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Spi. Open your gates, slaves, when I command ye.

[spicing beats on the gates, and then enter the Lord Mayor and his associates, with the Apprentices, on the walls.

Mayor. What's he that beats thus at the City gates, Commanding entrance as he were a king?

Fal. He that will have releasement for a King, I, Thomas Neville, the Lord Falconbridge.

Spi. Ho, sirrah, you clapperdudgin, unlock, unbolt! or I'll bolt you, if I get in. Stand you preaching, with a pox?

Mayor. We have no warrant, Thomas Falconbridge, To let your armed troops into our city, Considering you have taken up these arms

Against our sovereign and our country's peace.

Fal. I tell thee, Mayor, and know he tells thee so,
That cometh armed in a king's defence,

That I crave entrance in King Henry's name,
In right of the true line of Lancaster.

Methinks that word, spoke from a Neville's mouth,
Should, like an earthquake, rend your chained gates,
And tear in pieces your portcullises.

I thunder it again into your ears,

You stout and brave courageous Londoners;

In Henry's name, I crave my entrance in.

Rec. Should Henry's name command the entrance here, We should deny allegiance unto Edward,

Whose true and faithful subjects we are sworn,

And in whose presence is our sword upborne.

Fal. I tell thee, traitor, then thou bear'st thy sword Against thy true undoubted king.

Shore. Nay, then, I tell thee, bastard Falconbridge, My lord Mayor bears his sword in his defence, That put the sword into the arms of London,

Made the lord Mayors for ever after knights,
Richard, depos'd by Henry Bolingbroke,

From whom the house of York doth claim their right. Fal. What's he that answers us thus saucily?

Smoke. Sirrah, your name, that we may know ye hereafter.

Shore. My name is Shore, a goldsmith by my trade. Fal. What! not that Shore that hath the dainty wife? Shore's wife, the flow'r of London for her beauty!

Shore. Yes, rebel, ev'n the very same.

Spi. Run, rascal, and fetch thy wife to our General presently, or else all the gold in Cheapside cannot ransom her. Wilt thou not stir when I bid thee?

Fal. Shore, listen: thy wife is mine, that's flat. This night, in thine own house, she sleeps with me. Now, Crosby, lord Mayor, shall we enter in?

Mayor. Crosby, the lord Mayor, tells thee, proud rebel,

no.

Fal. No, Crosby? shall I not? Thou doating lord,
I cram the name of rebel down thy throat.
There's not the poorest rascal of my camp,
But if he chance to meet thee in Cheapside,
Upon thy foot-cloth, he shall make thee 'light,
And hold his stirrup while he mount thy horse,
Then lackey him which way he please to go.
Crosby, I'll make the citizens be glad

To send thee and the aldermen, thy brethren,
All manacled and chain'd like galley-slaves,

To ransom them and to redeem the city.

Mayor. Nay, then, proud rebel, pause, and hear me speak.

There's not the poorest and meanest citizen,

That is a faithful subject to the King,

But, in despite of thy rebellious rout,

Shall walk to Bow, a small wand in his hand,

Although thou lie encamp'd at Mile-end Green,
And not the proudest rebel of you all

Shall dare to touch him for his damned soul.
Come, we will pull up our portcullises,

And let me see thee enter, if thou dare.

Fal. Spoken like a man, and true velvet-jacket, And we will enter, or stick by the way.

Enter from the postern gates, Lord Mayor, Recorder, and Josselin, and Apprentices.

Mayor. Where's Master Recorder and Master Josselin?

Rec. Here, my lord Mayor. We now have manned the walls,

And fortified such places as were needful.

Mayor. Why, it is well, brothers and citizens.

Stick to your city as good men should do.

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Think that in Richard's time even such a rebel
Was then by Walworth, the lord Mayor of London,
Stabb'd dead in Smithfield.

Then show yourselves as it befits the time,
And let this find a hundred Walworths now
Dare stab a rebel, were he made of brass.
And, prentices, stick to your officers,
For you may come to be as we are now.
God and our King against an arrant rebel!
Brothers, away; let us defend our walls.

First Ap. My lord, your words are able to infuse

A double courage in a coward's breast.

Then fear not us; although our chins be bare,

Our hearts are good: the trial shall be seen
Against these rebels on this champaign green.
Sec. Ap. We have no tricks nor policies of war,
But by the antient custom of our fathers,
We'll soundly lay it on; take't off that will:

C

And, London prentices, be rul'd by me;

Die ere ye lose fair London's liberty.

Spi. How now, my flat-caps; are you grown so

brave?

'Tis but your words: when matters come to proof,
You'll scud as 'twere a company of sheep.
My counsel therefore is to keep your shops.

"What lack you?" better will beseem your mouths
In sooth, you are too young.

Than terms of war.
First Ap. Sirrah, go to;
Flat-caps thou call'st us.

you shall not find it so. We scorn not the name,

And shortly, by the virtue of our swords,

We'll make your cap so fit unto your crown,

As sconce and cap and all shall kiss the ground.
Sec. Ap. You are those desperate, idle, swaggering

mates,

That haunt the suburbs in the time of peace,
And raise up ale-house brawls in the street;
And when the rumour of the war begins,
You hide your heads, and are not to be found.
Thou term'st it better that we keep our shops.
'Tis good indeed we should have such a care,
But yet, for all our keeping now and then,
Your pilf'ring fingers break into our locks,
Until at Tyburn you acquit the fault.
Go to: albeit by custom we are mild,
As those that do profess civility,

Yet, being mov'd, a nest of angry hornets
Shall not be more offensive than we will.

We'll fly about your ears and sting your hearts.

Jos. He tells you truth, my friends, and so forth. Fal. Who can endure to be so brav'd by boys? First Ap. Nay, scorn us not that we are prentices. The Chronicles of England can report

What memorable actions we have done,

To which this day's achievement shall be knit,
To make the volume larger than it is.

Mayor. Now, of mine honour, ye do cheer my heart. Brave English offsprings, valiantly resolv'd!

Sec. Ap. My lord, return you back; let us alone;

You are our masters; give us leave to work;

And if we do not vanquish them in fight,
Let us go supperless to bed at night.

[Exeunt all but Spicing, Smoke, and their crew. Spi. Smoke, get thee up on the top of St. Botolph's steeple, and make a proclamation.

Smoke. What, a plague, should I proclaim there?
Spi. That the bells be rung backward,

And cutting of throats be cried havock.
No more calling of lanthorn and candle-light:
That maidenheads be valued at just nothing;
And sack be sold by the sallet.

That no piddling slave stand to pick a lock, but slash me off the hinges, as one would slit up a cow's paunch.

Smoke. Let no man have less than a warehouse to his wardrobe. Cry a fig for a sergeant, and walk by the Counter like a lord: pluck out the clapper of Bow Bell, and hang up all the sextons in the city.

Spi. Rantum, scantum, rogues, follow your leader, Cavallero Spicing, the maddest slave that ever pund spice in a mortar.

Smoke. Take me an usurer by the greasy pouch and shake out his crowns, as a hungry dog would shake a haggis. Bar foul play, rogues, and live by honest filching and stealing: he that hath a true finger, let him forfeit his face to the frying-pan. Follow your leader, rogues, follow your leader!

Spi. Assault, assault! and cry, "A Falconbridge !"

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