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 I crave entrance in King Henry's name, Methinks that word, spoke from a Neville's mouth, 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, 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, To send thee and the aldermen, thy brethren, 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, Shall dare to touch him for his damned soul. 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. Think that in Richard's time even such a rebel Then show yourselves as it befits the time, 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 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, "What lack you?" better will beseem your mouths Than terms of war. 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. mates, That haunt the suburbs in the time of peace, Yet, being mov'd, a nest of angry hornets 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, 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, [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? And cutting of throats be cried havock. 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 !" |