THE Taming of the Shrew. Sly. INDUCTION. SCENE I. Enter Hotels and Sly. I Hoft. A pair of stocks, you rogue, Sly. Y'are a baggage; the Slies are no rogues Look in the Chronicles, we came in with Richard Conqueror; therefore * paucus pallabris, let the world flide: Seffa. Hoft. You will not pay for the glaffes you have burst ? Sly. No, not a deniere: † go by, Jeronymo, thy cold bed and warm thee. go to Hoft. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the Thirdborough. [Exit Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll anfwer him by law; I'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly. SCENE II. [Falls afleep. Wind borns. Enter a Lord from bunting, with a train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee tender well my hounds Leech Merriman, the poor cur is imbost; He means to fay, pocas palabras.' t Go by, Jeronymo, was a kind of by-word in the Author's days, as appears by its being used in the fame manner by Ben, Johnson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other Writers near that time. It arofe firft from a paffage in an old Play call'd Hieronymo or The Spanish Tragedy And 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 dulleft fcent : Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccho were as fleet, 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 This were a bed, but cold, to fleep fo foundly. [with ale, And brave attendants near him when he wakes ; 1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe. 2 Hun. It would feem ftrange unto him when he wak’d. Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jeft: Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pictures ; Another Another bear the ewer; a third a diaper, And fay, will't please your lordship cool your hands? This do, and do it kindly, gentle Sirs: If it be hufbanded 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. [Sly is carried off. Belike fome noble gentleman that means, Travelling fome journey, to repose him here. SCENE III. Enter Servant.] How now? who is it? Serv. Pleafe your honour, Players That offer fervice to your lordship. Lord. Well, Bid them come near : Enter Players Now, fellows, you are welcome. Play. We thank your honour. Lord. Do you intend to ftay with me to-night? 'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman fo well: Play. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means. . The The rather for I have fome sport in hand, Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain our felves, 2 Play. [To the other.] Go get a difhclout to make clean your fhoes, And I'll fpeak for the properties. My lord, [Exit Player. We must have a fhoulder of mutton, and Lord. Go, firrah, take them to the buttery, [Exit one with the Players. Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd Who for twice feven years hath esteem'd himself An onion will do well for fuch a fhift, See this dispatch'd with all the hafte thou canft, Iknow the boy will well ufurp the grace, [Exit Servant, Voice, gate, and action of a gentlewoman. [Exit Lord SCENE IV. A Bed-chamber in the Lord's House. Enter Sly with attendants, fome with apparel, balon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. Sly. For God's fake a pot of fmall ale. 1 Serv. Will't please your lordship 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 lordfhip: 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 thoes, or fuch fhoes as my toes look through the overleather. Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your honour Sly. What, would you make me mad? am not I Chriftophero Sly, old Sly's fon of Burton-beath, by birth a pedlar, 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?not beftraught: here's -I am Į Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. |