Lord.
Huntsman, I charge thee tender well my hounds,
† ^noteBrach 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 lies!
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 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's 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'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. [Sound Trumpets.
Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds.
Belike some noble gentleman that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

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