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And each one to his Office, when he wakes.
Re-enter a Servant.
How now? who is it?
Ser. An't please your Honour, Players
Now, Fellows, you are welcome.
Play. We thank your Honour.
Lord. Do you intend to ftay 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 fon : 'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well : I have forgot your name; but, fure, that part Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd.
Sim. I think, 'twas Sote that your Honour means". Lord. 'Tis very true; thou didft it excellent: Well, you are come to me in happy time, The rather for I have some sport in hand, Wherein your cunning can affift me much.
It was in thofe times the cuftom of players to travel in companies, and offer their fervice at great houses.
and a very facetious Servingman. Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope prefix the Name of Sim to the Line here spoken; but the first folio has it Sincklo; which, no doubt, was the Name of one of the Players here introduc'd, and who had play'd the Part of Sato with Applaufe.
7 Ithink, 'twas Soto] I take our Author here to be paying a Compliment to Beaumont and Fletcher's Women pleas'd, in which Comedy there is the Character of Soto, who is a Farmer's Son, B 4
There is a Lord will hear you play to-night,
Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain ourselves; Were he the verieft antick in the world. 2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Difhclout to make clean your fhoes; and I'll speak for the properties . [Exit Player. My lord, we must have a fhoulder of mutton for a property, and a little Vinegar to make our devil roar. Lord. Go, firrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome, every one: Let them want nothing that the houfe affords. [Exit one with the Players. Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, And fee him dreft in all fuits like a lady. That done, conduct 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,
Property, in the language of a play-house, is every implement neceffary to the exhibition.
9 A little Vinegar to make our devil roar.] When the acting the myfteries of the old and new teftament was in vogue; at the reprefentation of the mystery of the Paffion, Judas and the Devil made a part. And the Devil, wherever he came, was always to fuffer fome disgrace, to make the people laugh: As here, the buffoonery was to apply the gall and vinegar to make him roar.
And the Paffion being that, of
Such as he hath obferv'd in noble ladies
In former editions,
I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, I fhall be juftified in it by two fubfequent Paffages. That the
Poet defign'd, the Tinker's fuppos'd Lunacy fhould be of fourteen Years ftanding at least, is evident upon two parallel Paffages in the Play to that Purpose. THEOBALD. *It is not unlikely that the onion was an expedient used by the actors of interludes.
Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord.
Changes to a Bedchamber in the Lord's Houfe.
OR God's fake, a pot of fmall ale.
2 Serv. Will't pleafe your Honour tafte of thefe Conferves?
3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear today?
Sly. I am Chriftophero Sly, call not me Honour, nor Lordship: I ne'er drank fack in my life: and if you give me any Conferves, give me Conferves of beef. Ne'er afk me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more ftockings than legs, nor no more fhoes than feet; nay, fometimes, more feet than fhoes; or fuch fhoes as my toes look through the over-leather.
Lord. Heav'n ceafe this idle humour in your Honour!
Oh, that a mighty man of fuch defcent,
Of fuch poffeffions, and fo high esteem,
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 tranfmutation a bearherd, and now by prefent poffeffion a tinker? afk Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if the know me not; if fhe fay, I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, fcore me up for the lying'st knave in Chriftendom. What, I am not beftraught: here's
1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn, 2 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your fervants droop.
Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred fhun your houfe,
As beaten hence by your ftrange lunacy.
Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch,
On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.
1 Man. Say, thou wilt courfe, thy greyhounds are as fwift
As breathed ftags; ay, fleeter than the roe.
2 Man. Doft thou love pictures? we will fetch thee ftrait
Adonis, painted by a running brook;
Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid,
3 Man. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs, that one fhall fwear fhe bleeds: