FIRK

Nay, more, my hearts; every Shrove Tuesday is our year of

jubilee, and when the pancake bell rings, we are as free as my

Lord Mayor. We may shut up our shops and make holiday. I’ll

have it called Saint Hugh’s Holiday.

205

ALL

Agreed, agreed! Saint Hugh’s Holiday!

HODGE

And this shall continue for ever.

ALL

O brave! Come, come, my hearts - away, away!

FIRK

O eternal credit to us of the Gentle Craft! March fair, my hearts.

O rare!

210

KING

Is our Lord Mayor of London such a gallant?

NOBLEMAN

One of the merriest madcaps in your land.

Your Grace will think, when you behold the man,

He’s rather a wild ruffian than a Mayor.

Yet thus much I’ll ensure your Majesty:

5

In all his actions that concern his state

He is as serious, provident and wise,

As full of gravity amongst the grave

As any Mayor hath been these many years.

KING

I am with child till I behold this huffcap.

10

But all my doubt is, when we come in presence,

His madness will be dashed clean out of countenance.

NOBLEMAN

It may be so, my liege.

KING Which to prevent,

Let someone give him notice ‘tis our pleasure

That he put on his wonted merriment.

15

Set forward.

ALL

On afore!

EYRE

Come, my fine Hodge, my jolly Gentlemen Shoemakers - soft,

where be these cannibals, these varlets my officers? Let them all

walk and wait upon my brethren, for my meaning is that none

but shoemakers, none but the livery of my company shall in

their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign.

5

FIRK

O my lord, it will be rare!

EYRE

No more, Firk. Come, lively! Let your fellow prentices want no

cheer. Let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water! Hang these

penny-pinching fathers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb –

skins. Rip, knaves! Avaunt! Look to my guests.

10

HODGE

My lord, we are at our wits’ end for room. Those hundred tables

will not feast the fourth part of them.

EYRE

Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my

jolly prentices be feasted. Avoid, Hodge; run, Ralph; frisk about,

my nimble Firk! Carouse me fathom healths to the honour of the

15

shoemakers! Do they drink lively, Hodge? Do they tickle it, Firk?

FIRK

Tickle it? Some of them have taken their liquor standing so

long that they can stand no longer. But for meat, they would eat

it an’ they had it.

EYRE

Want they meat? Where’s this swag-belly, this greasy kitchen-

20

stuff cook? Call the varlet to me. Want meat! Firk, Hodge, lame

Ralph, run, my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all

Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep

whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat

them. Want meat! Vanish, Firk! Avaunt, Hodge!

25

HODGE

Your lordship mistakes my man Firk. He means their bellies

want meat, not the boards; for they have drunk so much they

can eat nothing.