Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • Title: The History of Sir John Oldcastle (Folio 3, 1664)
  • Editor: Michael Best

  • Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Authors: Anonymous, Michael Drayton, Richard Hathway, Antony Munday, William Shakespeare, Robert Wilson
    Editor: Michael Best
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The History of Sir John Oldcastle (Folio 3, 1664)

    2315Enter Priest and Doll.
    Priest. Come Doll, come, be merry wench.
    Farewell Kent, we are not for thee.
    Be lusty my Lasse, come for Lancashire,
    We must nip the Boung for these Crowns.
    2320Doll. Why is all the gold spent alerady, that you had
    the other day.
    Priest. Gone Doll, gone; flown, spent, vanished,
    the Devil, drink, and dice, has devoured all.
    Doll. You might have left me in Kent till you had
    2325been better provided.
    Priest. No, Doll, no, Kent's too hot, Doll, Kent's
    too hot: the weathercock of Wrotham will crow no lon-
    ger, we have pluckt him, he has lost his feathers, I have
    prun'd him bare, left him thrice, is moulted, is moulted
    Doll. I might have gone to service again, old M. Har-
    pool told me he would provide me a Mistris.
    Priest. Peace, Doll, peace; come mad wench, I'le
    make thee an honest woman, we'll into Lancashire to
    2335our friends, the troth is, I'le marry thee, we want but a
    little money, and money we will have I warrant thee:
    stay, who comes here? some Irish villain me thinks that
    has slain a man, and now he is rifling on him, stand close,
    Doll, we'll see the end.
    2340Enter the Irishman with his dead Master,
    and rifles him.
    Irish. Alas poe Master, Sir Rishard Lee, be S. Patrick
    is rob and cut thy trote, for de shain, and dy mony, and
    dy gold ring, be me truly is love de well, but now dow
    2345be kill de, be shitten kanave.
    Priest. Stand, sirra, what art thou?
    Irish. Be S. Patrick Mester, is poor Irisman, is a
    Priest. Sirra, sirra, y'are a damn'd rogue, you have
    2350kill'd a man here, and rifled him of all that he has:
    sbloud you rogue deliver, or I'le not leave you so much as
    a hair above your shoulders, you whorson Iris dog.
    Robs him.
    Irish. We's me S. Patrick, Ise kill my Mester for
    2355shain and his ring, and now's be rob of all, me's undo.
    Priest. Avant you Rascal, go sirra, be walking: come
    Doll, the devil laughs when one thief robs another: come
    wench, we'll to S. Albans, and revel in our bower, my
    brave girle.
    2360Doll. O thou art old Sir John when all's done ifaith.