Marg. You sing, Sir Sauce, but I beshrew your heart,
I fear, for this your singing we shall smart.
Firk. Smart for me, dame; why, dame, why?
Hodge. Master, I hope you’ll not suffer my dame to take down your journeymen.
Firk. If she take me down, I’ll take her up; yea, and take her down too, a button-hole lower.
Eyre. Peace, Firk; not I, Hodge; by the life of Pharaoh, by the Lord of Ludgate, by this beard, every hair whereof I value at a king’s ransom, she shall not meddle with you.—Peace, you bombast-cotton-candle-quean; away, queen of clubs; quarrel not with me and my men, with me and my fine Firk; I’ll firk you, if you do.
Marg. Yea, yea, man, you may use me as you please; but let that pass.
Eyre. Let it pass, let it vanish away; peace! Am I not Simon Eyre? Are not these my brave men, brave shoemakers, all gentlemen of the gentle craft? Prince am I none, yet am I nobly born, as being the sole son of a shoemaker. Away, rubbish! vanish, melt; melt like kitchen-stuff.
Marg. Yea, yea, ’tis well; I must be called rubbish, kitchen-stuff, for a sort of knaves.
Firk. Nay, dame, you shall not weep and wail in woe for me. Master, I’ll stay no longer; here’s an inventory of my shop-tools. Adieu, master; Hodge, farewell.