Sir Thomas More [15]
but the foolish knave has submitted
himself to the mercy of a barber, and is without, ready to make a
new vow before your lordship, hereafter to leave cavil.
MORE.
Nay, then, let's talk with him; pray, call him in.
[Enter Faulkner and Officers.]
FAULKNER.
Bless your honor! a new man, my lord
MORE.
Why, sure, this is not he.
FAULKNER.
And your lordship will, the barber shall give you a sample of my
head: I am he in faith, my lord; I am ipse.
MORE.
Why, now thy face is like an honest man's:
Thou hast played well at this new cut, and won.
FAULKNER.
No, my lord; lost all that ever God sent me.
MORE.
God sent thee into the world as thou art now,
With a short hair. How quickly are three years
Run out of Newgate!
FAULKNER.
I think so, my lord; for there was but a hair's length between my
going thither and so long time.
MORE.
Because I see some grace in thee, go free.--
Discharge him, fellows.--Farewell, Master Morris.--
Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit;
Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit.
[Exit.]
MORRIS.
Did not I tell thee always of these locks?
FAULKNER.
And the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside
should not pick them open. 'Sheart, if my hair stand not on end
when I look for my face in a glass, I am a polecat. Here's a lousy
jest! but, if I notch not that rogue Tom barber, that makes me look
thus like a Brownist, hang me! I'll be worse to the nitticall knave
than ten tooth drawings. Here's a head, with a pox!
MORRIS.
What ails thou? art thou mad now?
FAULKNER.
Mad now! nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man, what can? I am
deposed, my crown is taken from me. More had been better a
scoured Moreditch than a notched me thus: does he begin
sheepshearing with Jack Faulkner?
MORRIS.
Nay, and you feed this vein, sir, fare you well.
FAULKNER.
Why, farewell, frost. I'll go hang myself out for the Poll Head.
Make a Saracen of Jack?
MORRIS.
Thou desperate knave! for that I see the devil
Wholly gets hold of thee--
FAULKNER.
The devil's a damned rascal.
MORRIS.
I charge thee, wait on me no more; no more
Call me thy master.
FAULKNER.
Why, then, a word, Master Morris.
MORRIS.
I'll hear no words, sir; fare you well.
FAULKNER.
'Sblood, farewell.
MORRIS.
Why dost thou follow me?
FAULKNER.
Because I'm an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then
cast me off? must I condole? have the Fates played the fools? am I
their cut? now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag
and baggage?
[Weeps.]
MORRIS.
You coxcomb!
FAULKNER.
Nay, you ha' poached me; you ha' given me a hair; it's here, hear.
MORRIS.
Away, you kind ass! come, sir, dry your eyes:
Keep you old place, and mend these fooleries.
FAULKNER.
I care not to be turned off, and 'twere a ladder, so it be in my
humor, or the Fates beckon to me. Nay, pray, sir, if the Destinies
spin me a fine thread, Faulkner flies another pitch; and to avoid the
headache hereafter, before I'll be a hairmonger, I'll be a
whoremonger.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Chelsea. Ante-chamber in More's House.
[Enter a Messenger to More.]
MESSENGER.
My honorable lord, the Mayor of London,
Accompanied with his lady and her train,
Are coming hither, and are hard at hand,
To feast with you: a servant's come before,
To tell your lordship of there near approach.
MORE.
Why, this is cheerful news: friends go and come:
Reverend Erasmus, who delicious words
Express the very soul and life of wit,
Newly took sad leave of me, and with tears
Troubled the silver channel of the Thames,
Which, glad of such a burden, proudly swelled
And on her bosom bore him toward the sea:
He's gone to Rotterdam; peace go with him!
He left me heavy when he went from hence;
But this recomforts me; the kind Lord Mayor,
His brethren aldermen, with their fair wives,
Will feast this night with us: why, so it should be;
More's merry heart lives by good company.--
Good gentlemen, be careful; give great charge
Our diet be made
himself to the mercy of a barber, and is without, ready to make a
new vow before your lordship, hereafter to leave cavil.
