There is a Lord will hear you play to-night; If you Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain ourselves Were he the verieft antick in the world. 2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Difhclout to make clean your fhoes; and I'll fpeak for the properties 3. [Exit Player. My lord, we must have a fhoulder of mutton for a property, and a little Vinegar to make our devil roar. Lord. Go, firrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome, every one: 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, Property, in the language of a play-houfe, is every implement neceffary to the exhibition. 9 A little Vinegar to make cur devil roar.] When the acting the myfteries of the old and new teftament was in vogue; at the reprefentation of the mystery of the Paffion, Judas and the Devil made a part. And the Devil, wherever he came, was always to fuffer fome difgrace, to make the people laugh: As here, the buffoonery was to apply the gall and vinegar to make him roar. And the Paffion being that, of WARBURTON. Such Such as he hath obferv'd in noble ladies I long to hear him call the drunkard, husband; Which otherwife will go into extreams. [Exit Lord. 1 In former editions, Who for these feven Years bath efleem'd himself No better than a poor and loathSome Beggar.] I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, I fhall be juftified in it by two fubfequent Paffages. That the Poet defign'd, the Tinker's fuppos'd Lunacy fhould be of fourteen Years standing at least, is evident upon two parallel Paffages in the Play to that Purpose. THEOBALD. * It is not unlikely that the onion was an expedient ufed by the actors of interludes. SCENE SCENE IV. Changes to a Bedchamber in the Lord's Houfe. Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. Sly. OR God's fake, a pot of fmall ale. FOR 1 Sero. Wilt pleafe your Lordship drink a cup of fack? 2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Conferves? 3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear today? 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 afk 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 fhoes; or fuch fhoes as my toes look through the over-leather. Lord. Heav'n ceafe this idle humour in your Ho nour! Oh, that a mighty man of fuch descent, 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 Son of Burton-beath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by tranfmutation a bearherd, and now by prefent poffeffion a tinker? afk Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not; if the fay, I am not fourteen pence on the score for fheer ale, fcore me up for the lying'st knave in Chriftendom. What, I am not beftraught: here's 1 Men. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Mar. Oh, this it is that makes your fervants droop. Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred fhun your house, As beaten hence by your ftrange lunacy. Oh, noble Lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Say, thou wilt walk, we will beftrow the ground: I Man. Say, thou wilt courfe, thy greyhounds are As breathed ftags; ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Man. Doft thou love pictures? we will fetch thee ftrait Adonis, painted by a running brook; And Citherea all in fedges hid; Which feem to move and wanton with her breath, Ev'n as the waving fedges play with wind. Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid, 3 Man. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one fhall fwear fhe bleeds: And And at that fight fhall fad Apollo weep: So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. Lord. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord : Thou haft a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waining age. 1 Man. And 'till the tears, that the hath fhed for thee, Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face, Sly. Am I a Lord, and have I fuch a Lady? 2 Man. Wilt please your Mightiness to wash your hands? Oh, how we joy to fee your wits reftor'd! Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap: But did I never fpeak of all that time? 1 Man. Oh, yes, my Lord, but very idle words. For tho' you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you fay, ye were beaten out of door, And rail'd upon the Hoftefs of the house; And fay, you would prefent her at the Leet, Because the bought ftone-jugs, and not feal'd quarts; Sometimes, you would call out for Cicely Hacket. Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. * 3 Man. Why, Sir, you know no houfe; nor no fuch maid; Nor no fuch men, as you have reckon'd up; Leet,] At the Court leet, or courts of the manor. |