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Changes to a Bedchamber in the Lord's Houfe.
Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord.
OR God's fake, a pot of fmali ale.
1 Serv. Wilt pleafe your Lordship drink
2 Serv. Will't pleafe your Honour taste of these
3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear today?
Sly. I am Chriftophero Sly, call not me Honour, nor Lordship: 'I ne'er drank fack in my life and if you give me any Conferves, give me Conferves of beef. Ne'er afk me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more fhoes than feet; nay, fometimes, more feet than fhoes; or fuch fhoes as my toes look through the over-leather.
Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Ho
Oh, that a mighty man of fuch defcent,
Of fuch poffeffions, and fo high esteem,
Sly. What would you make me mad? am not I Christophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by tranfmutation a bearherd, and now by prefent poffeffion a tinker? afk Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if the know me not; if she say, I am not fourteen pence on the score for fheer ale, fcore me up for the lying'st knave in Christendom. What, I am not beftraught: here's
1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your fervants droop.
Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred fhun your houfe,
As beaten hence by your ftrange lunacy.
Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch,
Say, thou wilt walk, we will beftrow the ground:
1 Man. Say, thou wilt courfe, thy greyhounds are
As breathed ftags; ay, fleeter than the roe.
2 Man. Doft thou love pictures? we will fetch thee
Adonis, painted by a running brook <;
Which feem to move and wanton with her breath,
Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid,
3 Man. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny
Scratching her legs, that one shall swear the bleeds:
And at that fight fhall fad Apollo weep:
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.
Lord. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord : Thou haft a lady far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waining age.
1 Man. And 'till the tears, that the hath fhed for thee,
Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face,
Sly. Am I a Lord, and have I fuch a Lady?
2 Man. Wilt please your Mightiness to wash your hands?
Oh, how we joy to see your wits restor❜d !
Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap: But did I never fpeak of all that time?
1 Man. Oh, yes, my Lord, but very idle words. For tho' you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you fay, ye were beaten out of door, And rail'd upon the Hoftefs of the house; And fay, you would prefent her at the * Leet, Because the bought ftone-jugs, and not feal'd quarts; Sometimes, you would call out for Cicely Hacket. Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
3 Man. Why, Sir, you know no house; nor no fuch maid;
Nor no fuch men, as you have reckon❜d up;
Leet,] At the Court leet, or courts of the manor.
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
Sly. Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!
Sly. By th'Mafs, I think I am a Lord indeed. What is thy name?
Man. Sim, an't please your Honour.
Sly. Sim? that's as much as to fay, Simeon or Simon ; put forth thy hand and fill the pot.
The fervant gives him drink.]
Enter Lady, with attendants.
I thank thee;
Lady. How fares my noble Lord ?
thou shalt not lose by it.
Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.
Lady. Here noble Lord, what is thy will with her?
My men fhould call me Lord, I am your good man.
Lady. My husband and my Lord, my Lord and
I am your wife in all obedience.
Sly. I know it well: what muft I call her?
Sly. Alce madam, or Joan madam?
Lord. Madam, and nothing elfe, fo Lords call La
Lady. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,
Sly. 'Tis much.--Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undrefs you, and come now to bed.-Sim, drink to her.
Lady. Thrice noble Lord, let me entreat of you, To pardon me yet for a night or two. Or, if not fo, until the fun be fet; For your Physicians have exprefly charg'd, In peril to incur your former malady, That I fhould yet abfent me from your bed. I hope, this reafon ftands for my excufe.
Sly. Ay, it ftands fo, that I may hardly tarry fo long; but I would be loath to fall into my dream again I will therefore tarry in despight of the flesh and the blood.
Enter a Messenger.
Mell. Your Honour's Players, hearing your a mendment,
Are come to play a pleasant comedy;
Sly. Marry, I will; let them play; is it not a Commodity a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling trick? Lady. No, my good Lord, it is more pleasing stuff. Sly. What, houfhold stuff?
Lady. It is a kind of hiftory.
Sly. Well, we'll fee't: come, Madam wife, fit by my fide, and let the world flip, we fhall ne'er be younger.