MORE.
Nay, then, let's talk with him; pray, call him in.
[Enter Faulkner and Officers.]
FAULKNER.
Bless your honor! a new man, my lord
MORE.
Why, sure, this is not he.
FAULKNER.
And your lordship will, the barber shall give you a sample of my
head: I am he in faith, my lord; I am ipse.
MORE.
Why, now thy face is like an honest man's:
Thou hast played well at this new cut, and won.
FAULKNER.
No, my lord; lost all that ever God sent me.
MORE.
God sent thee into the world as thou art now,
With a short hair. How quickly are three years
Run out of Newgate!
FAULKNER.
I think so, my lord; for there was but a hair's length between my
going thither and so long time.
MORE.
Because I see some grace in thee, go free.--
Discharge him, fellows.--Farewell, Master Morris.--
Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit;
Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit.
[Exit.]
MORRIS.
Did not I tell thee always of these locks?
FAULKNER.
And the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside
should not pick them open. 'Sheart, if my hair stand not on end
when I look for my face in a glass, I am a polecat. Here's a lousy
jest! but, if I notch not that rogue Tom barber, that makes me look
thus like a Brownist, hang me! I'll be worse to the nitticall knave
than ten tooth drawings. Here's a head, with a pox!
MORRIS.
What ails thou? art thou mad now?
FAULKNER.
Mad now! nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man, what can? I am
deposed, my crown is taken from me. More had been better a
scoured Moreditch than a notched me thus: does he begin
sheepshearing with Jack Faulkner?
MORRIS.
Nay, and you feed this vein, sir, fare you well.
FAULKNER.
Why, farewell, frost. I'll go hang myself out for the Poll Head.
Make a Saracen of Jack?
MORRIS.
Thou desperate knave! for that I see the devil
Wholly gets hold of thee--
FAULKNER.
The devil's a damned rascal.
MORRIS.
I charge thee, wait on me no more; no more
Call me thy master.
FAULKNER.
Why, then, a word, Master Morris.
MORRIS.
I'll hear no words, sir; fare you well.
FAULKNER.
'Sblood, farewell.
MORRIS.
Why dost thou follow me?
FAULKNER.
Because I'm an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then
cast me off? must I condole? have the Fates played the fools? am I
their cut? now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag
and baggage?
[Weeps.]
MORRIS.
You coxcomb!
FAULKNER.
Nay, you ha' poached me; you ha' given me a hair; it's here, hear.
MORRIS.
Away, you kind ass! come, sir, dry your eyes:
Keep you old place, and mend these fooleries.
FAULKNER.
I care not to be turned off, and 'twere a ladder, so it be in my
humor, or the Fates beckon to me. Nay, pray, sir, if the Destinies
spin me a fine thread, Faulkner flies another pitch; and to avoid the
headache hereafter, before I'll be a hairmonger, I'll be a
whoremonger.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Chelsea. Ante-chamber in More's House.
[Enter a Messenger to More.]
MESSENGER.
My honorable lord, the Mayor of London,
Accompanied with his lady and her train,
Are coming hither, and are hard at hand,
To feast with you: a servant's come before,
To tell your lordship of there near approach.
MORE.
Why, this is cheerful news: friends go and come:
Reverend Erasmus, who delicious words
Express the very soul and life of wit,
Newly took sad leave of me, and with tears
Troubled the silver channel of the Thames,
Which, glad of such a burden, proudly swelled
And on her bosom bore him toward the sea:
He's gone to Rotterdam; peace go with him!
He left me heavy when he went from hence;
But this recomforts me; the kind Lord Mayor,
His brethren aldermen, with their fair wives,
Will feast this night with us: why, so it should be;
More's merry heart lives by good company.--
Good gentlemen, be careful; give great charge
Our diet be made