SCENE I. ［A room in Eyre's house.］
Enter EYRE, MARGERY, HANS, and ROSE
Eyre. This is the morning, then; stay, my bully, my honest Hans, is it not?
Hans. This is the morning that must make us two happy or miserable; therefore, if you—
Eyre. Away with these ifs and ands, Hans, and these et caeteras! By mine honour, Rowland Lacy, none but the king shall wrong thee. Come, fear nothing, am not I Sim Eyre? Is not Sim Eyre lord mayor of London? Fear nothing, Rose: let them all say what they can; dainty, come thou to me-laughest thou?
Marg. Good my lord, stand her friend in what thing you may.
Eyre. Why, my sweet Lady Madgy, think you Simon Eyre can forget his fine Dutch journeyman? No, vah! Fie, I scorn it, it shall never be cast in my teeth, that I was unthankful. Lady Madgy, thou had'st never covered thy Saracen's head with this French flap, nor loaden thy bum with this farthingale, (‘tis trash, trumpery, vanity); Simon Eyre had never walked in a red petticoat, nor wore a chain of gold, but for my fine journeyman's Portuguese.—And shall I leave him? No! Prince am I none, yet bear a princely mind.
Hans. My lord, 'tis time for us to part from hence.
Eyre. Lady Madgy, Lady Madgy, take two or three of my piecrust-eaters, my buff-jerkin varlets, that do walk in black gowns at Simon Eyre's heels; take them, good Lady Madgy; trip and go, my brown queen of periwigs, with my delicate Rose and my jolly Rowland to the Savoy; see them link'd, countenance the marriage; and when it is done, cling, cling together, you Hamborow turtle-doves. I'll bear you out, come to Simon Eyre; come, dwell with me, Hans, thou shalt eat minced-pies and marchpane.〖A sweetmeat made of sugar and almonds.〗 Rose, away, cricket; trip and go, my Lady Madgy, to the Savoy; Hans, wed, and to bed; kiss, and away! Go, vanish!
Marg. Farewell, my lord.
Rose. Make haste, sweet love.
Marg. She'd fain the deed were done.
Hans. Come, my sweet Rose; faster than deer we'll run.
Exeunt HANS, ROSE, and MARGERY.
Eyre. Go, vanish, vanish! Avaunt, I say! By the Lord of Ludgate, it's a made 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 procur'd 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.