LACY

How many shapes have gods and kings devised

Thereby to compass their desired loves?

It is no shame for Roland Lacy then

To clothe his cunning with the Gentle Craft

That thus disguised I may unknown possess

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The only happy presence of my Rose.

For her have I forsook my charge in France,

Incurred the King’s displeasure, and stirred up

Rough hatred in mine uncle Lincoln’s breast.

O love, how powerful art thou, that canst change

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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,

Hath secretly conveyed my Rose from London

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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:

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I learned it when I was in Wittenberg.

Then cheer thy hoping sprites, be not dismayed;

Thou canst not want – do Fortune what she can,

The Gentle Craft is living for a man! Exit

EYRE

Where be these boys, these girls, these drabs, these scoundrels?

They wallow in the fat brewis 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! What, Nan! What, Madge

Mumblecrust! Come out, you fat midriff-swag-belly whores,

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and sweep me these kennels, that the noisome stench offend

not the nose of my neighbours. What, Firk, I say! What, Hodge!

Open my shop windows! What, Firk, I say!

FIRK

O master, is’t you that speak bandog and bedlam this morning?

I was in a dream, and mused what madman was got into the

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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’lt be more blessed.

FIRK

Let them wash my face that will eat it – good master, send for a

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souse-wife, if you’ll have my face cleaner.

EYRE

Away, sloven! Avaunt, scoundrel! – Good morrow, Hodge; good

morrow, my fine foreman.

HODGE

O master, good morrow; you’re an early stirrer. Here’s a fair

morning. Good morrow, Firk. I could have slept this hour.

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Here’s a brave day towards.

EYRE

O haste to work, my fine foreman, haste to work.

FIRK

Master, I am dry as dust to hear my fellow Roger talk of fair

weather. Let us pray for good leather, and let clowns and

ploughboys, and those that work in the fields, pray for brave

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days. We work in a dry shop, what care I if it rain?

EYRE

How now, Dame Margery, can you see to rise? Trip and go, call

up the drabs your maids.

MARGERY

See to rise? I hope ‘tis time enough; ‘tis early enough for any

woman to be seen abroad. I marvel how many wives in Tower

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Street are up so soon. God’s me, ‘tis not noon! Here’s a yawling.

EYRE

Peace, Margery, peace. Where’s Cicely Bumtrinket your maid?

She has a privy fault: she farts in her sleep. Call the quean up. If

my men want shoethread, I’ll swinge her in a stirrup.

FIRK

Yet that’s but a dry beating. Here’s still a sign of drought.

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