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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, doch 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 lyes ! Grim Death, how foul and loathfonic is thine Image! Sirs, I will pra&ise on this drunken Man. What think you if he were convey'd to Bed, Wrapt in sweet Cloaths : Rings put upon his Finger; A most delicious Banquet by his Bed, And brave Attendants near him when he wakes; Would not the Beggar then forget himself?

i 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 flatering Dream, or worthless Fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the Jeft: Carry him gently to my fáirest Chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton Pictures; Balm his foul Head in warm distilled Waters, And burn fweet 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 Baron Full of Rose-water, and bestrew'd with Flowers, Another bear the Ewer; a third a Diaper, And say, will 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; Persuade him that he hath been Lunatick,

And

And when he says he is 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.

i Hun. My Lord, I warrant you we will 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.

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 didit it excellent :
Well, you are come to me in happy time,
The rather for I have some Sport in Hand,
Wherein your Cunning can alift me much.

There is a Lord will hear you play to Night; · But I am doubtful of your Modesties,

Left 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.

VOL. II.

Play. Fear not, my Lord, we can contain our selves, Were he the veriest Antick in the World.

Lord. Go Sirrah, take them to the Buttery, Let them want nothing that my 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, condu& him to the Drunkard's Chamber, And call him Madam, do him Obeisance. Tell him from me, as he will win my Love, He bear himself with honourable Adion, 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 overjoy'd To see her noble Lord restor'd to Health, Who for this 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 watry Eye. See this dispatch'd with all the hafte 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 would grow into Extreams.

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* Enter Sly with Attendants, some with Apparel, Bafon and

Ewer, and ether Appurtenances. Sly. For God's fake a Pot of small Ale. - I Serv. Will't please your Lordship drink a Cup of Sack?

2 Serv. Will’t please your Honour taste of these Conerves ? ,

3 Serv. What Raiment will your Honour wear to Day?

Sly. I am Christophero 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 Shooes than Feet; nay sometimes more Feet than Shooes, or such Shooes 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 Poffeffions, and so high Esteem, Should be infused with so foul a Spirit.

Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Chria stophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Button-heath, by Birth a Pedler, by Education a Card-maker, by Transmutation a Bear. herd, and now by present Profession a Tinker. Ask Mar. rian 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

I 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 Banifhment,
And banilh hence these abje& lowly Dreams:
Look how thy Servants do attend on thee,
Each in his office ready at thy Beck.
Wilt thou have Mufick? Hark, Apollo plays,

[Mufick And twenty caged Nightingales do sing. Or wilt thíu sleep? We'll have thee to a Couch, Softer and sweeter than the lustful Bed On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

Pa

Even as icem to mo Sedges hiBrook,

Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrow the Ground:
Or wilt thou ride? Thy Horses shall be trappid,
Their Harness studded all with Gold and Pearl.
Dost thou love Hawking? Thou hast Hawks will soar
Above the Morning Laik. Or wilt thou hunt,
Thy Hounds shall make the Welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill Ecchoes from the hollow Earth.

i Man. Say thou wilt course, thy Grayhounds are as swift As breathed Stags; ay, fleeter than the Roe.

2 Man. Dost thoulove Pi&ures? 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,
Even as the waving Sedges play with Wind.

Lord. We'll ihew thee To, 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 roming through a thorny Wood,
Scratching her Legs, that one shall swear she bleeds ;
And at the Sight Thall fad 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.

i Man. And 'till the Tears that the hath shed for thee,
Like envious Floods, o'er-run 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. Wil'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,

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