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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 seven years hath esteem'd himself
I'll in to counsel them: haply, my presence
May well abate the over-merry spleen,
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?
2 Man. Will't please your honour taste of these conferves?
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 shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!
Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Chrif topher 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.
Each in his office ready at thy beck.
Wilt thou have mufick? hark! Apollo plays, [Mufick. And twenty caged nightingales do fing:
Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch,
Softer and fweeter than the luftful bed
On purpose trimm'd up
Say, thou wilt walk; we will beftrow the ground:
1 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,
Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid;
3 Man. Or Daphne, roaming through a thorny wood;
Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:
1 Man. And, 'till the tears, that she hath shed for thee, Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet fhe is inferior to none.
Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?
I smell sweet favours, and I feel soft things:-
2 Man. Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands?
Oh, how we joy to fee your wit restor❜d!
Oh, that once more you knew but what you are!
1 Man. Oh, yes, my lord; but very idle words :-
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
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 Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell ;
" of Greece.
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-hufband? 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?
Sły. Alce madam, or Joan madam?
Lord. Madam, and nothing else; fo lords call ladies. Sly. Madam wife, they say, that I have dream'd, and nept
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,
Sly. Ay, it stands fo, that I may hardly tarry fo long.