The Shoemaker’s Holiday – Act 1, Scene 2

Return to previous scene.

Enter ROSE alone, making a garland.

Here sit thou down upon this flowery bank,
And make a garland for thy Lacy’s head.
These pinks, these roses, and these violets,
These blushing gilliflowers, these marigolds,
The fair embroidery of his coronet,
Carry not half such beauty in their cheeks,
As the sweet count’nance of my Lacy doth
O my most unkind father!  O my stars!
Why loured you so at my nativity,
To make me love, yet live robbed of my love?
Here as a thief am I imprisoned,
For my dear Lacy’s sake, within those walls
Which by my father’s cost were builded up
For better purposes; here must I languish
For him that as much lament, I know,
Mine absence, as for him I pine in woe.

Enter SYBIL.

Good morrow, young mistress; I am sure you make that garland for me, against I shall be Lady of the Harvest.

Sybil, what news at London?

None but good:  my Lord Mayor you father, and Master Philpot your uncle, and Master Scott your cousin, and Mistress Frigbottom by Doctors’ Commons, do all, by my troth, send you most hearty commendations.

Did Lacy send kind greetings to his love?

O yes, out of cry, by my troth.  I scant knew him:  here ‘a wore a scarf, and here a scarf, here a bunch of feathers, and here precious stones and jewels, and a pair of garters:  O monstrous!  Like one of our yellow silk curtains at home here in Old Ford house, here in Master Bellymount’s chamber.  I stood at our door in Cornhill, looked at him, he at me indeed; spake to him, but he not to me, not a word:  marry gup, thought I, with a wanion!  He passed by me as proud–Marry foh!  Are you grown humorous? thought I, and so shut the door, and in I came.

O Sybil, how dost thou my Lacy wrong!
My Rowland is as gentle as a lamb,
No dove was ever half so mild as he.

Mild?  Yea, as a bushel of stamped crabs!  He looked on me as sour as verjuice:  go thy ways, thought I, thou mayest be much in my gaskins, but nothing in my netherstocks!  This is your fault, mistress, to love him that loves not you; he thinks scorn to do as he’s done to, but if I were as you, I’d cry:  Go by, Jeronimo, go by!
I’d set my old debts against my new driblets
And the hare’s foot against the goose giblets,
For if ever I sigh when sleep I should take,
Pray God I may lose my maidenhead when I wake!

Will my love leave me then and go to France?

I know not that, but I am sure I see him stalk before the soldiers.  By my troth, he is a proper man, but he is proper that proper doth:  let him go snick-up, young mistress!

Get thee to London, and learn perfectly
Whether my Lacy go to France or no:
Do this, and I will give thee for thy pains
My cambric apron, and my Romish gloves,
My purple stockings, and a stomacher
Say, wilt thou do this, Sybil, for my sake?

Will I, quoth a?  At whose suit?  By my troth, yes, I’ll go: a cambric apron, gloves, a pair of purple stockings, and a stomacher!  I’ll sweat in purple, mistress for you; I’ll take anything that comes, a God’s name!  O rich, a cambric apron!  Faith then, have at Up Tails All:  I’ll go jiggy-joggy to London and be here in a trice, young mistress.                                                                                                  [Exit SYBIL.

Do so, good Sybil; meantime wretched I
Will sit and sigh for his lost company.                                                    [Exit ROSE.

Proceed to the next scene.


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