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(For yet his honour never heard a play,) You break into some merry passion, And so offend him ; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile, he grows impatient. 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: That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber, And call him — madam, do him 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 accomplished: Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With soft low tongue, and lowly courtesy; What is't your
honour will command, Wherein your lady, and your humble wife, May show 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 overjoy'd To see her noble lord restor’d to health, Who, for twice seven years, hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar: And if the boy have 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 despite enforce a watery eye. See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst ; Anon I'll give thee more instructions.
I know, the boy will well usurp the grace,
A Bedchamber in the Lord's House.
Sly is discovered in a rich night gown, with At
tendants ; some with apparel, others with bason,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
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 ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say
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
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. 3 Serv. Or Daphne, roaming through a thorny
wood; Scratching her feet 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
Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face,
she is inferior to none,
[Servants present an ewer, bason, and napkin. 0, how we joy to see your wit restor'd! 0, that once more you knew but what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream; Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.
Sly. These fifteen years ! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time?
1 Serv. O, yes, my lord; but very idle words:
upon the hostess of the house ;
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.
your goodman. Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and
wife in all obedience.
lord ; I am
B B 2