Sly. ^note

For God's sake, a pot of small ale.

First Serv.
Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Sec. Serv.
Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third Serv.
What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

Sly.

I am Christophero ^note Sly; call not me ‘honour’ nor ‘lordship:’ I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne'er ask 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, sometime ^note more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

Lord.
Heaven cease this idle ^note humour in your honour!
O, that a mighty man of such descent,
Of such possessions and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

Sly.

What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher ^note Sly, old Sly's ^note son of Burton-heath ^note, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker ^note, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence ^note on the score ^note for sheer ^note ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! ^note I am not bestraught ^note: here's— ^note

Third Serv. ^note
O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!

Sec. Serv.
O, this is it ^note that makes your servants droop!

Lord.
Hence comes it that your kindred shuns ^note your house,
As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
O 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 music? hark! Apollo plays, [Music.
And twenty caged nightingales do sing:
Or wilt thou sleep? 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 bestrew the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd,
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar
Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds ^note shall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

First Serv.
Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Sec. Serv. ^note
Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight
Adonis painted by a running brook
And Cytherea all in sedges hid
Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,
Even as the waving sedges play with ^note wind.

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

Third Serv.
Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,
And at that sight 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 waning age.

First Serv.
And till the tears that she hath shed for thee
Like envious floods o'er-run ^note 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 dream'd till now?
I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;
I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things:
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed

And not a tinker nor Christophero ^note Sly.
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;
And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale. ^note

Sec. Serv.
Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands?
O, how we joy to see your wit ^note restored!
O, that once more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream;
Or when you waked, so ^note waked as if you slept.

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

First Serv.
O, yes, my lord, but very idle words:
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door;
And rail ^note upon the hostess of the house;
And say you would present her at the leet,
Because she brought stone jugs and no ^note seal'd quarts:
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Sly.
Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

Third Serv.
Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,
Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up,
As Stephen Sly and old John Naps of Greece ^note
And Peter Turph and Henry ^note Pimpernell
And twenty more such names and men as these
Which never were nor no man ever saw.

Sly.
Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!

All.
^noteAmen.

Sly.
I thank thee: thou shalt not lose by it. ^noteEnter ^note the Page as a lady, attended.

Page.
How fares my noble lord?

Sly.
Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough.
Where is my wife? ^{note note}

Page.
Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

Sly.
Are you my wife and will not call me husband?
My men should call me ‘lord:’ I am your good-man.

Page.
My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;
I am your wife in all obedience.

Sly.
I know it well. What must I call her?

Lord.
Madam.

Sly.
Al'ce ^note madam, or Joan madam?

Lord.
‘Madam,’ and nothing else: so lords call ladies.

Sly.
^noteMadam ^note wife, they say that I have dream'd
And slept above ^note some fifteen year or ^note more ^note.

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

Sly.
'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.
Madam, undress you and come now to bed ^note.

Page.
Thrice-noble lord, let me entreat of you
To pardon me yet for a night or two;
Or, if not so, until the sun be set:
For your physicians have expressly charged,
In ^note peril to incur your ^note former malady,
That I should yet absent me from your bed:
I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Sly.

Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams ^note again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood.

Mess.
Your honour's players, hearing your amendment,
Are come to play a pleasant comedy;

For so your doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much ^note 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 it. Is not ^note a comonty ^note A Christmas gambold ^note or a tumbling-trick?

Page.

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

Sly.

What, household stuff?

Page.

It is a kind of history.

Sly.

Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my ^noteside and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger ^{note note}.