Enter Flauius, Murellus, and certaine Commoners ouer the Stage.
Flauius. Hence: home you idle Creatures, get you home:
Is this a Holiday? What, know you not
(Being Mechanicall) you ought not walke
Vpon a labouring day, without the signe
Of your Profession? Speake, what Trade art thou?
Car. Why Sir, a Carpenter
Mur. Where is thy Leather Apron, and thy Rule?
What dost thou with thy best Apparrell on?
You sir, what Trade are you?
Cobl. Truely Sir, in respect of a fine Workman, I am
but as you would say, a Cobler
Mur. But what Trade art thou? Answer me directly
Cob. A Trade Sir, that I hope I may vse, with a safe
Conscience, which is indeed Sir, a Mender of bad soules
Fla. What Trade thou knaue? Thou naughty knaue,
Cobl. Nay I beseech you Sir, be not out with me: yet
if you be out Sir, I can mend you
Mur. What mean'st thou by that? Mend mee, thou
Cob. Why sir, Cobble you
Fla. Thou art a Cobler, art thou?
Cob. Truly sir, all that I liue by, is with the Aule: I
meddle with no Tradesmans matters, nor womens matters;
but withal I am indeed Sir, a Surgeon to old shooes:
when they are in great danger, I recouer them. As proper
men as euer trod vpon Neats Leather, haue gone vpon
Fla. But wherefore art not in thy Shop to day?
Why do'st thou leade these men about the streets?
Cob. Truly sir, to weare out their shooes, to get my
selfe into more worke. But indeede sir, we make Holyday
to see Caesar, and to reioyce in his Triumph
Mur. Wherefore reioyce?
What Conquest brings he home?
What Tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in Captiue bonds his Chariot Wheeles?
You Blockes, you stones, you worse then senslesse things:
O you hard hearts, you cruell men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey many a time and oft?
Haue you climb'd vp to Walles and Battlements,
To Towres and Windowes? Yea, to Chimney tops,
Your Infants in your Armes, and there haue sate
The liue-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey passe the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his Chariot but appeare,
Haue you not made an Vniuersall shout,
That Tyber trembled vnderneath her bankes
To heare the replication of your sounds,
Made in her Concaue Shores?
And do you now put on your best attyre?
And do you now cull out a Holyday?
And do you now strew Flowers in his way,
That comes in Triumph ouer Pompeyes blood?
Runne to your houses, fall vpon your knees,
Pray to the Gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this Ingratitude