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Murian 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 lyingest knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught : Here's
1 Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Serv. 0, this it is that makes your servants droop.
Lord. llence comes it that your kindred shun your house. As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. 0, noble lord, betrink thee of thy birth; Cail home thy ancient thonghts from banishment, And banish hence these ahject 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, Sofier 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 shall make the welkin answer them, And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 1 Serv. Say, thou wilt course ; thy greyhounds are as
swift As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures ? we will fetch thee
Lord. We'll show thee lo, as she was a maid ;
3 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,
(1) Wilnecolle is a village in Warwickshire, with which Shakespeare was well acquainted, Dear Siratford. The house kept by our genial hostess, still remains, but is at present a mill. The meanest horel to which Shai.espeare bas an allusion, in terests curiosity, and acquires an importance : at least, it becomes the object of a poetical antiquarian's inquiries. T. WARTON.
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.
Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord :
1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee,
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 Serv. Will't please your mightiness to wash your
hands? (Servants present an ewer, bason, and napkin. 0, how we joy to see your wit restor'd ! 0, 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.
1 Serv. O, yes, my lord; but very idle words :
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
3 Serv. Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such maid;
Sly. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends !
Enter the Puge, as a L'ill, ith Atte, vio:ts.
(2) At ibe Court-leet, or coupls of the manor,
Sly. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my
wife? Page. Here, noble lord ; What is thy will with her ?
Sly. Are you my vise, and will not call me-husband ? My men should call me--lord ; I am your goodman.
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. Alice 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 year and more.
Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me ; Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.
Sły. 'Tis much ;-Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.
Page. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you,
Sly. Ay, it stands so, that I may bardly tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams again ; I will therefore tarry, in despite of the flesh and the blood.
Enter a Servant. Ser. 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 sadness hath congeal'd your blood, Ant melancholy is the nurse of frenzy, Ther fore, 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 commonty a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling-trick?
Page. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.
Sly. Well, we'll see't: Come, madam wife, sit by my side, and let the world slip; we shall ne'er be younger.
[They sit down.
SCENE I.-Padua. A public Place. Enter LUCENTIO
Tra. Mi perdonate, gentle master mine,
B] To fulül the expectations of his friends. MALONE
Music and poesy, use to quicken you ;
Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.
Tra. Master, some show, to welcome us to town. Enter BAPTISTA, KATHARINA, BIANCA, Gremio, and Hon
LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand aside.
Gre. To cart her rather: She's too rough for me :There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?
Kath. I pray you, sir, [To BAP.) is it your will to make a stale of me amongst these matcs ? Hor. Mates, maid! how mean you that ? no mates for
Kath. I faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;
Hor. From all such devils, good Lord, deliver us!
Luc. But in the other's silence I do see
Tra. Well said, master ; mum! and gaze your fill.
Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon enake good