Firk. ’Tis happy the knave is put before the shoemaker, or else I would not have vouchsafed to come back to you. I am moved, for I stir.
L. Mayor. My lord, this villain calls us knaves by craft.
Firk. Then ’tis by the gentle craft, and to call one knave gently, is no harm. Sit your worship merry![91] Syb, your young mistress—I’ll so bob them, now my Master Eyre is lord mayor of London.
L. Mayor. Tell me, sirrah, who’s man are you?
Firk. I am glad to see your worship so merry. I have no maw to this gear, no stomach as yet to a red petticoat. [Pointing to Sybil.
Lincoln. He means not, sir, to woo you to his maid,
But only doth demand who’s man you are.
Firk. I sing now to the tune of Rogero. Roger, my fellow, is now my master.
Lincoln. Sirrah, know’st thou one Hans, a shoemaker?
Firk. Hans, shoemaker? Oh yes, stay, yes, I have him. I tell you what, I speak it in secret: Mistress Rose and he are by this time—no, not so, but shortly are to come over one another with “Can you dance the shaking of the sheets?” It is that Hans—(Aside.) I’ll so gull these diggers![92]
L. Mayor. Know’st thou, then, where he is?