A Garden at Old Ford.
Enter Rose, alone, making a garland
ROSE.
Here sit thou down upon this flow’ry bank,
And make a garland for thy Lacy’s head.
These pinks, these roses, and these violets,
These blushing gilliflowers, these marigolds,
The fair embroidery of his coronet,
Carry not half such beauty in their cheeks,
As the sweet countenance of my Lacy doth.
O my most unkind father! O my stars,
Why lower’d you so at my nativity,
To make me love, yet live robb’d of my love?
Here as a thief am I imprisoned
For my dear Lacy’s sake within those walls,
Which by my father’s cost were builded up
For better purposes. Here must I languish
For him that doth as much lament, I know,
Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.
Enter Sybil
SYBIL.
Good morrow, young mistress. I am sure you make that garland for me; against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.
ROSE.
Sybil, what news at London?
SYBIL.
None but good; my lord mayor, your father, and master Philpot, your uncle, and Master Scot, your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors’ Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations.
ROSE.
Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?
SYBIL.
O yes, out of cry, by my troth. I scant knew him; here ’a wore a scarf; and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters,—O, monstrous! like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford House here, in Master Belly-mount’s chamber. I stood at our door in Cornhill, look’d at him, he at me indeed, spake to him, but he not to me, not a word; marry go-up, thought I, with a wanion[Note_14]! He passed by me as proud—Marry foh! are you grown humorous, thought I; and so shut the door, and in I came.
ROSE.
O Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy wrong!
My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb.
No dove was ever half so mild as he.
SYBIL.
Mild? yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs[Note_15]. He looked upon me as sour as verjuice. Go thy ways, thought I: thou may’st be much in my gaskins[Note_16], but nothing in my nether-stocks. This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he’s done to; but if I were as you, I’d cry, ‘Go by, Jeronimo, go by![Note_17]’
I’d set mine old debts against my new driblets,
And the hare’s foot against the goose giblets,
For if ever I sigh, when sleep I should take,
Pray God I may lose my maidenhead when I wake.
ROSE.
Will my love leave me then, and go to France?
SYBIL.
I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers. By my troth, he is a proper man; but he is proper that proper doth. Let him go snick-up[Note_18], young mistress.
ROSE.
Get thee to London, and learn perfectly
Whether my Lacy go to France, or no.
Do this, and I will give thee for thy pains
My cambric apron and my Romish gloves,
My purple stockings and a stomacher.
Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my sake?
SYBIL.
Will I, quoth’a? At whose suit? By my troth, yes, I’ll go. A cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher! I’ll sweat in purple, mistress, for you; I’ll take anything that comes a’ God’s name. O rich! a cambric apron! Faith, then have at ‘up tails all.’ I’ll go jiggy-joggy to London, and be here in a trice, young mistress.
Exit.
ROSE.
Do so, good Sybil. Meantime wretched I
Will sit and sigh for his lost company.
Exit.
A Street in London.
Enter Lacy, disguised as a Dutch Shoemaker.
LACY.
How many shapes have gods and kings devis’d,
Thereby to compass their desired loves!
It is no shame for Rowland Lacy, then,
To clothe his cunning with the gentle craft,
That, thus disguis’d, I may unknown possess
The only happy presence of my Rose.
For her have I forsook my charge in France,
Incurr’d the king’s displeasure, and stirr’d up
Rough hatred in mine uncle Lincoln’s breast.
O love, how powerful art thou, that canst change
High birth to baseness, and a noble mind
To the mean semblance of a shoemaker!
But thus it must be. For her cruel father,
Hating the single union of our souls,
Has secretly convey’d my Rose from London,
To bar me of her presence; but I trust,
Fortune and this disguise will further me
Once more to view her beauty, gain her sight.
Here in Tower Street with Eyre the shoemaker
Mean I a while to work; I know the trade,
I learnt it when I was in Wittenberg.
Then cheer thy hoping spirits, be not dismay’d,
Thou canst not want: do Fortune what she can,
The gentle craft if living for a man.
Exit.
An open Yard before Eyre's House.
Enter EYRE, making himself ready[Note_19]
EYRE.
Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels? They wallow in the fat brewiss[Note_20] of my bounty, and lick up the crumbs of my table, yet will not rise to see my walks cleansed. Come out, you powder-beef queans[Note_21]! 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 noses of my neighbours. What, Firk, I say; what, Hodge! Open my shop-windows! What, Firk, I say!
Enter FIRK
FIRK.
O master, is’t you that speak bandog[Note_22] and Bedlam this morning? I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the street so early. Have you drunk this morning that your throat is so clear?
EYRE.
Ah, well said, Firk; well said, Firk. To work, my fine knave, to work! Wash thy face, and thou’t be more blest.
FIRK.
Let them wash my face that will eat it. Good master, send for a souse-wife[Note_23], if you’ll have my face cleaner.
Enter HODGE
EYRE.
Away, sloven! avaunt, scoundrel!—Good-morrow, Hodge; good-morrow, my fine foreman.
HODGE.
O master, good-morrow; y’are an early stirrer. Here’s a fair morning.—Good-morrow, Firk, I could have slept this hour. Here’s a brave day towards.
EYRE.
Oh, haste to work, my fine foreman, haste to work.
FIRK.
END OF SAMPLE
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Published by Les Éditions de Londres
©2016 – Les Éditions de Londres
ISBN: 978-1-910628-79-9