Lincoln. Be not so cruel, sir.
Enter Firk with shoes.
Sybil. I am glad, she’s ’scaped.
L. Mayor. I’ll not account of her as of my child.
Was there no better object for her eyes
But a foul drunken lubber, swill-belly,
A shoemaker? That’s brave!
Firk. Yea, forsooth; ’tis a very brave shoe, and as fit as a pudding.
L. Mayor. How now, what knave is this? From whence comest thou?
Firk. No knave, sir. I am Firk the shoemaker, lusty Roger’s chief lusty journeyman, and I have come hither to take up the pretty leg of sweet Mistress Rose, and thus hoping your worship is in as good health, as I was at the making hereof, I bid you farewell, yours, Firk.
L. Mayor. Stay, stay, Sir Knave!
Lincoln. Come hither, shoemaker!