The Book of Air and Shadows

Leadenhalle Street where he saies W.S. frequently lieth. Mr Wales saies his fancie is to take roomes here and about, when he is not being tabled at some greate house. Formerly he dwelt near Silver Street but no longer & formerly he went every day to the Globe or Black-Friers play-howse but now he withdraweth som from those stewes as he hath grown rich off it, the bawd. A low company at the Swan, players punks decoy-gamesters & other rogues & Waley inquiring of the tapster is told Mr W.S. is up-stayres in a leased chamber, his habit seemingly to lay there the morning at his papers. So Waley do send a wench up to say there is a kinsman of his to see hym: which wase mee. Soon comes he in the room a man scannt-bearded a middling height bald-pated a little fat in a good doublet dead-spaniard coloured & hath the looke of a mercer. Mr Waley doth make us acquainted, Will Shakespur here is your cosen of Warwick, Dick Bracegirdle.
    Saith he then it must be through your mother we are cosens for never was there such a name in Warwickshire & I say yes my mother was Arden born. At that he smyles & clapps me upon my backe & carries me to the table & calls for my pleasoure & the pot-boy bringeth us ale, but Mr Waley calls for canary though he wast not asked & calls some varlets he knows & a trull over & proffers them from his jack of wine. Now W.S. speakes me direct but I can not make out a word in three that he sayes, so strange are his accentes; seeing this he makes a halt saying thou wast not Warwick-bred & I say nay but born in London and passed my youth in Titchfield & he says he hast been oft at Titchfield a-visiting my lord of Southhampton & this he says in as plain a Hampshire voice as could have ben mine uncle Matthew, which amaz’d me much. But after I bethought me, he hath ben a playere, ’tis his arte to ape the speache of anie man.
    Next we spake of our families and found that his dam was bred ancientlie from Sir Walter Arden of Park Hall as soe wase mine but his hath descent through Thomas that gentlemans eldest son not Richard as mine was & this contenteth hym much & I tell howe my grand-sire wase hanged for papistrie but they sayde traisoun & hee looketh grave sayinge aye mine nuncle was served soe in the olde quenes tyme. Soe wee further converse, hym demanding of me my storie & I tell hym it pretty much in truth, of my lyfe as a boy and prentice in the foundrie, & of the grete gonnes & the Dutch warres; nor have I ne’er met a man so content to heare another man out in fulle; for men chiefly love to tell of them selves & paint them selves out in finer colours than wast in lyfe; but hym not. Herein I spake but the trewth for Mr Piggott saith if wouldst tell a grete lye, guard it close with a thousand trew tales, so that it shalbe passed amongst theyre number. Bye now Mr Wales hath drunk a pint & more of beste canary & wase drunk withal & commenced to rail at W.S. sayinge he hath not employment these manie weekes with players less skilled than he uzed in his roome & W.S. saith nay, hath not Mr Burbadge manie tymes warned thee? If thou attend the play-house as full o’canary as yon butt so you stumble and misremember your lines thou shalt lose thy place; and thou hast soe done; and thou hast indeed lost place, as wase promised; & I can do naught for thee, but here’s an angelet for thee thou wast a goode Portia once. Yet Mr Wales spurns the coin; saith he, thou vain scut Ile see thee hangd & broke & e’en nowe are the snares set for thee that will & then I kick him in his ankle-bone & he cry out & draw or tries to & I serve hym a blow on’s heade with a stone-jack & down goes he in blodd. Now those friends he lately wined make to start affray with me & I stand to draw but W.S. calls sacke & safron cakes for the table & speakes so sweetlie & jestinglie to these low fellowes that they are assuaged & he has a wench & pot-boy to carry off Mr Wales to a settle & payeth alle & then he carries me out of that place saying let us goe to a more quiet howse for I wishe to speake further with thee.
    Soe down Bishopsgate we walke, then on Cornhill & West Cheap toward Paul’s & again he quaeres mee upon my lyfe & I doe as best I am able, recalling manie thinges I have forgot & when I tell how I wase late a smuckler he halts & hath me saye agen that worde which he sware he never before heard & writes it that moment with a wad penselle in a littel booke he carries & seems as well-pleazed as if he found a shillinge in the myre