L. Mayor. Pray God she do; for i’ faith, Mistress Eyre,
I would bestow upon that peevish girl
A thousand marks more than I mean to give her,
Upon condition she’d be ruled by me;
The ape still crosseth me. There came of late
A proper gentleman of fair revenues,
Whom gladly I would call son-in-law:
But my fine cockney would have none of him.
You’ll prove a coxcomb for it, ere you die:
A courtier, or no man must please your eye.
Eyre. Be ruled, sweet Rose: th’art ripe for a man. Marry not with a boy that has no more hair on his face than thou hast on thy cheeks. A courtier, wash, go by, stand not upon pishery-pashery: those silken fellows are but painted images, outsides, outsides, Rose; their inner linings are torn. No, my fine mouse, marry me with a gentleman grocer like my lord mayor, your father; a grocer is a sweet trade: plums, plums. Had I a son or daughter should marry out of the generation and blood of the shoemakers, he should pack; what, the gentle trade is a living for a man through Europe, through the world. [A noise within of a tabor and a pipe.
L. Mayor. What noise is this?
Eyre. O my lord mayor, a crew of good fellows that for love to your honour are come hither with a morris-dance. Come in, my Mesopotamians, cheerily.
Enter Hodge, Hans, Ralph, Firk, and other Shoemakers, in a morris; after a little dancing the Lord Mayor speaks.
L. Mayor. Master Eyre, are all these shoemakers?
Eyre. All cordwainers, my good lord mayor.
Rose. (Aside.) How like my Lacy looks yond’ shoemaker!
Hans. (Aside.) O that I durst but speak unto my love!
L. Mayor. Sybil, go fetch some wine to make these drink. You are all welcome.