Queene amongst them:
Prethee goe along with us.
Cris.
In sadnesse I cannot.
Bar.
In madnesse now I care not:
And therefore wee'le gallop no man knows whether.
Farewell Crispine: shalt see my Dame come chaffing this away anon,
'Cause we ran away from her: Come fellow Hugh,
Thou art so sad now, I prethee be merry.
Exit Barnaby and Raph.
Hugh.
Ile follow straight, although to meete my ruine;
The Princesse Winifred is doom'd to die,
And I in death will beare her company.
Exit.
Cris.
Misery of times when Kings doe kill,
Not arm'd by Law to doe it, but by will.
From these deepe woes that my poore Countrey beares
Heaven save the Queene my Mother, Fates are just,
And till the thred be spun, none turne to dust.
Enter the Shoomakers Wife sweating.
Wife.
Fie, fie, fie;
Heaven for thy pittie how am I us'd to day!
Here be youths indeed to runne away, and leave me in this order:
Doe I keepe one, two, three, foure, and five journey-men,
Besides Prentises, uprising and downe-lying,
And doe they all bob me of this fashion?
How now, art thou there Crispine? that's well:
Did you see your fellows?
Cris.
Yes my good Dame; they are all before you.
Wife.
Then Ile have you before me too, but not so farre as they are:
Fie, fie, see how I sweat with following them:
Come sir, though they gave me the slip, you'le not serve me so I hope.
Goe before, and man me.
Cris.
O my good Dame!
Wife.
How now Crispine, what's the matter Boy?
Why are so many Chancery Bills drawne in your face?
Now, where sits the winde that you blow so?
What ayl'st thou?
Cris.
I have ever found you a kind loving Dame, nay, a good Mother
Both to my selfe, and my poore Brother Crispianus.
Wife.
Blesse him good Heaven, upon what ground soe're he tread:
And so he shall finde, if e're he come
From the warres agen.
Cris.
Oh my good dame, I to your eares must now unlocke
A secret, which, if ere you blab abroad—
Wif.
Never by my Holy dame;
Yet I have much adoe to keepe my owne secrets,
But Ile keepe thine Ile warrant thee.
Crisp.
Nay looke dame, my life and death lies on it.
Wif.
Let what will lie on't,
it shall nere be talkt of by me.
Crisp.
Ile thanke yee then;
This it is, but you will say nothing?
Wif.
Dost thinke I am a woman or a beast?
Cris.
Nor be angry with me?
Wif.
Here's a doe indeede,
Thou hast not got a wench with child hast?
Cris.
You have found my griefe,
Good dame, indeed I have.
Wif.
Out upon thee Villaine.
Cris.
Nay good Dame.
Wif.
Hence you Whore-master knave,
Gods my passion, got a wench with childe,
Thou naughty packe thou hast undone thy selfe for ever:
Precious coales, you are a fine youth indeed,
Can you cut out no shooes but of Ducks leather,
With a wanion? has your Master so little doings,
Your tooles must be working abroad in a forrainers shop?
Cris.
Sweete Dame, you swore
You would say nothing.
Wif.
Nothing, hang thee villaine, Ile cry it at the Market Crosse:
I'faith, is your Aul so free for smocke-leather?
Crisp.
Good Dame.
Wif.
By these tenne fingers Ile double thy yeares for't:
Oh that I knew the Queane, I'de slit her nose,
And teare her eyes out of her head y'faith.
Shoo.
How now, what's the matter that it thunders so?
Wif.
Oh, you are as good a Master too o'th tother side: you looke to
your Prentises well; one of your men has beene at greene-goose faire;
but he shall pay for the sauce Ile warrant him.
Shoo.
What Faire? what Sauce, goody gander-goose?
Wif.
Nay, 'tis no matter, as he likes this, let him dance the shaking
of the sheetes another time.
Shoo.
What sheetes dame Guiniver? what dance I pray yee?
Wif.
Marry uptailes all: doe you smell me now?
Shoo.
I smell an Asse head of your owne: what's all this troe?
Cris.
Pardon me Sir.
Unlesse you stand my friend,
Alas I am but dead.
Wif.
Dead, hang yee Rascall, hang yee; you were quicke enough
when you laid your Whore on her backe, to take measure of her new
shooes: Would you thinke it Husband, this young knave has got a
wench with child.
