May well abate the over-merry spleen
Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

Scene II.

A bedchamber in the Lord's house.

[Exeunt.

Enter aloft Sly, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and other appur

tenances, and Lord.

Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale.

First Serv. Will 't please your lordship drink a cup of

sack?

Sec. Serv. Will 't please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third 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 ΙΟ
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, 20 by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she

"Will't please your Lordship drink a cup of sack?"

First Serv.
Second Serv. "Will't please your Honour taste of these conserves?"
Third Serv. "What raiment will your Honour wear to-day?
Taming of the Shrew. Induction, Scene 2.

"

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-

Third Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!
Sec. Serv. O, this is it that makes your servants droop!
Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns 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,

Each in his office ready at thy beck.

30

Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays, [Music.
And twenty caged nightingales do sing:

Or wilt thou sleep? we 'll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed

On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

40

Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd,
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will

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.

First Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

50

Sec. 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 surprised,
As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third 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.

61

First Serv. And till the tears that she 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' the smallest ale.

70

Sec. Serv. Will 't please your mightiness to wash your hands?

O, how we joy to see your wit restored!

O, that once more you knew but what you are! 80
These fifteen years you have been in a dream;

Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept.
Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.