SLY.

I'll pheeze you, in Faith.

Host.

A Pair of Stocks, you Rogue.

Sly.

Y'are a Baggage; the Slies are no Rogues. Look in the Chronicles, we came with Richard Conqueror; therefore Paucus pallabris, let the World slide: Sessa.

Host.

You will not pay for the Glasses you have burst?

Sly.

No, not a Deniere: Go by S. Jeronimy, go to thy cold Bed, and warm thee.

Host.

I know my Remedy; I must go fetch the Head-borough.

Sly.

Third, or fourth, or fifth Borough, I'll answer him by Law; I'll not budge an Inch, Boy; let him come, and kindly.

Lord.
Huntsman, I charge thee tender well my Hounds,
Brach Merriman, the poor Cur is imbost,
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd Brach.
Saw'st thou not, Boy, how Silver made it good
At the Hedge Corner, in the coldest Fault;
I would not lose the Dog for twenty Pound.

Hun.
Why, Belman is as good as he, my Lord;
He cried upon it at the meerest Loss,

And twice to Day pick'd out the dullest Scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better Dog.

Lord.
Thou art a Fool, if Eccho were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a Dozen such.
But sup them well, and look unto them all,
To Morrow I intend to hunt again.

Hun.

I will, my Lord.

Lord.

What's here? one Dead, or Drunk? See, doth he breathe?

2 Hun.

He breathes, my Lord. Were he not warm'd with Ale, this were a Bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

Lord.
O monstrous Beast! how like a Swine he lyes!
Grim Death, how foul and loathsome is thine Image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken Man.
What think you if he were convey'd to Bed,
Wrapt in sweet Cloaths: Rings put upon his Finger;
A most delicious Banquet by his Bed,
And brave Attendants near him when he wakes;
Would not the Beggar then forget himself?

1 Hun.
Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chuse.

2 Hun.
It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd.

Lord.
Even as a flatt'ring Dream, or worthless Fancy.
Then take him up, and manage well the Jest:
Carry him gently to my fairest Chamber,
And hang it round with all my wanton Pictures;
Balm his foul Head in warm distilled Waters,
And burn sweet Wood to make the Lodging sweet.
Procure me Musick ready when he wakes,
To make a Dulcet and a Heav'nly Sound;
And if he chance to speak, be ready straight,
And with a low submissive Reverence,
Say, what is it your Honour will command;
Let one attend him with a silver Bason
Full of Rose-water, and bestrew'd with Flowers,
Another bear the Ewer; a third a Diaper,
And say, will please your Lordship cool your Hands?
Some one be ready with a costly Suit,
And ask him what Apparel he will wear;
Another tell him of his Hounds and Horse,
And that his Lady mourns at his Disease;
Persuade him that he hath been Lunatick,

And when he says he is poor, say that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty Lord:
This do, and do it kindly, gentle Sirs;
It will be Pastime passing excellent,
If it be husbanded with Modesty.

1 Hun.
My Lord, I warrant you we will play our Part,
As he shall think by our true Diligence,
He is no less than what we say he is.

Lord.
Take him up gently, and to Bed with him;
And each one to his Office when he wakes. [Sound Trumpets.
Sirrah, go see what Trumpet 'tis that sounds,
Belike some noble Gentleman that means,
Travelling some Journey, to repose him here. Enter Servant.
How now? Who is it?

Ser.
An't please your Honour, Players
That offer Service to your Lordship.

Lord.
Bid them come near: Enter Players.
Now Fellows, you are welcome.

Play.
We thank your Honour.

Lord.
Do you intend to stay with me to Night?

2 Play.
So please your Lordship to accept our Duty.

Lord.
With all my Heart. This Fellow I remember,
Since once he play'd a Farmer's eldest Son;
'Twas where you woo'd the Gentlewoman so well:
I have forgot your Name; but sure that Part
Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd.

Sim.
I think 'twas Soto that your Honour means.

Lord.
'Tis very true, thou didst it excellent:
Well, you are come to me in happy time,
The rather for I have some Sport in Hand,
Wherein your Cunning can assist me much.
There is a Lord will hear you play to Night;
But I am doubtful of your Modesties,
Lest over eying of his odd Behaviour,
(For yet his Honour never heard a Play,)
You break into some merry Passion,
And so offend him: For I tell you, Sirs,
If you should smile, he grows impatient.

Play.
Fear not, my Lord, we can contain our selves,
Were he the veriest Antick in the World.

