TAMING OF THE SHREW. INDUCTION. SCENE I. Before an Alehouse on a Heath. Enter Hostess and SLY. Sly. I'LL pheese 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 in with Richard Conqueror. There fore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa! Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, says Jeronimy; -Go to thy cold bed and warm thee. Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the thirdborough. [Exit. 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. [Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep. Wind Horns. Enter a Lord from Hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds: Brach Merriman,the poor cur is embossed, And couple Clowder with the deep-mouthed brach. I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. 1 Hunt. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice to-day picked out the dullest scent. Lord. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet, 7 I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them all; 1 Hunt. I will, my lord. Lord. What's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe? 2 Hunt. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warmed with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! And brave attendants near him when he wakes; 1 Hunt. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 2 Hunt. It would seem strange unto him when he waked. Lord. Even as a flattering dream, or worthless fancy. And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: Full of rose-water, and bestrewed with flowers; And say,-Will't please your lordship cool your hands? And ask him what apparel he will wear; This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs; It will be pastime passing excellent, 1 Hunt. 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 bel with him. And each one to his office when he wakes. [Some bear out SLY. A trumpet sounds Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds [Exit Servant Belike, some noble gentleman, that means, Re-enter a Servant. How now? who is it? Serv. An it please your honor, Players that offer service to your lordship. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome 1 Play. We thank your honor. Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night? 1 Play. I think 'twas Soto that your honor means. If i Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antic in the world. Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one: [Exeunt Servant and Players Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, [To a Servant. And see him dressed in all suits like a lady: That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber, To see her noble lord restored to health, Who, for twice seven years, hath esteemed him See this despatched with all the haste thou canst; I know the boy will well usurp the grace, [Exit Servant. I long to hear him call the drunkard husband; And how my men will stay themselves from laughter, [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Bedchamber in the Lord's House. SLY is discovered in a rich night-gown, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurte nances. Enter Lord, dressed like a Servant. 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 honor taste of these conserves? 3 Serv. What raiment will your honor wear to-day? Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me- honor, nor lordship; I never 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 1 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. Heaven cease this idle humor in your honor! Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton-heath; by birth a pedler, 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 lyingest knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught. Here's 1 Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Serv. O, 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. O 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 music? Hark! Apollo plays, [Music. Or wilt thou sleep? We'll have thee to a couch, On purpose trimmed up for Semiramis. Say, thou wilt walk? we will bestrew the ground. 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 straight Adonis, painted by a running brook; And Cytherea all in sedges hid: |