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THE SEVEN DAYES OF THE WEEKE
THE CLARKE OF ST. GYLESES
A PAIR OF SNUFFERS
Enter the Clarke with all his actours.
I am the poore, though not unletterd, clarke,
And these your subjects of St. Gyles his parishe.
Who in this officious season would not sharke,
But thought to greet your highnesse with a morrice,
Which since my riper judgement thought not fitt, 5
They have layd downe their wisedomes to my witt.
And that you might perceive (though seeminge rude)
We savour somewhat of the academie,
Wee had adventur’d on an enterlude.
But then of actors wee did lacke a manye. 10
Therefore we clipt our play into a showe,
Yet big enough to speake more then wee knowe.
The subject of it was not farr to seeke,
Fine witts worke micle matter out of nifles.
Nam’de it I have The Seaven Dayes of the Weeke, 15
Which, though perchaunce grave heads may judge a trifle,
Yet if their action answeare but my penninge,
You shall heare that that will deserve a penninge.
To tell the argument were to forstale
And sowre the licquour of our sweete conceate. 20
Here are good fellowes that will tell you all,
When wee begin once, you shall quickely ha’te.
Which if Your Grace will grace with your attention
You shall soone sounde the depth of our invention.
MUN. I Munday am, not he surnam’d the Blacke, 25
But any ordinarye one beside.
CLARKE Why Jacke, Jacke, a pox on thee, come in and be hang’d.
Night should have come out first. (Exeunt.)
Enter Sunday night, walkes to the farther end, there stayes, and then speakes.
NIGHT Peace, sad musitions of the silent night,
The dolefull nightingall and dreadfull owle, 30
With doggs shutt out of doores that cannot bite,
Although they barke, and at my moonshine howle.
Now Night growes old, yet walkes here in his trapping
Till daye come catch him, as Mosse his gray mare napping.
Monday comes and beates him out.
MUN. I Munday am, not he surnam’d the blacke, 35
But any ordinarye one besyde
Who, though I carry Sunday on my backe,
Thinke not that I am to his girdle tyed.
For though his cost as myne I had as leefe use
Yet Munday cannot live with Sundayes refuse. 40
Hither I come, directed by my paper
To tell my name, and that’s already ended.
Then to sitt downe (which is as l ittle labour).
I would that each man here were so befrended.
This of my part is but a little crumme. 45
You shal heare more when as more actors come. (Sedet cum lucerna &c.
Enter Munday-night as before, then Tuesday beatinge him out.
TU. Avaunt, blacke Night, seest thou not Twesay morne?
Do I not looke like Mars his minion?
(Gentlemen, ’tis my parte to speake in scorne
To Munday Night, and not mine owne opinion. 50
For, for myne owne part, not to spoyle the play,
I like the night farr better then the day.)
I come unto you on a sleevelesse erraunde
To tell that Twesday is my name authenticke.
Farther to singe or say I have no warraunt. 55
Mundayes commission and myne are identicke.
For though wee came not hand in hand together
You may well thinke we are both birds of a feather. (Sedet.
Enter Twesday night as before, then Wednesday beatinge him out.
WED. The pilflringe herauld of the Thunder-Thumper
(I hope these hard words doe not fright your senses — 60
I sweare ’tis not our meaninge, gratious umpeer,
To revish yhou with showe of bad praetenses)
Gave me my name, which yet perchaunce you know not.
Et ’tis no riddle bound up in a bow-knott.
In ember-weeks I putt on Frydayes bases 65
And once a heare my name begins with Ashe.
With many other pretty paraphrases
I could suspend you, yet figures are but trash.
My name is Wednesday, that’s the short and longe.
Now I sitt down, you shall heare more anon. (Sedet. 70
Enter Wednesday-night as before.
THURSDAY Now Thursday comes, of every weeke the middle,
As you may see by the standing of my stoole.
Iocund I am and merry as a fiddle,
Perpetuall play-day for the boyes at schoole.
A mortall enemy to fish and whige-meats, 75
My belly findes no ballast in such slight meats.
And had not Sunday come and kept his station,
As Sunday did, I had wip’d his nose of that place.
For were I in his fine apparrellation,
I were as good as Synday, that’s a flatt case. 80
But I have gone beyond m y short commission.
Sitt downe, and make some use of Sundayes cushion. (Sedet.
Enter Thursday-night as before.