Lord.
Go Sirrah, take them to the Buttery,
Let them want nothing that my House affords. [Exit one with the Players.
Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my Page,
And see him drest in all suits like a Lady:
That done, conduct him to the Drunkard's Chamber,
And call him Madam, do him Obeisance.
Tell him from me, as he will win my Love,
He bear himself with honourable Action,
Such as he hath observ'd in noble Ladies
Unto their Lords, by them accomplished;
Such Duty to the Drunkard let him do,
With soft low Tongue, and lowly Courtesie;
And say; What is't your Honour will command,
Wherein your Lady, and your humble Wife,
May shew her Duty, and make known her Love;
And then with kind Embracements, tempting Kisses,
And with declining Head into his Bosom,
Bid him shed Tears, as being overjoy'd
To see her noble Lord restor'd to Health,
Who for this seven Years hath esteem'd himself
No better than a poor and loathsome Beggar:
And if the Boy have not a Woman's Gift
To rain a Shower of commanded Tears,
An Onion will do well for such a Shift,
Which in a Napkin being close convey'd,
Shall in despight enforce a watry Eye.
See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst,
Anon I'll give thee more Instructions. [Exit Servant.
I know the Boy will well usurp the Grace,
Voice, Gate, and Action of a Gentlewoman.
I long to hear him call the Drunkard, Husband,
And how my Men will stay themselves from Laughter,
When they do Homage to this simple Peasant;
I'll in to counsel them: Haply my Presence
May well abate the over-merry Spleen,
Which otherwise would grow into Extreams.

Enter Sly with Attendants, some with Apparel, Bason and Ewer, and other Appurtenances.

Sly.

For God's sake a Pot of small Ale.

1 Serv.

Will't please your Lordship drink a Cup of Sack?

2 Serv.

Will't please your Honour taste of these Conserves?

3 Serv.

What Raiment will your Honour wear to Day?

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 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 Shooes than Feet; nay sometimes more Feet than Shooes, or such Shooes as my Toes look through the over-leather.

Lord.
Heav'n cease this idle Humour in your Honour.
Oh 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 Christophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Button-heath, by Birth a Pedler, by Education a Card-maker, by Transmutation a Bear-herd, and now by present Profession a Tinker. Ask Marrian 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 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 bestrow 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 shall make the Welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill Ecchoes from the hollow Earth.

1 Man.
Say thou wilt course, thy Grayhounds are as swift
As breathed Stags; ay, fleeter than the Roe.

2 Man.
Dost thou love Pictures? We will fetch thee straight
Adonis painted by a running Brook,
And Citherea all in Sedges hid,
Which seem to move, and wanton with her Breath,
Even 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 roming through a thorny Wood,
Scratching her Legs, that one shall swear she bleeds;
And at the 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 waining Age.

1 Man.
And 'till the Tears that she hath shed for thee,
Like envious Floods, o'er-run 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 Sly.
Well, bring our Lady hither to our Sight,
And once again a Pot o'th' smallest Ale.

2 Man.
Wil't 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, you wak'd as if you slept.

Sly.
These fifteen Years! by my Fay, a goodly Nap:
But did I never speak 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 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 brought Stone Jugs, and no seal'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,
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turph, and Henry 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.
Amen. Enter Lady with Attendants.

Sly.
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 is my Wife?

Lady.
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.

Lady.
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.
Alce Madam, or Joan Madam?

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

Sly.
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.
'Tis much. Servants leave me and her alone:
Madam, undress you, and come now to Bed.

Lady.
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 expresly 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 Excuse.

Sly.
Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long;

But I would be loath to fall into my Dream again: I will therefore tarry in despight 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 so much Sadness hath congeal'd your Blood,
And Melancholly 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 a Comonty, a Christmas Gambold, 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.

Sly.
Well, we'll see't:
Come, Madam Wife, sit by my Side,
And let the World slip, we shall ne'er be Younger. Flourish. Enter Lucentio and Tranio.

Luc.
Tranio, since for the great Desire I had
To see fair Padua, Nursery of Arts,
I am arriv'd for fruitful Lumbardy,
The pleasant Garden of great Italy,
And by my Father's Love and Leave am arm'd
With his good Will, and thy good Company.
Most trusty Servant well approv'd in all,
Here let us breathe, and happly institute
A Course of Learning, and ingenious Studies.
Pisa, renowned for grave Citizens,
Gave me my Being, and my Father first
A Merchant of great Traffick through the World:
Vincentio's come of the Bentivolii,

Vincentio's Son, brought up in Florence,
It shall become to serve all Hopes conceiv'd
To deck his Fortune with his virtuous Deeds:
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,
Virtue and that part of Philosophy
Will I apply to, that treats of Happiness,
By Virtue specially to be atchiev'd.
Tell me thy Mind, for I have Pisa left,
And am to Padua come, as he that leaves
A shallow Plash to plunge him in the Deep,
And with Satiety seeks to quench his Thirst.