Shoo.
Hoyda, and is this the shaking of the sheetes you talke of,
good wife Snipper Snapper: s'foote I like him the better fort: he is
of your husbands trade, you old whore, and he has mettall in him:
dost scould for that, hold your tongue with a poxe.
Wif.
I, I, one Whore-master will take part with another still.
Shoo.
Peace Walflit, leave gaping.
A wench with child? s'fut in my my capring dayes I have done as
much my selfe Sis.
Wif.
I, beshrow your heart for your labour.
Shoo.
Peace Sisley, I shall sow up your lips else;
Let me talke with my Prentise:
Hast got a maid with child saist?
Wife.
A maid, marry hang her whore.
Shoo.
Yet agen, keepe your Clacke, Ile slit your tongue else.
Speake my young Cock-Sparrow, what merry wagtaile hast thou
beene billing with?
Cris.
O Sir, if any but my dame and you should know it,
Shoo.
Mum, mum for my part Boy; and you Margery Magpye,
Keepe your tongue from chattering, or by the mary maskins Ile
tickle your gaskins: Come, say, what Didapper was't?
Cris.
The Emperours Daughter Sir.
Shoo.
Who, the Princesse?
Wife.
Out upon thee Traytor.
Shoo.
Sfoot will Bow-bell never leave ringing? will the perpetuall
motion of your old chaps never leave sounding? I shall beate your
clapper out anon for't: Ah sirrah, goe too boy, no Court-mustard serve
your turne but the Emperours Daughter? This is fine yfaith.
Wife.
Hee'le smoake for't I warrant him.
Shoo.
Why Wiperginie, prating still I say? th'ast drawne on her
shooe handsomely by the Masse: Prethee tell me, how couldst thou
being but a poore Shooemaker, climbe up to a Court-bed-sted?
Wife.
Hee'le climbe to the Gallows for't.
Shoo.
Why Knipperdolin, is the Devill in thee?
Cris.
I have climb'd farther Sir; shee's now my Wife,
And I have married her.
Wife.
Hoyda.
Shoo.
Hush madge Howlet, leave hollowing.
Cris.
That very day my Brother was prest forth—
Wife.
You prest her at night, did you?
Shoo.
Grunting still you Sow-guelder?
Wife.
Thou art a Coxcombe and a Claperdudgion:
Dost thou see now, I was never so call'd in my life as thou call'st me.
Thou maist be asham'd on't: this 'tis to let thy Prentises have their
swing, and lye out at nights thus.
Shoo.
Sweet Pigsnie, let me intreat thy patience:
Alas poore youth, we must needs helpe him.
Why I commend him that he shoots at the fairest marke:
What an excellent show an Emperours Daughter will make in a
Shooemakers shop!
Wife.
Shee'le spin a faire thred I warrant you:
How will he maintaine her troe yee?
Cris.
Shee knew my fortunes e're she married me,
And now your selves shall know them:
Are Princes both, and Sonnes to Alured, late King of Brittaine.
Sho.
How! my right Worshipfull Prentise!
Stands bare.
Wife.
Ha, is he a Kings sonne Husband?
Shoo.
Make courtsie to your man you whore.
Cris.
The Emperour Maximinus slew my Father,
And put the Queene my Mother into Prison:
What meane you gentle Master, pray be covered.
Shoo.
No by my faith Sir,
You are a better man than the Master of my Company.
Cris.
And seeing all my hopes lye dead save in her selfe,
I lov'd, reveal'd my selfe, and married her;
Yet I intreate you both—Nay gentle Master,
I am your Prentice still, pray stand not bare.
Shoo.
Well, well, for this once I will boy; now you old Gigumbob,
you ne're had two such men to man you.
Wife.
Nay truely Husband, I ever thought they were some worshipfull
mans sonnes, they were such mannerly boyes still.
Cris.
All I intreate of you, is some advice
To get my faire Leodice from Court, and then some secret place
Where she might be in safety till her sweet delivery,
And then Ile dare misfortune.
Wife.
Blessing of thy heart, I like thee well th'ast such a care of thy
Wife: therefore if thou couldst but steale her from the Court, and
bring her hither, she should lye in, and be brought to bed at my house.
and no body know it I warrant you.
