OATLEY

Trust me, you are as welcome to Old Ford

As I myself.

MARGERY Truly, I thank your lordship.

OATLEY

Would our bad cheer were worth the thanks you give.

EYRE

Good cheer, my Lord Mayor, fine cheer; a fine house, fine walls,

all fine and neat.

5

OATLEY

Now, by my troth, I’ll tell thee, master Eyre,

It does me good, and all my brethren,

That such a madcap fellow as thyself

Is entered into our society.

MARGERY

Ay, but, my lord, he must learn now to put on gravity.

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EYRE

Peace, Maggy, a fig for gravity. When I go to Guildhall in my

scarlet gown I’ll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as

gravely as a Justice of Peace; but now I am here at Old Ford, at

my good Lord Mayor’s house, let it go by, vanish, Maggy; I’ll be

merry. Away with flip-flap, these fooleries, these gulleries.

15

What, honey: prince am I none, yet am I princely born! What

says my Lord Mayor?

OATLEY

Ha, ha, ha! I had rather than a thousand pound

I had an heart but half so light as yours.

EYRE

Why, what should I do, my lord? A pound of care pays not a

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dram of debt. Hum, let’s be merry whiles we are young. Old

age, sack and sugar will steal upon us ere we be aware.

OATLEY

It’s well done. Mistress Eyre, pray give good counsel to my

daughter.

MARGERY

I hope Mistress Rose will have the grace to take nothing that’s

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bad.

OATLEY

Pray God she do, for I’faith, Mistress Eyre,

I would bestow upon that peevish girl

A thousand marks more than I mean to give her

Upon condition she’d be ruled by me.

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The ape still crosseth me. There came of late

A proper gentleman of fair revenues

Whom gladly I would call son-in-law;

But my fine cockney would have none of him.

You’ll prove a coxcomb for it ere you die.

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A courtier or no man must please your eye.

EYRE

Be ruled, sweet Rose. Thou’rt ripe for a man: marry not with a

boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy

cheeks. A courtier? - wash, go by! Stand not upon pishery-

pashery. Those silken fellows are but painted images - outsides,

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outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse,

marry me with a Gentleman Grocer like my Lord Mayor your

father. A grocer is a sweet trade, plums, plums! Had I a son or

daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the

shoemakers, he should pack. What, the Gentle Trade is a living

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for a man through Europe, through the world!

OATLEY

What noise is this?

EYRE

O my Lord Mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your

honour are come hither with a morris-dance. [Calls] Come in,

my Mesopotamians, cheerly!

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