These cries are particularly quaint, and especially valuable as a record of the daily life of the time.
* * * * * * *
Then unto London I dyd me hye,
Of all the land it beareth the pryse:
Hot pescodes, one began to crye,
Strabery rype, and cherryes in the ryse;[1]
“I love a Ballad in print, a’life; for then we are sure they are true.”—Winter’s Tale, Act. iv., Sc. iv.
One bad me come nere and by some spyce,
Peper and safforne they gan me bede,
But for lack of money I myght not spede.
Then to the Chepe I began me drawne,
Where mutch people I saw for to stande;
One spred me velvet, sylke, and lawne,
Another he taketh me by the hande,
“Here is Parys thred, the fynest in the land;”
I never was used to such thyngs indede,
And wantyng money I myght not spede.
Then went I forth by London stone,
Throughout all Canwyke[2] Streete;
Drapers mutch cloth me offred anone,
Then comes me one cryed hot shepes feete;
One cryde makerell, ryster[3] grene, an other gan greete
On bad me by a hood to cover my head,
But for want of mony I myght not be sped.
Then I hyed me into Est-Chepe;
One cryes rybbs of befe, and many a pye;