FRIDAY I would not have you load my backe with mocks,
Though I come lade with river and sea-fishes.
Perchaunce you had rather have each eele an oxe, 85
And so would I, but ’twill not come with wishes.
I am leane Friday brought upp in a colledge
That never made good meale unto my knowledge,
Stepp forth Clarke.
CLARKE Not till this yeare in truth (an’t please your Lordship)
I had forgoten that Christmas-day was on a Friday. 90
Say on, Frydaye.
FRYD. Borne was I in the frosty winter quater.
Nipt with the could, I have ere since bene hide bounde.
I could leape through and through a nettworkt garter
Thinne as a wafer, hungrye as a tyd hounde. 95
But though it please you thus to heare me tell woes,
Yet I must speake no more t’ye then my fellowes.
Enter Fryday night as before.
SATURDAYE Saturne (sayth Mr. Ponde the alminakian)
Gives mee my name, looke there and you shall find it,
Which if you have not, hee’le soone make you one 100
For the next yeare too, though this were behinde yett.
Take then this rule from his unerringe science,
I am halfe holy-day by my alliance.
This is a little piece of Frydayes jackett
(Friday surnam’d The Good but once a yeare), 105
Who, though perchaunce this weather hee may lack it.
Yet I must haste to signifye my cheare,
Which is the same with Fryday in each particle,
To sitt downe when we have done is our first article. (Sedet.
Enter Saterday night as before.
SUNDAYE Long look’t for Sunday in his best apparrell 110
Comes forth for to see and to be seene,
About which part, though, there was some small quarrell,
Yet priviledge of person made it myne.
For Sundaye spake not till a clarke had taught hir
And who should have the best part but the author? 115
These six you see are all day-labourers.
Hindes that scrape mony up for me (God send it)
Which I at the alehouse mongst the pipes and tabourers
Forgett how hard it came, and lightly spend it.
I Sunday am, and you are all come hither 120
To see (o straunge) two Sundayes met togither.
Now that you know our names (great Prince) to make no farther smoother,
We will goe forward with our sense, and talke to one another,
And any one in gowne or cloake hath license to put in his spoke.
Sunday sitts downe. Enter a woman Chorus.
WOMAN A play without a woman in’t 125
Is like a face without a nose.
Therefore I come that strife to stinte,
Though I have nought to say, God knowes.
And since I can no matter handle
I’le come sometymes to snuffe their candles. 130
Enter NIGHT without his name.
NIGHT Blacke night, as black as any mourning sable is,
Comes for to prompt the actors if they stumble.
For who can see what Night doth say, or able is
To heare how Night doth walke about and mumble?
Now any night, but when goes away 135
I’le be the Night belonginge to that day.
SUNDAY Now, neighbour workidayes (for so you are tearmed)
Tell your gave earies I must a straunge relation.
The yeare (you know). call’d annus of us learned.
Consists of our rounde running corporation. 140
And as we doe our duetyes in our places,
Annus already hath found out some faults
That should be Fridayes doing by description,
Which, though the yeare winke at, yet you cannot halt
Before a cripple without some suspition. 145
To prevent, then, where faulty he finds you in
By me hee warnes you of these ’scapes ensuinge.
First, Master Munday, you are accused to be
A great ingrosser upp of my best vittayle.
You cannot worke i’th’ morne (a tricke of a loobye) 150
’Cause Sunday stick yet by you. Are thise fitt tales?
Make answer if you can, and whilest I stay bye
Speake each man for himselfe as well as may be.
MUNDAY Hold harte, hold buttons, or else I shall burst.
Hee that commits the fault doth call “whoore” first, 155
Do I for this rise upp to make all quietrt
Ere breake of day, and cover Sundayes riott?
Do I make cawdles earely ere he stirre yet
And possett drinks to parboyle his nights surfeitt?
And doth the glutton, seinge howe I’m payn’d here, 160
Grudge me a little of his cold remainder?
Now I see well vertue and good desart
Are lightly set by and not worthie a fart. I badd you put in, sir, reverence, but
Well-meaninge Munday put for his manhood mickle the rime is good enough.
A hundred tymes at least in the chronickle, 165
The birth-day unto many noble princes
And good queene Hellen, fairest of all wenches,
Accus’d by Sunday, and at such a time
As but for “Munday” he would want a rime.
I, that of seaven have the eldest brothers calling, 170
Am made a younger brother by the dawlinge.
