The Life of Sir John Oldcastle [26]
we'll see the end.
[The Irish man falls to rifle his master.]
IRISHMAN.
Alas, poe mester, Sir Rishard Lee, be saint Patrick is
rob and cut thy trote for dee shaine, and dy money, and
dee gold ring be me truly: is love thee well, but now dow
be kill, thee bee shitten kanave.
SIR JOHN.
Stand, sirra; what art thou?
IRISHMAN.
Be saint Patrick, mester, is pore Irisman, is a leufter.
SIR JOHN.
Sirra, sirra, you are a damned rogue; you have killed a
man here, and rifled him of all that he has. Sblood, you
rogue, deliver, or I'll not leave you so much as an Irish
hair above your shoulders, you whoreson Irish dog.
Sirra, untruss presently; come, off and dispatch, or by
this cross I'll fetch your head off as clean as a bark.
IRISHMAN.
Wee's me, saint Patrick! Ise kill me mester for chain
and his ring, and nows be rob of all: mee's undoo.
[Priest robs him.]
SIR JOHN.
Avant, you rascal! Go, sirra, be walking. Come, Doll,
the devil laughs, when one thief robs another: come,
mad wench, we'll to saint Albans, and revel in our
bower; hey, my brave girl.
DOLL.
O thou art old sir John when all's done, yfaith.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V. SCENE III. St. Albans. The entrance of a
carrier's inn.
[Enter the host of the Bell with the Irish man.]
IRISHMAN.
Be me tro, mester, is pore Irisman, is want ludging, is
have no money, is starve and cold: good mester, give
her some meat; is famise and tie.
HOST.
Yfaith, my fellow, I have no lodging, but what I keep
for my guess, that I may not disappoint: as for meat
thou shalt have such as there is, & if thou wilt lie in
the barn, there's fair straw, and room enough.
IRISHMAN.
Is thank my mester hartily, de straw is good bed for me.
HOST.
Ho, Robin!
ROBIN.
Who calls?
HOST.
Shew this poor Irishman into the barn; go, sirra.
[Exeunt.]
[Enter carrier and Kate.]
CLUB.
Ho, who's within here? who looks to the horses?
God's hat! here's fine work: the hens in the manger,
and the hogs in the litter. A bots found you all; here's
a house well looked to, yvaith.
KATE.
Mas, goffe Club, I'se very cawd.
CLUB.
Get in, Kate, get in to fire and warm thee. Ho! John
Hostler.
[Enter Hostler.]
HOSTLER.
What, gaffer Club? welcome to saint Albans. How does
all our friends in Lancashire?
CLUB.
Well, God have mercy, John; how does Tom; where's he?
HOSTLER.
O, Tom is gone from hence; he's at the three horse-loves
at Stony-stratford. How does old Dick Dunne?
CLUB.
God's hat, old Dunne has been moyerd in a slough in
Brickhill-lane, a plague found it; yonder is such
abomination weather as never was seen.
HOSTLER.
God's hat, thief, have one half peck of peas and oats more
for that: as I am John Ostler, he has been ever as good a
jade as ever travelled.
CLUB.
Faith, well said, old Jack; thou art the old lad still.
HOSTLER.
Come, Gaffer Club, unload, unload, and get to supper, and
I'll rub dun the while. Come.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V. SCENE IV. The same. A room in the carrier's inn.
[Enter the host, sir John Old-castle, and Harpoole.]
HOST.
Sir, you are welcome to this house, to such as here is with
all my heart, but, by the mass, I fear your lodging will be
the worst. I have but two beds, and they are both in a
chamber, and the carrier and his daughter lies in the one,
and you and your wife must lie in the other.
COBHAM.
In faith, sir, for my self I do not greatly pass.
My wife is weary, and would be at rest,
For we have travelled very far today;
We must be content with such as you have.
HOST.
But I cannot tell how to do with your man.
HARPOOLE.
What, hast thou never an empty room in thy house for me?
HOST.
Not a bed, by my troth: there came a poor Irish man, and
I lodged him in the barn, where he has fair straw, though
he have nothing else.
HARPOOLE.
Well, mine host, I pray thee help me to a pair of fair
sheets, and I'll go lodge with him.
HOST.
By the mass, that thou shalt; a good pair of hempen
sheets, were never lain in: Come.
