Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate, it’s a mad life to be a lord mayor; it’s a stirring life, a fine life, a velvet life, a careful life. Well, Simon Eyre, yet set a good face on it, in the honour of Saint Hugh. Soft, the king this day comes to dine with me, to see my new buildings; his majesty is welcome, he shall have good cheer, delicate cheer, princely cheer. This day, my fellow prentices of London come to dine with me too, they shall have fine cheer, gentlemanlike cheer. I promised the mad Cappadocians, when we all served at the Conduit together, that if ever I came to be mayor of London, I would feast them all, and I’ll do’t, I’ll do’t, by the life of Pharaoh; by this beard, Sim Eyre will be no flincher. Besides, I have procured that upon every Shrove-Tuesday, at the sound of the pancake bell, my fine dapper Assyrian lads shall clap up their shop windows, and away. This is the day, and this day they shall do’t, they shall do’t.
Boys, that day are you free, let masters care,
And prentices shall pray for Simon Eyre. [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Street near St. Faith’s Church.
Enter Hodge, Firk, Ralph, and five or six Shoemakers, all with cudgels or such weapons.
Hodge. Come, Ralph; stand to it, Firk. My masters, as we are the brave bloods of the shoemakers, heirs apparent to Saint Hugh, and perpetual benefactors to all good fellows, thou shalt have no wrong; were Hammon a king of spades, he should not delve in thy close without thy sufferance. But tell me, Ralph, art thou sure ’tis thy wife?
Ralph. Am I sure this is Firk? This morning, when I stroked[99] on her shoes, I looked upon her, and she upon me, and sighed, asked me if ever I knew one Ralph. Yes, said I. For his sake, said she—tears standing in her eyes—and for thou art somewhat like him, spend this piece of gold. I took it; my lame leg and my travel beyond sea made me unknown. All is one for that: I know she’s mine.
Firk. Did she give thee this gold? O glorious glittering gold! She’s thine own, ’tis thy wife, and she loves thee; for I’ll stand to’t, there’s no woman will give gold to any man, but she thinks better of him, than she thinks of them she gives silver to. And for Hammon, neither Hammon nor hangman shall wrong thee in London. Is not our old master Eyre, lord mayor? Speak, my hearts.
All. Yes, and Hammon shall know it to his cost.