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Wind horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with a Train.
well my hounds;
Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
Lord. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet,
Hun. I will, my lord.
he breathe ? 2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord. Were he not
warm'd with ale, This were a bed but cold, to sleep so foundly.
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 clothes; 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:
Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him; And each one to his Office, when he wakes.
Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpels. Sirrah, go see what trumpet is that sounds. Belike, some noble gentleman that means,[Ex.Servant. Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
Ser. An't please your Honour, Players
Play. We thank your Honour.
Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain ourselves;
2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a dishclout to make clean your fhoes, and I'll speak for the properties.
[Exit Player. My lord, we must have a shoulder of mutton for a property, and a little Vinegar to make our devil
Lord. Go, firrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly weicome, every one: Let them want nothing that the 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, condud 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 obsery'd in noble ladies Unto their Lords, by them accomplished ; Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With soft low tongue, and lowly courtesy; And say ; what is't your Honour will coinmand, Wherein your lady, and your humble wife, May shew her duty, and inake known her love ? And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, And with declining head into his bofom, Bid him shed tears, as being over-joy'd To see her noble lord reitor d to health, Who for twice seven years hath eiteem'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 hate thou canst; Anon I'll give thee more initructions. (Exit Servant. I know the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait, 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 extremes. [Exit Lord.
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. TOR God's sake, a pot of small ale. FOR
. i 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 fack in my life: and if you give me any Conferves, 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 humourin your Honour! Oh, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with fo foul a fpirit!
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 profeffion a tinker? alk 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’lt 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.