Wind horns. Enter a Lord from bunting, with a Train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; (Brach, Merriman! the poor cur is imbost ;) Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccho were as fleet, Hun. I will, my lord. Lord. What's here? one dead, or drunk ? fee, doth he breathe? 2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, This were a bed but cold, to fleep so soundly. Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thy image! 1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chuse. Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest: And hang it round with all my wanton pictures; Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters, And burn fweet wood to make the lodging sweet. Pro Procure me musick ready, when he wakes, fay, that he dreams For he is nothing but a mighty lord: It will be paflime passing excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty.. 1 Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll play our part As he shall think, by our true diligence, Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him; And each one to his Office, when he wakes. [Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpets. Sirrah, go fee what trumpet is that founds. Belike, fome noble gentleman that means, [Ex. Servant. Travelling fome journey, to repose him here.. Re-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 Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember, Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son: Sim. I think, 'twas Soto that your Honour means. (4) Well, you are come to me in happy time, 1 Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain our felves Were he the veriest antick in the world. + 2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Dishclout to make clean your shoes, and I'll speak for the properties. [Exit Player. My lord, we must have a shoulder of mutton for a pro perty, 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 house affords. [Exit one with the Players.. Sirrah, go you to Bartholmew my page, That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber, : (4) I think, tewas Soto.] I take our Author here to be pay ing 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, and a very facetious Serving-man. 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 Applause, And 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 observ'd in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplish'd; Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With foft low tongue, and lowly courtefie; 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 over-joy'd To see her noble lord restor'd to health, Who for twice seven years hath esteem'd himself (5) No better than a poor and loathsome beggar: And if the boy hath 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 wat'ry eye. See this dispatch'd, with all the hafte thou canft; Anon I'll give thee more instructions. I know the boy will well ufurp 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 fimple peasant; I'll in to counsel them: haply, my prefence May well abate the over-merry spleen; Which otherwise will go into extreams. [Ex. Servant (5) Who for these seven years batb esteem'd bimfelf No better than a poor and loathsom Beggar.] [Exit Lord, I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, I shall be justified in it by two subsequent Passages. That the Poet design'd, the Tinker's suppos'd Lunacy should be of 14 years standing at least, is evident upon two parallel Passages in the Play to that Purpose. SCENE SCENE changes to a Bed-Chamber in the Lord's House. Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bason and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. OR God's fake, a pot of small ale. I Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of fack? 2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Conserves ? 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 Conferves 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 humour in your Honour! Oh, that a mighty man of fuch descent, 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 ? ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if the 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 1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. droop. Lord. |