Tra.
Me Pardonato, gentle Master mine,
I am in all affected as your self;
Glad that you thus continue your Resolve,
To suck the Sweets of sweet Philosophy:
Only, good Master, while we do admire
This Virtue, and this moral Discipline,
Let's be no Stoicks, nor no Stocks, I pray;
Or so devote to Aristotle's Checks,
As Ovid be an Outcast quite abjur'd.
Talk Logick with Acquaintance that you have,
And practice Rhetorick in your common Talk;
Musick and Poesie use to quicken you,
The Mathematicks, and the Metaphysicks,
Fall to them as you find your Stomach serves you:
No Profit grows, where is no Pleasure ta'en:
In brief, Sir, study what you most affect.

Luc.
Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise;
If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,
We could at once put us in readiness,
And take a Lodging fit to entertain
Such Friends, as time in Padua shall beget.
But stay a while, what Company is this?

Tra.
Master, some Shew to welcome us to Town. Enter Baptista with Katharina and Bianca, Gremio, and Hortensio. Lucentio and Tranio stand by.

Bap.
Gentlemen, importune me no farther,
For how I firmly am resolv'd you know;
That is, not to bestow my youngest Daughter,
Before I have a Husband for the Elder:

If either of you both love Katherina,
Because I know you well, and love you well,
Leave shall you have to court her at your Pleasure.

Gre.
To cart her rather. She's too rough for me,
There, there, Hortensio, will you any Wife?

Kath.
I pray you, Sir, is it your Will
To make a Stale of me amongst those Mates?

Hor.
Mates Maid, how mean you that?
No Mates, for you;
Unless you were of gentler milder Mould.

Kath.
I'faith, Sir, you shall never need to fear,
I wis it is not half way to her Heart:
But if it were, doubt not, her Care shall be,
To comb your Noddle with a three-legg'd Stool,
And paint your Face, and use you like a Fool.

Hor.
From all such Devils, good Lord, deliver us,

Gre.
And me too, good Lord.

Tra.
Hush'd, Master, here's some good Pastime toward,
That Wench is stark mad, or wonderful froward.

Luc.
But in the other's Silence I do see,
Maid's mild Behaviour and Sobriety.
Peace, Tranio.

Tra.
Well said, Master, mum, and gaze your fill.

Bap.
Gentlemen, that I may soon make good
What I have said, Bianca get you in,
And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,
For I will love thee ne'er the less, my Girl.

Kath.
A pretty Peat, it is best put Finger in the Eye,
And she knew why.

Bian.
Sister, content you in my Discontent.
Sir, to your Pleasure humbly I subscribe:
My Books and Instruments shall be my Company,
On them to look, and practise by my self.

Luc.
Heark, Tranio, thou maist hear Minerva speak.

Hor.
Signior Baptista, will you be so strange;
Sorry am I that our good Will effects
Bianca's Grief.

Gre.
Why will you mew her up,
Signior Baptista, for this Fiend of Hell,
And make her bear the Penance of her Tongue?

Bap.
Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv'd:
Go in, Bianca.
And for I know she taketh most delight
In Musick, Instruments, and Poetry,
School-masters will I keep within my House,
Fit to instruct her Youth. If you, Hortensio,
Or Signior Gremio, you know any such,
Prefer them hither, for to cunning Men
I will be very kind and liberal,
To mine own Children, in good bringing up,
And so farewel. Katherina, you may stay,
For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Exit.

Kath.
Why, I trust I may go too, may I not?
What shall I be appointed Hours, as tho',
Belike, I knew not what to take,
And what to leave? Ha! [Exit.

Gre.

You may go to the Devil's Dam: Your Gifts are so good, here is none will hold you. Our Love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our Nails together, and fast it fairly out. Our Cake's Dow on both sides. Farewel; yet for the Love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit Man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her Father.

Hor.

So will I, Signior Gremio: But a word, I pray; tho' the nature of our Quarrel yet never brook'd Parlee, know now upon advice, it toucheth us both, that we may yet again have access to our fair Mistress, and be happy Rivals in Bianca's Love, to labour and effect one thing 'specially.

Gre.

What's that, I pray?

Hor.

Marry Sir, to get a Husband for her Sister.

Gre.

A Husband! a Devil.

Hor.

I say a Husband.

Gre.

I say a Devil. Think'st thou, Hortensio, tho' her Father be very rich, any Man is so very a Fool to be married to Hell?

Hor.

Tush, Gremio; tho' it pass your Patience and mine to endure her lewd Alarms, why, Man, there be good Fellows in the World, and a Man could light on them, would take her with all her Faults, and Mony enough.

Gre.

I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her Dowry with this Condition, to be whip'd at the High-cross every Morning.

Hor.

'Faith, as you say, there's small choice in rotten Apples: Come, since this bar in Law makes us Friends, it shall be so forth friendly maintain'd, 'till by helping Baptista's eldest Daughter to a Husband, we set his youngest free for a Husband, and then have to't afresh. Sweet Bianca! happy Man be his dole; he that runs fastest gets the Ring; how say you, Signior Gremio?

Gre.

I am agreed, and would I had given him the best Horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would throughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the House of her. Come on.