Why say you not that Munday will be drunke,
Keeps all unruly wakes and playes at trunkes,
Yet put these Sunday faultes upon my back,
Sunday will have enough to fill a sack. 175
Kinde friends, ere I am gone a hundred paces,
This same ay chaunce to bee one of your cases.
Therefore you shall doe wisely to consider
How these circumstances do hange togither.
For Trueth herselfe, if shee were brought in question, 180
Could never answer every false suggestion.
Therefore I’le make no answeare, but deny all
Untill he brings his tenne peny naile of tryall.
SUN. Mundaye, you are a dangerous-headede fellowe,
And well your witt serves for to worke your tale. 185
Yet must you give me leave that for to tell you
Which was given me in charge, and not to rayle.
I for myselfe am satisfied at full
And you may now be gone e’ne when you wull.
MUN. Thus have I done my part yet here must stay blue 190
Till Munday-night come drive me hence away.
Munday-night comes and putts out his candle, and beates him in.
NIGHT Now observe you what night doth doe
And to his hands bee heedfull.
For sleepie Night hath no delight
To talke more then is needfull. 195
Night speaks no more, I am of vertues faction.
The best of my part doth consiste in action.
CLARKE That Munday holdes his head downe in this fashion
Com’s by his stoopinge to his occupation.
He is a thresher, and but for that one thinge 200
He might beseme to play before a kinge.
For in pitty hee would make you weepe five winters
To see him thresh a passion into splinters. (Enter Chorus.
CHOR. If any be so wise to aske why I will not put of my maske,
Make him this answer, I beseech yhou, ’tis least my beutye should bewitch you. 205
Now to beare all things schollerlike before us
My candle-snuffinge shall serve for a chorus. (Exit.
SUNDAYE Indifferent Tuesday, who could once imagine
Munday and Thursday could have made you factious
Against these other three your spite to evagine, 210
As though that fish-day were a name so captious,
Seekinge to sever, and with wild inventions
Fire the furrsfaggott of dissentions?
Yet were this nothinge if you wer enot noted
For a furtherer of Shrove-tydes drunken bouses, 215
Whom flickringe fame hath in her table quoted
For pullinge downe of honest good whoorehouses.
But since yet in your knaveries you’re tane, sir, red
To make things short, goe on, sir, with your answer.
TUES. My friends, would you were all nailed upp for socketts. 220
If you will put your heads in Sundayes pockets,
Who’le be a servitour if for each petty fact
He shall bee ever after credit crakt?
I that two and fifty times a yeare attend him
Cannot be allowed one day my sports to spend in. 225
Some badd mischanges and haps accidentall
May one Tuesday fall, but never by him ment all.
And as for two or three shrewed turnes which are soone numbred
Of my good deeds Ile reckon up a hundred.
Bouzer I am not but mild, sober Tuesday, 230
As catt in capcase if I light not on St. Hews-=day.
Yet in my minde ’tis not unfittinge neither.
The gentle craft should licquor well their leather.
Now could I furnish all your expectations
With a longe speech of mine owne commendations. 235
But michinge modestie is such a clogge
I shall blush at it streight like a black dogge. (Hee putts out his candle
Now setts the sunne, darke growes the day so lightsome,
Yet must I stand still here untill the night come.
Enter Night as before to Mundaye.
SUN. This Tuesday is a thatcher by his science 240
That with this frost hath stood in long defiaunce
And holdes it fitt for Christian and for Turke
To be a player when he cannot worke. (Enter Chorus
CHORUS Thus sceane by sceane and stepp by stepp
From act to act our showe doth leape, 245
And I come ever and anon
Too tell how many Acts are gon,
Which are as many odd and even
As these fowre candles want of seaven. (Exit.
SUN. It was, and still will be a thankelesse office 240
To tell men of their faults, though ne’re so palpable.
Yet in this case I’le not be made a novice
But speake my minde free if I see them culpable.
And therefore, Wednesday, rubbe up your best reasons
To quitt yourselfe of these suspected treasons. 245
You are a neutrall, neyther syde affectinge,
Nor fish nor flesh, nor very good redherringe.
The doubtfull end of opposites expectinge
Leane to the strongest, till then never stirringe.
You that by one dayes fast, by name Ashwednesday, 250
Bate a man more then he hath gott in tenne dayes.
You are a pickthanke. But come, answer this first.
WED. Wednesday the wise, that would not touch edgde tooles
For his not medlinge, is now calld a foole.
