FIRK

Run, good Hans! O Hodge, O mistress! Hodge, heave up thine

ears; mistress, smug up your looks, on with your best apparel.

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My master is chosen, my master is called, nay condemned, by

the cry of the country to be sheriff of the City for this famous

year now to come and time now being. A great many men in

black gowns were asked for their voices and their hands, and

my master had all their fists about his ears presently, and they

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cried Ay, ay, ay, ay; and so I came away.

Wherefore without all other grieve

I do salute you, Mistress Shrieve.

LACY

Yaw, my meester is de groot man, de shrieve.

HODGE

Did not I tell you, mistress? Now I may boldly say ‘Good

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morrow to your worship’.

MARGERY

Good morrow, good Roger. I thank you, my good people all.

Firk, hold up thy hand, here’s a threepenny piece for thy

tidings.

FIRK

’Tis but three halfpence, I think. - Yes, ’tis threepence. I smell

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the Rose.

HODGE

But, mistress, be ruled by me and do not speak so pulingly.

FIRK

’Tis her worship speaks so, and not she. No, faith, mistress,

speak to me in the old key. ‘To it, Firk’; ‘there, good Firk’; ‘ply

your business, Hodge’ - ‘Hodge’ with a full mouth; ‘I’ll fill your

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bellies with good cheer till they cry twang’.

LACY

See, myn liever broder, heer compt my meester.

MARGERY

Welcome home, Master Shrieve. I pray God continue you in

health and wealth.

EYRE

See here, my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre!

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I shall make thee a lady; here’s a French hood for thee. On with

it, on with it - dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of

mutton, to make thee look lovely. Where be my fine men?

Roger, I’ll make over my shop and tools to thee. Firk, thou shalt

be the foreman. Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for twenty.

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Be as mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, and you

shall live to be sheriffs of London. How dost thou like me,

Margery? Prince am I none, yet am I princely born! Firk,

Hodge, and Hans!

ALL THREE

Ay, forsooth, what says your worship, Mistress Sheriff?

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EYRE

Worship and honour, you Babylonian knaves, for the Gentle

Craft! But I forgot myself: I am bidden by my Lord Mayor to

dinner at old Ford. He’s gone before, I must after. Come,

Madge, on with your trinkets. Now, my true Trojans, my fine

Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some

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odd crotchets, some morris or suchlike for the honour of the

gentle shoemakers. Meet me at Old Ford; you know my mind.

Come Madge, away;

Shut up the shop, knaves, and make holiday.

FIRK

O rare! O brave! Come, Hodge - follow me, Hans;

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We’ll be with them for a morris-dance.