SCENE IV.

Changes to a Bedchamber in the Lord's House.

Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bason and erwer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord.

Sly.

F

OR God's fake, a pot of small ale.
I Serv. Wilt please your Lordship drink
a cup of fack?

2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Conferves?

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3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear today?

Sly. I am Christophero Sly, call not me Honour, nor Lordship: 'I ne'er drank sack 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 shoes than feet; nay, sometimes, more feet than shoes; or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather.

Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Honour!

Oh, that a mighty man of fuch descent, Of fuch poffeffions, and so high esteem, Should be infufed with so foul a spirit!

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 transmutation a bearherd, and now by present possession a tinker? afk Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not; if she say, I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught: here's

1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your servants

droop.

Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred shun your

house,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
Oh, noble Lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,
And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
Look, how thy servants do attend on thee;
Each in his office ready at thy beck.
Wilt thou have musick? hark, Apollo plays; [Musick.
And twenty caged nightingales do fing.
Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch,
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

Say, thou wilt walk, we will bestrow the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd,
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Doft thou love hawking? thou hast hawks, will foar
Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

I Man. Say, thou wilt course, thy greyhounds are
as fwift

As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

2 Man. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee

strait

Adonis, painted by a running brook;
And Citherea all in sedges hid;

Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,
Ev'n as the waving sedges play with wind.

Lord. We'll shew thee Io, as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,
As lively painted as the deed was done.

3 Man. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny
wood,

Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds :

And

And at that fight shall sad Apollo weep:
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Lord. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord :

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waining age.

1 Man. And 'till the tears, that she hath shed for

thee,

Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face,
She was the fairest creature in the world,
And yet she is inferior to none.

Sly. Am I a Lord, and have I such a Lady?
Or do I dream? or have I dreamt 'till now?
I do not fleep; I see, I hear, I speak;
I fmell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:
Upon my life, I am a Lord, indeed;
And not a Tinker, nor Christophero Sly.
Well, bring our Lady hither to our fight,
And once again, a pot o'th' smallest ale.

2 Man. Wilt please your Mightiness to wash your hands ?

Oh, how we joy to fee your wits restor'd!
Oh, that once more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream,
Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you flept.

Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap: But did I never speak of all that time?

I Man. Oh, yes, my Lord, but very idle words. For tho' you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you say, ye were beaten out of door, And rail'd upon the Hostess of the house; And say, you would present her at the * Leet, Because she bought stone-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 such maid;

Nor no such 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,
And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,
And twenty more fuch names and men as these,
Which never were, nor no man ever faw.

Sly. Now Lord be thanked for my good amends! All. Amen.

Sly. By th'Mass, 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 say, Simeon or Simon,

put forth thy hand and fill the pot.

The fervant gives him drink.]

SCENE V.

Enter Lady, with attendants.

I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.
Lady. How fares my noble Lord?

Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough. Where's my wife?

Lady. Here noble Lord, what is thy will with her? Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me huf

band?

My men should call me Lord, I am your good man. Lady. My husband and my Lord, my Lord and

hufband;

I am your wife in all obedience.

Sly. I know it well: what must I call her ?
Lord. Madam.

Sly. Alce madam, or Joan madam?

Lord. Madam, and nothing else, so Lords call La.

[dies.

Sly. Come, fit down on my knee. Sim, drink to

her. Madam wife, they say, that I have dream'd, and

slept above some fifteen years and more.

Lady. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.

Sly.

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Sly. 'Tis much.--Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress 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 should yet absent me from your bed.
I hope, this reason stands for my excufe.

Sly. Ay, it stands 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.

SCENE

Enter a Messenger.

VI

Meff. Your Honour's Players, hearing your a

mendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy;
For fo your Doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood;
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

Therefore, they thought it good you hear a play,
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment;
Which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life.
Sly. Marry, I will; let them play; is it not a Com-
modity? a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling trick?
Lady. No, my good Lord, it is more pleasing stuff.
Sly. What, houshold stuff?
Lady. It is a kind of history.

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Sly. Well, we'll fee't: come, Madam wife, sit by my side, and let the world flip, we shall ne'er be younger.

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THE