Lord.
Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;
(a) ^noteLeech 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.

Hunt.
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 lies!
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thy 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 fingers;
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 with 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, wilt 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;
Perswade him, that he hath been lunatick.
And when he says he is,—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'll 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. [Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpets.
Sirrah, go see what trumpet is that sounds.
Belike, some noble gentleman that means, [Ex. Servant.
Travelling some journey, to repose him here. SCENE III. Re-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 ourselves;
Were he the veriest antick in the world.

2 Play. [to the other.]

Go get a Dishclout to make clean your shoes, and I'll speak for the properties.

My lord, we must have a shoulder of mutton for a property, and ^{4 note}a little Vinegar to make our devil roar.

Lord.
Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
And give them friendly welcome, every one:
Let them want nothing that the house affords. [Exit one with the Players.

Sirrah, go you to Bartholmew 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 all 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 over-joy'd
To see her noble lord restor'd to health,
Who for twice 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 wat'ry 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 will go into extreams. [Exit Lord.

SCENE IV. Changes to a Bedchamber in the Lord's House. Enter Sly with Attendants, some with apparel, bason and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord.

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 Christopher 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, 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 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 Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bearherd, 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 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 echoes from the hollow earth.

1 Man.
Say, thou wilt course, thy greyhounds 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,
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 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 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 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.
Will'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, so 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 bought 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 Turf, 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.—

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.