Shoo.
I marry Tib-tattle basket, how should we doe that wench?
Cris.
That's all my care indeed, to steale her thence.
Wife.
Come, come, leave it to me Boy, I see, a womans wit must
helpe at a pinch still Boy: Marke this device, and if you like it, doe
it, and thus it is: Soone at night thou shalt hire some friend to fire a
Tree upon the Coast at Dover, as neare the Beacons as can be possible,
by which meanes the men that watch the other Beacons, seeing that
in flames, and supposing some Enemy landed, will presently fire all
the rest, and so on a sudden set both Court, City, and Countrey, and
all in an uproare, in which time if you and shee cannot bestirre your
stumps, and run both away, would you were whipt yfaith.
An excellent pate to trouble the whole Commonalty;
The plot is good yfaith Boy.
Cris.
I like it well, and will acquaint the Princesse with it.
Enter Barnaby and Raph crying.
Bar., Raph.
O Master and Dame, Dame and Master;
O lamentable day! now or never.
Shoo.
How now Knaves, tole one Bell at once, and leave jangling.
Bar.
O pittifull Master, intolerable Dame, I am the fore-bell, and
h'as rung all in many a time and often with you Dame: but now I
must ring out mine owne eyes in teares, in dolour, and most dolefull
knells: My fellow Hugh is taken,
Wife.
O horrible!
Shoo.
Peace Bag-pipe: my man Hugh condemn'd,
How comes that?
Bar.
O Master, your man Hugh is not the man you took him for;
not plaine Hugh, but Sir Hugh, a Knight of fame.
Shoo.
How? a Knight of the Worshipfull Company of the Cordwainers?
Bar.
Nay, by St. Davie, hee's more, hee's a Welch Prince,
And sonne to the King of Powes in South Wales,
Though he but a Shooemaker here.
Shoo.
Passion of me, what a brood of Princes have I brought up!
And why is my right honourable Servant to be put to death?
Bar.
As we were going to see the Christians, he spied his old Love
Queene Winifred amongst them, and at the very sight hee look't as
greene as a leeke, and so rusht in amongst them; tooke the Lady by
the Lilly-white hand, rail'd on the Roman gods, defied the Emperour,
and swore he would dye if she did.
Shoo.
Is there no helpe to save him?
Raph.
None in the World, except he leave to be a Christian.
Bar.
'Tis true Sir, all the Sergeants and Officers that came to arest
him, pittying his case, perswaded him to be no good Christian, as
they were: then there was a Broker said hee would lay his soule to
pawne, he could not prosper if he were a Christian; nay, the Iaylor
cries out on him, and sayes, if he continue a Christian, hee'le use him
like a Dog.
Alacke the day;
I'me sorry for my honourable boote hailer:
Goe and comfort him; Ile see him anon tell him.
Bar.
Nay, stay sweete Master,
'Twas never seene that a Shooe-maker and his men
Were base Bassilomions, but true bonus socius,
Up se freeze, though we cannot get him from prison,
Ile sell my coate from my backe, ere a Shoomaker
Shall want: Let us shew our selves Cavaleeres
Or Coblers: come every man his twelvepence
A peece to drinke with him in prison.
Shoo.
A good motion: boone boyes, fine knaves;
I like you well when you hang together:
Hold my brave Journey-men,
There's a double share for me.
Crisp.
And mine with all my heart y'faith.
Wif.
And cause he's a Knight, thou shalt have my shilling too.
Bar.
I thanke you Dame:
Nay, weele never leave a brother of our
Company, as long as flesh and bones
Will hang together.
Shoo.
Away boyes, goe you before;
Joane jumble breech your Dame and I will follow,
Cherish him up, tell him he shall not want;
He lives not in the world could ever say,
A Shooe-maker from his friend did flinch away.
Exeunt.
Flourish: Enter Maximinus, Bassianus, Lutius, Officers; Albon and Amphiabel in their shirts, as from Torments.
Max.
Resolve me yet, you stubborne Christians,
Cannot the severall tortures which we doe inflict,
Yet melt the Iron of your hardned hearts,
To make you bow unto our Roman gods?
Speake, will you obey our hest?
Amph.
None but the hests of heaven.
