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And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
1 Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;
Full of rose-water, and bestrew'd with flowers;
will 't please your lordship cool your hands?
say, that he dreams,
This do, and do it kindly, gentle Sirs:
It will be pastime passing excellent,
If it be husbanded with modesty.
1 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.
[SLY is borne out. A trumpet sounds. Sirrah, go see what trumpet 't is that sounds:
Belike, some noble gentleman, that means,
Now, fellows, you are welcome.
Players. We thank your honour.
Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night?
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:
'T was where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well.
I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part
Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd.
1 Play. I think, 't was Soto that your honour means.
Well, you are come to me in happy time,
But I am doubtful of your modesties,
Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,
1 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,
[Exeunt Servant and Players.
Sirrah, go you to Bartholmew my page,
[To a Servant.
And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber;
See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst:
I know, the boy will well usurp the grace,
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,
And how my men will stay themselves from laughter,
A Bedchamber in the Lord's House.
SLY is discovered, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with bason, ewer, and appurtenances. Enter LORD, dressed
like a Servant.
Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale!
Will 't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?
and if you give me any conNe'er ask me what raiment
Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour, nor lordship: I ne'er drank sack in my life; serves, give me conserves of beef. I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, sometime, 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,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit!
Sly. What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son, of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, 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 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,
Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,
Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couch,
On purpose trimm'd 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,
Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,
Even as the waving sedges play with wind.
Lord. We'll show thee Io as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,
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,
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 waning age.
1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee, Like envious floods, o'er-ran 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?
I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things.