Plaine dealing’s thought the bratt of silly follye 255
And men must shuffle and cut now velle nolle.
But peace, Detraction, thou base gruntinge curre,
If I moove once I’le make a stinkinge stirre.
I have but one sett fast in the whole yeare,
But physically next to belly cheare 260
I’th bacchanalls, yet am I sayd to famish
Men that are then fatt as capon cram’d is.
But hence away with troublesome devotion.
Fasting’s as bad as a pothicaryes potion.
Had I his nimble winges whose name I carry, 265
Among such paltry fellowes I’de not tarry.
SUN. Very like, for you have his nimbles such
Like birdlime that take upp whatere they touch,
And honest you may be, yet some mens harde lucks
In Wednesday market lost their purse at Carefax. 270
Wednesday goes fuminge and stampinge upp and downe, and Night fetcheth him. Then Sunday speakes.
SUN. Perhaunce you looke that Wednesday should have spoken, but you must suppose that a man would
be so mooved with these objectgions that he would not speake for anger.|
By trade he’s a joyner, and his part understands,
And speakes wel enough, thoigh he use not his hands. (Enter Chorus
CHORUS If Wednesday spake here in his furious fitt, 275
No doubt you hard great store of little witt.
The fourth Act’s done, they are short, and we most wayre
Have therefore made two more then ordinarye.
Play, musicke, play, and hide so straunge a fact.
I (though a woman) silent am this Act. (Exit. 280
SUN. Now my corrivall that with looks gainsayinge
Doth view my pompe. I speake not this in choller.
Thursday, y’are idle, †adle†, ever playinge,
Utter undoer of a grammer-schollar,
Whose negligence (if I have not heard a lye) 285
Maks Friday be so cruell, now replye.
THURS. That hagg that other mens defaults are put in
Wee beare before us, ready still to looke in.
But nature was to blame that in this kinde
Made not an eye to see our owne behinde. 290
I, that in tender care and kinde compassion
Give scollers leave to play for recreation,
Am an idle fellowe. Therefore I will waken
The sleeping proverbe, Each thing’s as ’tis taken.
Did the old world dote, think you, or but dallye 295
That grac’d me onely with the name of holye,
That would which had as much skill in one finger
To judge of men as fourty figure flingers?
But what an asse am I in tearmes preciser
To care what Sunday sayes, beinge no wiser? 300
These are but his devises to defame us.
I will myselfe goe talke with Monsieur Annus.
SUN. Yes, so you maye. Come, Night, dispatch him hence.
Annus will rattle him in another sense.
This is the fellowe would have played my part, 305
Though neyther fitt by nature or by art.
Hee is a taylour, but to tell would tyre one
Which is most goose, hee or his pressinge iron. (Enter Chorus.
CHORUS Because the night hath many misty vapoures,
Chorus hath care to keepe bring burninge tapours. 310
Nor is that all, but least it might be wandringe
To snuffe the light too of your understandinge,
If any speach have past beyond your keeninge,
Chorus, if she may knowe it, will tell the meaninge. (Exit.
SUN. Ill favoured Fridaye, curs’d, bande, and defied 315
By all save those that fwell by the sea-syde,
Feed’ by physitions that hate health and quiet
To poyson nature with unholsome dyett
Of fish and rootes, worse things then charme or philte.
To put precisest bodyes out of kilter, 320
Your tricks are many, my witts so affrightinge
That I was faine to putt them downe in writtinge.
He delivers him a paper.
All which doe shewe your spite unto the land,
Settinge the sea upon the upper hand.
FRI. Though you are a clarke, and I am but a ditcher, 325
You know not whether sea or land be richer,
No more than I, therefore till that be tryed
The sea may stand sometymes on th’ upper syde.
And though there be of flesh as yett Gods plentye,
With other helpes, yet if of fish I scant ye, 330
Flesh wilbe wasted so with often carveinge
That you may hang yourselves for feare of starvinge.
For other crimes whereof I am indighted,
If by my Lord good patience I might reade,
I could in two or three words quite confute ’hem, 335
Or with as long an answeare quickely sute ’hem.
But ’twould be taedious, your nice eares benumminge,
And Night, you see, looks for his que to come in.
Enter Friday-night as before.
