PIRITHOUS.
Some country sport, upon my life, sir.
THESEUS.
Well, sir, go forward; we will “edify.”
Ladies, sit down. We’ll stay it.
SCHOOLMASTER.
Thou doughty Duke, all hail! All hail, sweet ladies!
THESEUS.
This is a cold beginning.
SCHOOLMASTER.
If you but favour, our country pastime made is.
We are a few of those collected here
That ruder tongues distinguish “villager.”
And to say verity, and not to fable,
We are a merry rout, or else a rabble,
Or company, or by a figure, chorus,
That ’fore thy dignity will dance a morris.
And I that am the rectifier of all,
By title pædagogus, that let fall
The birch upon the breeches of the small ones,
And humble with a ferula the tall ones,
Do here present this machine, or this frame.
And, dainty Duke, whose doughty dismal fame
From Dis to Dædalus, from post to pillar,
Is blown abroad, help me, thy poor well-willer,
And with thy twinkling eyes look right and straight
Upon this mighty Morr, of mickle weight.
Is now comes in, which being glued together
Makes Morris, and the cause that we came hither.
The body of our sport, of no small study.
I first appear, though rude and raw and muddy,
To speak before thy noble grace this tenner,
At whose great feet I offer up my penner.
The next, the Lord of May and Lady bright,
The Chambermaid and Servingman, by night
That seek out silent hanging; then mine Host
And his fat Spouse, that welcomes to their cost
The galled traveller, and with a beck’ning
Informs the tapster to inflame the reck’ning.
Then the beest-eating Clown and next the Fool,
The Bavian with long tail and eke long tool,
Cum multis aliis that make a dance.
Say “Ay,” and all shall presently advance.
THESEUS.
Ay, ay, by any means, dear Domine.
PIRITHOUS.
Produce.
SCHOOLMASTER.
Intrate, filii! Come forth and foot it.
Music. Enter the Countrymen, Countrywomen and Jailer’s Daughter; they perform a morris dance.
Ladies, if we have been merry
And have pleased ye with a derry,
And a derry, and a down,
Say the schoolmaster’s no clown.
Duke, if we have pleased thee too
And have done as good boys should do,
Give us but a tree or twain
For a Maypole, and again,
Ere another year run out,
We’ll make thee laugh, and all this rout.