sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law; I'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly. [Falls asleep. SCENE II. Wind horns. Enter a Lord from hunting with a Train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee tender well my hounds, Brach Merriman, the poor cur is imboft; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd Brach. Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent: Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccho were as fleet, I would efteem him worth a dozen fuch. 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 fo foundly. Lord. O monftrous beaft! how like a fwine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathfome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man, What think you if he were convey'd to bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes; 1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe. † Brach, a hound. 2 Hun. It would feem ftrange unto him when he wak'd. Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthlefs fancy. And hang it round with all my wanton pictures; If it be husbanded with modefty. 1 Hun. My Lord, I warrant you we'll play our part, As he fhall think by our true diligence, He is no lefs than what we fay he is. Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him; And each one to his office when he wakes. [Sound Trumpets. Sirrah, go fee what trumpet 'tis that founds. Belike fome noble gentleman that means, Travelling fome journey, to repofe him here. Now fellows, you are welcome, Lord. Do you intend to ftay with me to-night? 'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman fo well : Sim. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means. you, Sirs, If you fhould fimilé, he grows impatient. Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain our felves; Were he the verieft antick in the world. † 2 Player. [to the other.] Go get a difhclout to make clean your fhoes, and I'll fpeak 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. t This Speech is added from the old edition. Lord.. Lord. Go firrah, take them to the buttery, Let them want nothing that the house 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, SCENE IV. Enter Sly with attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Sly. For God's fake a pot of fmall ale. 1 Serv. Will't please your lordfhip drink a cup of fack? 2 Serv. Will't please your honour tafte of these conferves? 3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day? 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 ask 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 fhooes, or fuch fhooes 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 defcent, Of fuch poffeffions, and fo high esteem, Should be infufed with fo foul a fpirit. Sly. What, would you make me mad? am not I Chriftophero Sly, old Sly's fon of Burton-heath, by birth a pedler, by education a card-maker, by tranfmutation a bearherd, and now by prefent profeffion a tinker? ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if the know me not; if the fay I am not fourteen pence on the fcore for fheer ale, fcore me up for the lying'ft 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. Oh noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, beftraught, diftracted. 7 Call |