A thousand deaths have not the bitter stings
As are the paines we have felt in torturing;
Yet Tyrant wee'le endure tenne thousand more,
And laugh in deaths face, e're we our faiths give o're.
Max.
Renowned Albon, on thy head Ile set
A Crowne of gold.
Alb.
To make me heaven forget: Never.
Amph.
Never.
Max.
Let me yet winne thee foolish man:
Remember what honours we, and Dioclesian
Heapt upon thee: giving thee the stile
Brittaines Stewardship,
The Prince of Knights,
Lord of Varlome.
Alb.
And in thy Rackes, thy Irons, Gibbets, and thy Wheele,
Doe I more honour, and more comfort feele,
Than all those painted smoakes by thee bestowed
Of me: my Countrey may thus much boast: Albon
Stood firme and fixt, in spight of tyrants wrath,
Brittaines first Martyr for the Christian faith.
Max.
But not the last:
For to thy scorne Ile adde millions of
Christian flames, to death and tortures.
Lut.
Dispatch these first.
Max.
I will dragge them hence in Chaines to
Holnurst Hill, three miles from Verolome,
Where Albons Lord, three after blowes,
And spightfull buffettings, for honour of his
Knight-hood, once held the chiefe,
He shall have a Knight to be his Heads-man.
Alb.
That stroake shall well be given,
That makes roome for a soule to flye to heaven.
Max.
This fiend Amphiabel,
From whose damn'd Teate he suckt this poyson,
Shall there be bound by a fixed stake,
To which nail'd fast, the Navell of his belly
Being opened, then with your sword prick him,
Till he has spunne his Guts out: and that dispatcht,
Saw off his traiterous head.
Amph.
Cæsar in greater triumph nere was led.
Max.
Away with them; Albon's the first shall dye:
Alb.
Thou honour'st me amidst thy tyranny: come on dear friend,
Amph,
Eternity protect us to our end:
Fight nobly then.
Albon.
To my latest breath:
I goe to a wedding (friend) and not to death.
Max.
Goe dragge 'em hence; this day weele
Quaffe the blood of Christians: call forth more:
So perish all will not our gods adore.
Enter Hugh, Winifred, and Shooe-makers.
Bar.
Nay fellow Hugh, or noble Sir Hugh, remember 'tis not
every mans case to dye a Christian; prethee leave it then, and save
thy life; the Roman gods are as good gods as e're trode on a shooe
of leather: and therefore sweete Hugh wee may get their custome,
and bring 'em to our shoppe, and so we shall be Shooe-makers to the
gods.
Hugh.
Your trouble me, I pray leave.
Bar.
Leave thee, not as long as thou liv'st I'faith.
Max.
What are all these?
Bar.
Men that respect a Christian no more than you doe, Sir you
neede not feare, there's not a good Christian among us.
Max.
Honest fellowes:
Backe, and give the Prisoners roome.
Win.
Come my constant friend:
Noble Sir Hugh at last farewell joyne hands
We never shall touch one another more,
When these we sever; thou long hast
Lov'd me; truer ne're was found,
That both in life and death keepes faith so sound:
All that my love can give thee for thy paines
Ile marry thee, but death must bid the banes:
Never to wedding was such honour given,
Hugh.
At which Angels shall waite:
Saints be our guests, our soules the wedding couple,
And the feast joy and eternity; our bridall roome
The Hall of heaven, where hand in hand weele come,
Martyrs to dance a measure, which beginnes
Unto the musick of the Cherubins.
Max.
Meane time, even here you both shall dance with death;
Yet if our Gods you'le serve, prolong your breath.
Hugh.
'Tis life we seeke to loose; Tyrant strike home,
They are but walls of clay which thou beatst downe.
Max.
Call a Hangman, flea that
Villaine straight, and teare that womans
Flesh with burning Pincers.
Win.
We both are ready Sir,
Yet heare me Maximinus: by all the Rites
Of honour I conjure thee, in Law of woman-hood,
Let not my body be a Villaines prey;
But since I am a Queene and spotlesse Virgin,
Let me chuse my death.
Max.
Because thou once wert daughter to a King
Injoy thy wish, so death may forth with strike,
Meete him in any shape thou best shall like.
Win.
Be sure it shall:
Be thou the chiefe mourner at my funerall.