[Exeunt.]
[The Irish man falls to rifle his master.]
IRISHMAN.
Alas, poe mester, Sir Rishard Lee, be saint Patrick is
rob and cut thy trote for dee shaine, and dy money, and
dee gold ring be me truly: is love thee well, but now dow
be kill, thee bee shitten kanave.
SIR JOHN.
Stand, sirra; what art thou?
IRISHMAN.
Be saint Patrick, mester, is pore Irisman, is a leufter.
SIR JOHN.
Sirra, sirra, you are a damned rogue; you have killed a
man here, and rifled him of all that he has. Sblood, you
rogue, deliver, or I'll not leave you so much as an Irish
hair above your shoulders, you whoreson Irish dog.
Sirra, untruss presently; come, off and dispatch, or by
this cross I'll fetch your head off as clean as a bark.
IRISHMAN.
Wee's me, saint Patrick! Ise kill me mester for chain
and his ring, and nows be rob of all: mee's undoo.
[Priest robs him.]
SIR JOHN.
Avant, you rascal! Go, sirra, be walking. Come, Doll,
the devil laughs, when one thief robs another: come,
mad wench, we'll to saint Albans, and revel in our
bower; hey, my brave girl.
DOLL.
O thou art old sir John when all's done, yfaith.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V. SCENE III. St. Albans. The entrance of a
carrier's inn.
[Enter the host of the Bell with the Irish man.]
IRISHMAN.
Be me tro, mester, is pore Irisman, is want ludging, is
have no money, is starve and cold: good mester, give
her some meat; is famise and tie.
HOST.
Yfaith, my fellow, I have no lodging, but what I keep
for my guess, that I may not disappoint: as for meat
thou shalt have such as there is, & if thou wilt lie in
the barn, there's fair straw, and room enough.
IRISHMAN.
Is thank my mester hartily, de straw is good bed for me.
HOST.
Ho, Robin!
ROBIN.
Who calls?
HOST.
Shew this poor Irishman into the barn; go, sirra.
[Exeunt.]
[Enter carrier and Kate.]
CLUB.
Ho, who's within here? who looks to the horses?
God's hat! here's fine work: the hens in the manger,
and the hogs in the litter. A bots found you all; here's
a house well looked to, yvaith.
KATE.
Mas, goffe Club, I'se very cawd.
CLUB.
Get in, Kate, get in to fire and warm thee. Ho! John
Hostler.
[Enter Hostler.]
HOSTLER.
What, gaffer Club? welcome to saint Albans. How does
all our friends in Lancashire?
CLUB.
Well, God have mercy, John; how does Tom; where's he?
HOSTLER.
O, Tom is gone from hence; he's at the three horse-loves
at Stony-stratford. How does old Dick Dunne?
CLUB.
God's hat, old Dunne has been moyerd in a slough in
Brickhill-lane, a plague found it; yonder is such
abomination weather as never was seen.
HOSTLER.
God's hat, thief, have one half peck of peas and oats more
for that: as I am John Ostler, he has been ever as good a
jade as ever travelled.
CLUB.
Faith, well said, old Jack; thou art the old lad still.
HOSTLER.
Come, Gaffer Club, unload, unload, and get to supper, and
I'll rub dun the while. Come.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V. SCENE IV. The same. A room in the carrier's inn.
[Enter the host, sir John Old-castle, and Harpoole.]
HOST.
Sir, you are welcome to this house, to such as here is with
all my heart, but, by the mass, I fear your lodging will be
the worst. I have but two beds, and they are both in a
chamber, and the carrier and his daughter lies in the one,
and you and your wife must lie in the other.
COBHAM.
In faith, sir, for my self I do not greatly pass.
My wife is weary, and would be at rest,
For we have travelled very far today;
We must be content with such as you have.
HOST.
But I cannot tell how to do with your man.
HARPOOLE.
What, hast thou never an empty room in thy house for me?
HOST.
Not a bed, by my troth: there came a poor Irish man, and
I lodged him in the barn, where he has fair straw, though
he have nothing else.
HARPOOLE.
Well, mine host, I pray thee help me to a pair of fair
sheets, and I'll go lodge with him.
HOST.
By the mass, that thou shalt; a good pair of hempen
sheets, were never lain in: Come.
[Exeunt.]