There is a lord will hear you play to-night: If you 1 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, And give them friendly welcome every one; Let them want nothing that my house affords.[Exeunt Servant and Players. Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, [To a Servant. • And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady: Tell him from me, (as he will win my love,) To see her noble lord restor'd to health, Who, for twice seven years, hath esteemed him [Exit Servant. [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 bason, ewer, and other appurtenances. Enter Lord, dress'd 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 honour taste of these conserves? 3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear today? 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 shoes than feet; nay, sometimes, more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man, of such descent, 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 bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife 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 1 Sero. 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: [Musick. And twenty caged nightingales do sing: On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. Say, thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: soar Above the morning lark: Or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them, And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 1 Sero. 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; Which seem to move and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving sedges play with wind. As lively painted as the deed was done. 3 Serv. Or Daphne, roaming through a thorny wood; Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds: And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, Than any woman in this waning age. 1 Serv. And, till the tears, that she hath shed for thee, Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face, Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:-- And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.— 2 Serv. Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands? [Servants present an ewer, bason, and napkin. O, how we joy to see your wit restor❜d! you are! O, that once more you knew but what 1 Serv. O, yes, my lord; but very idle words :- |