1 Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antic in the world. [All bow in ass Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one: Let them want nothing that my house affords.

[Exeunt HUNTSMAN and PLAYERS,

Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew, my page.

[To anothe

And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,
And tell him from me, as he will win my love,
He bear himself with honorable 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 ;
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd,
To see her noble lord restor'd to health,
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 conveyed,
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst;
Anon I'll give thee more instructions.

[Exit HUNTSMA

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,
Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman :

I long to hear him call the drunkard, husband;

And how my men will stay themselves from laughter,

When they do homage to this simple peasant.

I'll in to counsel them: haply, my presence
May well abate the over-merry spleen,
Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

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[Exeu

rsel

SCENE 2.-A bedchamber in the LORD's house.

Y is discovered in a rich gown with ATTENDANTS; some with apparel, one with basin, ewer, and other appurteLA_nances, all bowing lowly.

NTS

ter,

Sly. [Awaking.] For Love's sake, a pot of small ale. 1 Serv. Will 't please your lordship drink a cup of sack? 2 Serv. Will 't please your honor taste of these conserves? Serv. What raiment will your honor wear to-day? Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me honor, nor lord

I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any serves, give me conserves of beef: ne'er ask me what raint I'll wear; for I have no more doublets than backs, no re stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, etime, more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look ough the over-leather.

Hun. Heaven cease this idle humor in your honor! [Approaching bed.]

that a mighty man of such descent, such possessions, ard so high esteem, uld be infused with so foul a spirit!

Sly. What! would you make me mad? [The LORD rs, disguised as a servant.] Am not I Christopher old Sly's son, of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by edtion a cardmaker, and now by present profession a tinker? : Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me : if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. at! I am not bestraught: here's

Hun. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn.

Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house, beaten hence by your strange lunacy.

noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,

home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,

I banish hence these abject lowly dreams.

[Servants approach bed.

k how thy servants do attend on thee,

Each in his office ready at thy beck.

Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,

And twenty caged nightingales do sing :

[The music of lutes is heard outside and several v

sing:

Say that he frown,

We will his care beguile:

Say he be mute

We'll answer with our lute! etc.]

Lord. Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the groun Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd, Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them, And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth,

Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord: [All bow to SL Thou hast a lady far more beautiful

Than any woman in this waning age.

Hun. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee, Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world;

And yet she is inferior to none.

Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?
Or do I dream, or have I dream'd till now?
I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak ;

I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:-
Upon my life, I am a lord, indeed;

And not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly.-.
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;

And, once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.

Hun. Will 't please your mightiness to wash your ha [SERVANTS present an ewer, basin, and n Lord. O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd! O, 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. [Drinking from the flagon which one of the mer

him, while others close the draperies at the back concealing bed.] These fifteen years? by my fay, a goodly nap. t did I never speak of all that time?

Lord. O yes, my lord; but very idle words :

Sly. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!
All. Amen.

Sly. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

Enter the PAGE, as a lady.

Page. How fares my noble lord?

Sly. Marry, I fare well: for here is cheer enough. [To the

RD.] Where is my wife?

Page. Here, noble lord, what is thy will with her?

Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?
'men should call me lord; I am your goodman.
Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband.
I am your wife in all obedience. [Courtesies.]

Sly. I know it well. What must I call her?
Lord. Madam.

Sly. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam ?

[To LORD.

Lord. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies.
Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd,

d slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me. [Falling on his neck.]

Enter a SERVANT, who whispers to the LORD.

Lord. Your honor's players, hearing your amendment, come to play a pleasant comedy,

so your doctors hold it very meet.

ing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood,

d melancholy is the nurse of frenzy ;

refore, they thought it good you hear a play, d frame your mind to mirth and merriment, ich bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Sly. Marry, I will let them play. Is it a commonty, hristmas gambol, or a tumbling-trick P

Page. No, my good lord: it is more pleasing stuff.
Sly. What, household stuff?

Lord. It is a kind of history.

Sly. Well, we'll see't: [Servants bring forward two ch and place them at the extreme L.] Come, madam wife, sit by my side,

And let the world slip; we shall ne'er be younger.

[He leads the PAGE to a seat at the L. He sits be her: and the LORD and others range at his side an hind him. A flourish of trumpets is heard and curtains part, showing a public place or square.]

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