<NIGHT> Friday had finish’t his part very noughtily
Had he acted as bad as he spake softly. 340
Paines I tooke with him, but, though your life you should leese
Hee will never speake lowder than a mouse in a cheese. (Enter Chorus)
CHOR. Behinde my backe you’le say anon
That Chorus should speake pro and con.
But common-sense will never suffer’s 345
To speake for the candle against the snuffers. (Exit.
SUN. Now, Saturday, thinke not I beare any evill edge,
Against your person, though I warne you stand fast,
†Nor think, though you weare gay clothes by an eeves privilege,†
From the wast downe-ward you shalbe uncanvast. 350
Yes, though you were a man of silke and velvet,
Yet you shall heare your owne if I can helpe it.
You ever were and still are (by this hand)
A common taverne, alehowse hunter, marke it,
That drawe in simple country-fellowes, and 355
Send them home drunke that sober came to market.
And gaving but an egge before you sett fast,
Invite all Batchelors of Arts to break-fast.
SAT. Who is’t that knowes how neere we two are borderinge
Could thinke Sunday would shake me such a foddringe?
I am his steward and his carefull caterer, 360
Gentleman usher and his yeoman fewterer,
Make his provision, but this is the spite on’t,
I buy good meate but never eate a bite on’t.
With carefull search I robb ponds, rivers, seas,
Of fishe and foule his dainty mouth to please, 365
Nor on the land is that meat hee can wishe
But Sunday finds it ready in his dishe.
Yet for this am I banded as a ball is,
And pounded with the pestle of peevishnesse in the morter of malice. Soft and bee hanged,
Service hath small reward, good turnes oft paine us 370 you have marrd a good verse.
And still wee scorne the meanes that doth maintaine us.
I could reply to all but see no fitnesse
For us to make more words without more wittnesse.
A drowsy humour on me now encroachinge
Shewes melancholy night to bee approachinge, 375
And see he comes. Sir Sol his owne eye closes (Putts out his candle
And I must sneake away under your noses.
Enter Saturday-night as before.
SUN. This is our pinders boy, sonne to a drover,
That cannot keepe his mouth from runninge over.
But Nature was mistaken or did wrounge 380
In a mans head to put a womans tongue.
Yet next time, if my braynes their vertues holde,
I’le fitt him right, for he shall play a scolde.
But yet to keepe our order right
You must heare what hee is that playes this Night. 385
Though it neede not, for you may see, I wis,
Hee was made for a butcher and so he is.
CHORUS As true as the th’ oracle at a place call’d Delphos,
That unknowne fortunes and darke dreames did tell folks,
So stand I here, and if ought want unmaskinge 390
Speake quickely, this is the last time of askinge.
And I may keepe my hands still in my muffe,
For heere is never a candle left to snuffe.
Playe, musicke, playe, though we have hewd and hact,
Yet let them all know this is our last Act. 395
SUN. This was a qurister, not to speake it in vauntinge.
You may kno’t by his voyce, but his maintenaunce wantinge,
He would needs be a sawyer in any case
That still he might go by his rule, lyne, and space.
He ryses and speakes of himselfe.
Should I not make this senselesse stoole too proude, 400
I’d dresse him in my clthes, set my light on him,
And then tell Sunday of his faults so loud
That the bare walles here should cry out “fye on him.”
But you would sweare my pate had need bee purgd
If I should tell myne owne faults beinge not urged. 405
I will not presse your patience with long talke,
I do not doubt you think I am not blameless.
To play thus on a Sunday is a fault
With many other which shall now be namelesse,.
For this I red once in a song I spied, 410
The fox though unholy hath the grace to hide. (Exit
Enter CLARKE with the rest
Great Prince and mighty monarch of this place,
The very capp of curtesy and kindnesse,
Think not we come to prayse you tp your face,
For we would say as much were you behinde us, 415
If we have moov’d offence (I say that “if”),
Let not your princely choller stand too stiff.
For ’twas th’ hart-burninge of our duety drove us
To these our shifts of witt. Now if your favour,
That runnes so fast and did to this worke moove us, 420
Should with this nights cold sport bee frozen over,
Such an unkinde cold might take us at the matter
That wee might loose our tongs for ever after.
But if the lanthorne of your Lordshipps love
Shall light us home through the mist of reprehension, 425
From the distaffe of our duetye we will prove
To draw a threed of a more fine invention.
And when your brayne feeles any paine with cares of state and troubles,
We’el come in kindnesse to put your highnesse out of the mumble-fubbles.