My earthly love farewell; thy cheeke Ile kisse,
Wee'le meete anon within the land of blisse:
Follow my footesteps thou shalt soone be there:
Courage good heart, to dye I cannot feare.
Ile be the first, and teach thee how to dye,
Leading the way to sweete felicity.
Come Tyrants lanch my arme, to death Ile bleed,
Sweete blood was shed for me, and mine Ile sheede.
Max.
Dispatch and lanch her arme, but save the blood
The which this day to holy Iupiter Ile sacrifice.
Win.
My dearest friend farewell,
In one house shortly wee'le for ever dwell.
The storme of death now comes,
Beare up brave saile.
Win.
I feele no storme; but even the merriest gaile
That ever life was driven with: Oh how sweet a
Dreame me thinkes I now am in;
Angels doe runne to meete and welcome
Me unto the Land of blisse,
Singing I have spunne a golden thred
Hugh.
That thread of gold weave still.
Win.
I doe; farewell: make haste to meete—
Dies.
Hugh.
In faith I will, in a whole Campe of Martyrs; blest Fate
Shee's gone for ever to an Angels state.
Max.
Dispatch him; and dragge her body hence.
Hugh.
'Tis sister to the Saints; oh give it reverence.
Why doe I linger here, my love being gone?
Bar.
A right Shooe-maker, he loves a woman.
Hugh.
Mercifull Tyrant set me on deaths wings,
That I may beare a part where my love sings
Eternall Hymnes of joy; blest love I come, as soone
As I can set forth out of this house of earth and clay:
When shall this stroake be given,
That I may mount and meete my love in heaven?
Max.
Flea him alive:
Yet stay, because you are so love-sicke, wee'le give
You a drinke to cure it: Powre into a Cup
His sweete-hearts blood, and give it us.
Hugh.
'Tis precious Wine, holy, and good.
Max.
And you shall quaffe your fill:
So, put in Poyson, spice it well;
There drinke thy last, and sinke with her to hell.
Hugh.
Oh let me kisse this heavenly cup of all my happinesse:
Deare Love to thy blest soules eternall goodnesse,
I drinke this health, fild to th'brimme:
Two hearts did never so in one streame swimme,
As thine and mine shall now; and though thy blood
Be poysond, this our loves keepes firme and good.
My Countrey men and fellow Shoo-makers,
We many times together have drunke healths,
But none like this: yet Ile beginne to you all;
But here you shall not pledge me.
Bar.
Yes, and 'twere Aquavitæ we would pledge thee.
Hugh.
The love which I so found in you,
Even in my latest houre, Ile not forget,
But to you all beginne my lasting love,
Never did faire society of men more please me: you are a trade
Of fellow ships best mixture, nobly made.
Bar.
We are Shooe-makers, and so.
Hugh.
My being amongst you, thus shall you preferre,
To say a Prince was once a Shooe-maker.
For which you now shall raise your skill aloft,
And be cal'd gentlemen of the Gentle craft.
Bar.
Oh noble Sir Hugh.
Hugh.
Could I give Indian Mines, they all were yours;
But I have nought to give, nor ought to take,
But this my farewell; therefore for my sake,
When Death has seiz'd my flesh,
Take you my bones, which I bequeath
Amongst you to be buried.
Bar.
Take no care for thy winding sheete, sweete Hugh, for never
was gentleman of the Gentle craft so buryed as thou shouldst bee,
if thou hadst drunke thy last.
Hugh.
Now trouble me no more:
Upon this stage of death I set my foote: to all farewell,
Angels shall clap their wings to ring my knell,
And bid me welcome to the land of rest,
Where my immortall love lives ever blest:
A health deare soule Ile drinke to thee: so, so,
How soone he fades, that now so fresh did grow!
Flye up my soule to heaven, my sins sinke to the earth;
Thus doe I seale my holy Christian faith.
Ralph.
O noble Sir Hugh, oh lamentable Hearing.
Max.
Conveigh that other body hence, and give it
Buriall as befits her state: for this, bestow
Bar.
No Shooemakers now Sir, but the gentle Craft
Shall see it buried in state and pompe.
Max.
Vse your owne pleasures; where's Bassianus?
How chanc'd our Daughter, bright Leodice,
Came not to see these slaughtred Christians?
