FIRK

Pitchers have ears, and maids have wide mouths. But for Hans

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Prans, upon my word, tomorrow morning he and young Mistress

Rose go to this gear. They shall be married together, by this

rush, or else turn Firk to a firkin of butter to tan leather withal.

OATLEY

But art thou sure of this?

FIRK

Am I sure that Paul’s Steeple is a handful higher than London

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Stone? Or that the Pissing Conduit leaks nothing but pure

Mother Bunch? Am I sure I am lusty Firk? God’s nails, do you

think I am so base to gull you? LINCOLN

Where are they married? Dost thou know the church?

FIRK

I never go to church, but I know the name of it. It is a swearing-

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church. Stay a while, ‘tis Ay, by the Mass. No, no, ‘tis Ay, by my

troth. No, nor that; ‘tis Ay, by my faith - that, that! ‘Tis Ay by

my Faith’s Church under Paul’s Cross. There they shall be knit

like a pair of stockings in matrimony; there they’ll be incony.

LINCOLN

Upon my life, my nephew Lacy walks

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In the disguise of this Dutch shoemaker.

FIRK

Yes, forsooth.

LINCOLN

Doth he not, honest fellow?

FIRK

No, forsooth, I think Hans is nobody but Hans, no spirit.

OATLEY

My mind misgives me now ‘tis so indeed.

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LINCOLN

My cousin speaks the language, knows the trade.

OATLEY

Let me request your company, my lord.

Your honourable presence may, no doubt,

Refrain their headstrong rashness, when myself,

Going alone, perchance may be o’erborne.

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Shall I request this favour?

LINCOLN This, or what else.

FIRK

Then you must rise betimes, for they mean to fall to their hey-

pass-and-repass, pindy-pandy, which-hand-will-you-have very

early.

OATLEY

My care shall every way equal their haste.

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This night accept your lodging in my house.

The earlier shall we stir, and at Saint Faith’s

Prevent this giddy, hare-brained nuptial.

This traffic of hot love shall yield cold gains:

They ban our loves, and we’ll forbid their banns. Exit

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LINCOLN

At Saint Faith’s Church, thou sayst?

FIRK

Yes, by their troth.

LINCOLN

Be secret, on thy life. Exit

FIRK

Yes, when I kiss your wife! Ha, ha! Here’s no craft in the Gentle

Craft. I came hither of purpose with shoes to Sir Roger’s

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worship, whilst Rose his daughter be cony-catched by Hans.

Soft now: these two gulls will be at Saint Faith’s Church

tomorrow morning to take Master Bridegroom and Mistress

Bride napping, and they in the meantime shall chop up the

matter at the Savoy. But the best sport is, Sir Roger Oatley will

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find my fellow lame Ralph’s wife going to marry a gentleman,

and then he’ll stop her instead of his daughter. O brave! There

will be fine tickling sport. Soft now, what have I to do? O, I

know - now a mess of shoemakers meet at the Woolsack in Ivy

Lane to cozen my gentleman of lame Ralph’s wife, that’s true.

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Alack, alack,

Girls, hold out tack,

For now smocks for this jumbling

Shall go to wrack. Exit