Now Sir Thomas had never in his life been inside a theatre in London. He had seen mysteries, mummeries, morris-dances, and Christmas revels in his own hall at Charlecote. But other sort of dramatic representation, in common with others of his class, he had no conception of or care for.
"Diccon," he said to one of the attendants who walked behind him (for Sir Thomas always promenaded the town with half-a-dozen serving men at his back,) "What is this play we heard my Lord Keeper speaking of?"
"Marry, Sir Thomas, it is a play written, I be informed, by one Sampson Beakspere of this town."
"Ah," said Sir Thomas, "Beakspere, said ye? Art sure that is the name?"
"One cannot be sure of anything, an it so please ye, in this sink of iniquity," said Diccon, "where lying, thieving, and every sort of villany existeth in open daylight. Nay, one cannot be sure of finding one's throat hale and sound in the morning when one lays down at night. By the same token, at the hostel where I lay, they cut off the badge containing the three silver pike-fish from all our sleeves."
"Beakspeare," said Sir Thomas, merely glancing at the denuded coat sleeve of his head serving-man. "Art sure it is not Shakespeare, Diccon?"
"I cannot tell your honour. Beakspere was the name I understood, but it may probably be Shakespeare. Nay, I should not be surprised even if it was the very fellow who stole your honour's deer and stuck up bills against our park-gates. Nothing is too bad for this town and the people in it. I would we were fairly back in Warwickshire."
Sir Thomas looked hard at his serving-man, so unusually talkative in his presence. "Amongst other things they do in this town, Diccon," he said sharply, "it seems they have taught you to drink more strong beer before breakfast than your brains can bear. Go to, sirrah; less circumstance when you answer." And the stately knight held his way along Chepe.
On this morning he was intending to pay a visit to an old friend residing at Dowe-gate, and afterwards to take boat, at Styll-yard, and cross over to Bank-side, there to see the bear-bayting, and accordingly his serving-men turned down Bucklersbury, traversed Canwick Street, and completely bewildered themselves in East Chepe.
These thoroughfares were somewhat strait and exceedingly intricate in Elizabeth's day, whilst the encroaching stories of the houses grazed the plumes on the tall knight's castor, as he walked, so much so that he was fain to hold down his head. By which proceeding he, ever and anon, run full butt against some tall fellow or other, receiving such abuse as rather kept his philosophy from rusting.