Bas.
Shee keeps her Chamber Sir.
Max.
Is she not well? let her be kept with care,
And to the gods of Rome these Trophies reare.
Flourish, exit Maxim.
Bar.
Well my Masters, I could finde in my heart to raile upon
this Emperour Mr. Minus, but that I doubt hee'le make us all die like
Christians, and that he shall never doe as long as we live I warrant
him.
Raph.
Wee'le watch him for that yfaith.
Bar.
So let him passe then, and let us lay our sinodicall heads together,
to know what shall become of Sir Hugh.
Raph.
Let's all joyne together, and bury him.
Bar.
How like a Christian thou talk'st: what before hee be cold?
then we should use him as many rich heires desire to use their fathers:
No, because he was a Prince, and did such honour to our Trade, we'le
bury him like a Prince and a Shooemaker.
All.
Agreed, agreed.
Bar.
You know he gave us the name of the Gentle Craft, and if we
should give him an ill word now, 'twere a shame yfaith.
Raph.
That's true; how shall we doe then to honour him?
Bar.
Marry thus fellow-gentlemen, of my fellow Hughs making,
to requite his kindnesse, because he dyed a Christian, he shall no more
be call'd Sir Hugh, but St. Hugh, and the Saint for ever of all the
Shooemakers in England.
All.
O brave, brave Barnaby: St. George for England,
And St. Hugh for the Shooemakers.
Bar.
An you be Gentlemen, heare me: you know besides, h'as given
his bones amongst us. Now you must not thinke as if a Butcher
had given us a dozen of maribones to be pick't.
All.
Well, well, how then?
Bar.
Marry thus; in memory of his gift, all our working tooles,
from this time for ever, shall be call'd St. Hughs bones.
Brave, brave, that shall stand for ever yfaith.
Raph.
I, but which of our tooles shall we call so?
Bar.
Marry even all fellow Raph, all the tooles we worke with:
as for example, the Drawer, Dresser, Wedges, Heele-block, hand
and thumb-lethers, Shooe-thrids, Pincers, pricking-aule, and a rubbing-stone,
Aule, Steele, and Tacks, shooe-haires, and Stirrups, whet-stone,
and stopping-sticke, Apron, and Paring-knife, all these are Sir
Hughs bones. Now sir, whatsoever he be, that is a Gentleman of the
Gentle Craft, and has not all these at his fingers ends, to reckon them
up in Rime, shall presently up with him, and strapado his bum.
All.
An everlasting Law renowned Barnaby.
Bar.
Nay, heare me sing like a Swan, or a Sowter:
Furthermore, if any Iourney-man shall travell without these tooles,
now call'd St. Hughs bones, at his back, and cannot slash, cut, and
crack coxcombes, with brave Sword and Buckler, long sword, and
quarter-staffe, sound a Trumpet, or play o'th Flute, or beare his part
in a three mans Song, he shall forfeit a Gallon of wine, and be counted
a Colt as long as his shooes are made of running lether: Speake,
is't agreed on?
All.
Agreed, agreed, agreed.
Bar.
Wee'le take up the body then.
Raph.
Ile have a leg of him.
1.
And I another.
2.
And I another.
3.
And Ile helpe thee Raph.
Bar.
With reverence and with silence then: For as we have made
these Lawes in remembrance of him, so it shall not be a misse to make
it the sweeter, to reckon up our tooles, and put them in meeter, and
instead of a Deirge, I thinke it fit time and reason to reckon Sir Hughs
bones in Rime:
Wedges and Heele-blocks, greater and lesser;
Yet tis not worth two Ganders feathers,
Vnlesse you have the hand and thumb-lethers:
Then comes your short-heeles, Needle, and Thimble,
With Pincers and pricking Aule, so neate and nimble:
Rubbing-stone next, with Aule, Steele, and Tacks,
Which often will hold when the shooe-leather cracks:
Whet-stone, and cutting-knife which sharply pares:
And lastly, to clap Saint Hughs bones in
An Apron that's made of a jolly sheepes skin,
And thus to all Shooemakers we bid adieu,
With tryumph to bury the famous St. Hugh.
Exeunt.
| A Merrie and Pleasant Comedy : Never before Printed, called A Shoo-maker a Gentleman | |