Wherein your lady, and your humble wife, May fhew her duty, and make known her love? To fee her noble lord reftor'd to health, Who for "this feven years hath esteem'd himself See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst; I know, the boy will well ufurp the grace, [Exit Servant. I long to hear him call the drunkard, husband; I'll in to counsel them: haply, my presence Which otherwife would grow into extremes. [Exit Lord. SCENE II. A Room in the Lord's Houfe. Enter Sly, with Attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. Sly. For God's fake, a pot of small ale. 1 Man. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of fack? u twice. ; 2 Man. Will't please your honour taste of these con ferves? 3 Man. 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 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 overleather. Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! Oh, that a mighty man, of fuch descent, Of fuch poffeffions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit! W Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Chriftopher Sly, old Sly's fon of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by tranfmutation a bear-herd, and now by prefent profeffion a tinker? Afk Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen-pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st 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 house, As beaten hence by your ftrange lunacy. Oh, noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth; Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, "Burton-heath ;]-Burton-daffet, and Wincot, or Wilmecote, are Villages in Warwickshire, the latter near to Stratford upon Avon. beftraught :]-distracted. Each in his office ready at thy beck. Wilt thou have mufick? hark! Apollo plays, [Mufick. Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch, On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. Say, thou wilt walk; we will beftrow the ground: I Man. Say, thou wilt courfe; thy greyhounds are as fwift As breathed ftags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Man. Doft thou love pictures? we will fetch thee ftraight Adonis, painted by a running brook; And Cytherea all in fedges hid; Which feem to move and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving fedges play with wind. Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid; And how she was beguil'd and furpriz❜d, As lively painted as the deed was done. 3 Man. Or Daphne, roaming through a thorny wood; Scratching her legs, that one fhall fwear fhe bleeds: 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. Cytherea]-Venus. 1 Man. And, 'till the tears, that she hath shed for thee, Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? 2 Man. Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands? Oh, how we joy to see your wit restor❜d! Oh, that once more you knew but what you are! 1 Man. Oh, yes, my lord; but very idle words :- And fay, you would prefent her at the leet, Because she brought stone-jugs, and no feal'd quarts: 3 Man. Why, fir, you know no house, nor no fuch maid; Nor fo fuch men, as you have reckon'd up, As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps 'o' the green, And twenty more fuch names and men as these, Sly. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends ! Sly. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it. Enter the Page, as a lady, with attendants. Lady. How fares my noble lord? Sly. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife? Lady. Here, noble lord; What is thy will with her? Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me-husband? My men should call me-lord, I am your good-man. Lady. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; I am your wife in all obedience. Sly. I know it well :-What must I call her? Sly. Alce madam, or Joan madam? Lord. Madam, and nothing else; fo lords call ladies. Sly. Madam wife, they fay, that I have dream'd, and Пept Above fome fifteen years and more. Lady. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me; Being all this time abandon'd from your bed. Sly. 'Tis much;-Servants leave me and her alone.→ Madam, undress you, and come now to-bed. Lady. Thrice noble lord, let me intreat of you, To pardon me yet for a night or two; I hope, this reafon stands for my excuse. Sly. Ay, it stands fo, that I may hardly tarry fo long. But |