SCENE IV.

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
a cup of fack?

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

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

nour!

Oh, that a mighty man of fuch defcent,

Of fuch poffeffions, and fo high esteem,
Should be infused 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 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.
Oh, noble Lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,
And banish hence thefe abject lowly dreams.
Look, how thy fervants do attend on thee;
Each in his office ready at thy beck.
Wilt thou have mufick? 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 luftful bed
On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

Say, thou wilt walk, we will beftrow the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horfes fhall be trapp'd,
Their harnefs ftudded all with gold and pearl.
Doft thou love hawking? thou haft hawks, will foar
Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds fhall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch fhrill echoes from the hollow earth.

1 Man. Say, thou wilt courfe, thy greyhounds are
as swift

As breathed ftags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

2 Man. Doft thou love pictures? we will fetch thee
ftrait

Adonis, painted by a running brook <;
And Citberea all in fedges hid;

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

Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid,
And how he was beguiled and furpris'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 the bleeds:

And

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,
She was the faireft creature in the world,
And yet she is inferior to none.

Sly. Am I a Lord, and have I fuch a Lady?
Or do I dream? or have I dreamt 'till now?
I do not fleep; I fee, I hear, I fpeak;
I fmell fweet favours, and I feel foft 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' fmallest ale.

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

Oh, how we joy to see 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, fo wak'd as if you flept.

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.

4

As

As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,
And twenty more fuch names and men as thefe,
Which never were, nor nó man ever faw.

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

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.]

SCENE

V.

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.
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?

襄

My men fhould 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 muft I call her?
Lord. Madam.

Sly. Alce madam, or Joan madam?

Lord. Madam, and nothing elfe, fo Lords call La

[dies.
Sly. Come, fit down on my knee. Sim, drink to
her. Madam wife, they fay, that I have dream'd, and
flept above fome fifteen years and more.

Lady. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,
Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.

Sly.

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;
For fo your Doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much fadnefs hath congeal'd your blood;
And melancholy is the nurfe of frenzy.
Therefore, they thought it good you hear a play,
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment;
Which bars a thoufand harms, and lengthens life.

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.

THE