Classic Poem

Edward the First - Scene 8

[SCENE VIII.]

Enter L LUELLEN , M EREDITH , Friar, E LINOR , and their train .

They are all clad in green, &c., sing, &c. , " Blithe and bonny. " The song ended , L LUELLEN singeth .

Lluellen . Why, so, I see, my mates of old
All were not lies that beldames told
Of Robin Hood and Little John,
Friar Tuck and Maid Marian.
Friar . Ay, forsooth, master.
Lluellen .How well they couched in forest green,
Frolic and lively withouten teen,
And spent their day in game and glee:
Lluellen, do seek if aught please thee,
Nor, though thy foot be out of town,
Let eyne look back on Edward's crown;
Nor think this green is not so gay
As was the golden rich array;
And O, sweet Nell, my Marian,
Trust me, as I am gentleman,
Thou art as fine in this attire,
As fine and fit to my desire,
As when of Leicester's hall and bower
Thou wert the rose and sweetest flower.
How say'st thou, friar, say I well?
For anything becomes my Nell.
Friar . Never made man of a woman born
A bullock's tail a blowing horn;
Nor can an ass's hide disguise
A lion, if he ramp and rise.
Elinor . My lord, the friar is wondrous wise.
Lluellen . Believe him, for he tells no lies. —
But what doth Little John devise?
Rice ap Mer . That Robin Hood beware of spies.
An aged saying and a true,
Black will take no other hue
He that of old hath been thy foe
Will die but will continue so.
Friar . O, masters, whither, shall we [go]?
Doth any living creature know?
Lluellen . Rice and I will walk the round.
Friar, see about the ground.

Enter M ORTIMER

And spoil what prey is to be found.
My love I leave within in trust,
Because I know thy dealing just. —
Come, potter, come, and welcome too,
Fare as we fare, and do as we do. —
Nell, adieu: we go for news.
Friar . A little serves the friar's lust,
When nolens volens fast I must:
Master, at all, that you refuse.
Mortimer . Such a potter would I choose,
When I mean to blind a scuse:
While Robin walk[s] with Little John,
The Friar will lick his Marian:
So will the potter if he can.
Elinor . Now, friar, sith your lord is gone,
And you and I are left alone,
What can the friar do or say
To pass the weary time away? —
Weary, God wot, poor wench, to thee,
That never thought these days to see.
Mortimer . Break, heart! and split, mine eyes, in twain!
Ne'er let me hear those words again.
Friar . What can the friar do or say
To pass the weary time away?
More dare he do than he dare say,
Because he doubts to have a nay.
Elinor . Do somewhat, friar, say or sing,
That may to sorrows solace bring;
And I meanwhile will garlands make.
Mortimer . O, Mortimer, were 't for thy sake,
A garland were the happiest stake,
That e'er this hand unhappy drew!
Friar . Mistress, shall I tell you true?
I have a song, I learn'd it long ago:
I wot not whether you'll like it well or no.
'Tis short and sweet, but somewhat brawled before:
Once let me sing it, and I ask no more.
Elinor . What, friar, will you so indeed?
Agrees it somewhat with your need?
Friar . Why, mistress, shall I sing my creed?
Elinor . That's fitter of the two at need.
Mortimer . O, wench, how mayst thou hope to speed?
Friar . O, mistress, out it goes:
Look what comes next, the friar throws.
Mortimer Such a sitting who ever saw?
An eagle's bird of a jackdaw.
Elinor . So, sir, is this all?
Mortimer . Sweetheart, here's no more.
Elinor . How now, good fellow! more indeed by one than was before.
Friar . How now! the divel instead of a ditty!
Mortimer . Friar, a ditty
Come late from the city,
To ask some pity
Of this lass so pretty: —
Some pity, sweet mistress, I pray you.
Elinor . How now, friar! where are we now, and you play not the man?
Friar . Friend copesmate, you that
Came late from the city,
To ask some pity
Of this lass so pretty,
In likeness of a doleful ditty, —
Hang me if I do not pay ye.
Mortimer . O, friar, you grow choleric: well, you'll have no man to court your mistress but yourself. On my word, I'll take you down a button-hole.
Friar . Ye talk, ye talk, child.

Re-enter L LUELLEN and [R ICE AP ] M EREDITH .

Lluellen . 'Tis well, potter; you fight in a good quarrel.
Rice ap Mer . Mass, this blade will hold: let me see, then, friar.
Friar . Mine's for mine own turn, I warrant: give him his tools. Rise, and let's to it; but no change, and if you love me. I scorn the odds, I can tell you: see fair play, and you be gentlemen.
Lluellen . Marry, shall we, friar. Let us see: be their staves of a length? Good: so, now
Let us deem of the matter,
Friar and potter,
Without more clatter;
I have cast your water,
And see as deep into your desire,
As he that had dived every day into your bosom. O, friar,
Will nothing serve your turn but larks?
Are such fine birds for such coarse clerks?
None but my Marian can serve your turn.
Elinor . Cast, water, for the house will burn.
Friar . O, mistress, mistress, flesh is frail;
'Ware when the sign is in the tail:
Mighty is love and doth prevail.
Lluellen . Therefore, friar, shalt thou not fail
But mightily your foe assail,
And thrash this potter with thy flail: —
And, potter, never rave nor rail,
Nor ask questions what I ail,
But take this tool, and do not quail,
But thrash this friar's russet coat;
And make him sing a dastard's note,
And cry, Peccavi, miserere David ,
In amo amavi , Go to.
Mortimer . Strike, strike.
Friar . Strike, potter, be thou lief or loth:
An if you'll not strike, I'll strike for both.
Mortimer . He must needs go that the divel drives.
Then, friar, beware of other men's wives.
Friar . I wish, master proud potter, the devil have my soul,
But I'll make my flail circumscribe your noul.
Lluellen . Why, so; now it cottens, now the game begins;
One knave currieth another for his sins.
Friar . O, master, shorten my offences in mine eyes!
If this crucifix do not suffice,
Send me to heaven in a hempen sacrifice.
Mortimer O, masters, masters, let this be warning!
The friar hath infected me with his learning.
Lluellen . Villains, do not touch the forbidden tree,
Now to delude or to dishonour me.
Friar . O, master, quae negata sunt grata sunt .
Lluellen . Rice, every day thus shall it be:
We'll have a thrashing set among the friars; and he
That of these challengers lays on slowest load,
Be thou at hand, Rice, to gore him with thy goad.
Friar . Ah, potter, potter, the friar may rue
That ever this day this our quarrel he knew;
My pate addle, mine arms black and blue.
Mortimer . Ah, friar, who may his fate's force eschew?
I think, friar, you are prettily school'd.
Friar . And I think the potter is handsomely cool'd.
Mortimer . No, Mortimer; here['s] that eternal fire
That burns and flames with brands of hot desire:
Why, Mortimer, why dost thou not discover
Thyself her knight, her liegeman, and her lover?English