INTRODUCTION
SCENE I. Before an alehouse on a
heath.
Enter Hostess and SLY
SLY
I'll pheeze you, in faith.
Hostess
A pair of stocks, you rogue!
SLY
Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no
rogues; look inthe chronicles; we came in with Richard
Conqueror.Therefore paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa!
Hostess
You will not pay for the glasses you
have burst?
SLY
No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy:
go to thy coldbed, and warm thee.
Hostess
I know my remedy; I must go fetch
thethird--borough.
Exit
SLY
Third, or fourth, or fifth borough,
I'll answer himby law: I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him
come,and kindly.
Falls asleep
Horns winded. Enter a Lord from
hunting, with his train
Lord
Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well
my hounds:Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd;And couple
Clowder with the deep--mouth'd brach.Saw'st thou not, boy, how
Silver made it goodAt the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?I
would not lose the dog for twenty pound.
First Huntsman
Why, Belman is as good as he, my
lord;He cried upon it at the merest lossAnd twice to-day
pick'd out the dullest scent:Trust me, I take him for the better
dog.
Lord
Thou art a fool: if Echo were as
fleet,I would esteem him worth a dozen such.But sup them well
and look unto them all:To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
First Huntsman
I will, my lord.
Lord
What's here? one dead, or drunk?
See, doth he breathe?
Second Huntsman
He breathes, my lord. Were he not
warm'd with ale,This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.
Lord
O monstrous beast! how like a swine
he lies!Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!Sirs,
I will practise on this drunken man.What think you, if he were
convey'd to bed,Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his
fingers,A most delicious banquet by his bed,And brave
attendants near him when he wakes,Would not the beggar then
forget himself?
First Huntsman
Believe me, lord, I think he cannot
choose.
Second Huntsman
It would seem strange unto him when
he waked.
Lord
Even as a flattering dream or
worthless fancy.Then take him up and manage well the jest:Carry
him gently to my fairest chamberAnd hang it round with all my
wanton pictures:Balm his foul head in warm distilled watersAnd
burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet:Procure me music ready
when he wakes,To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;And if he
chance to speak, be ready straightAnd with a low submissive
reverenceSay 'What is it your honour will command?'Let one
attend him with a silver basinFull of rose-water and bestrew'd
with flowers,Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,And
say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'Some one be
ready with a costly suitAnd ask him what apparel he will
wear;Another tell him of his hounds and horse,And that his
lady mourns at his disease:Persuade him that he hath been
lunatic;And when he says he is, say that he dreams,For he is
nothing but a mighty lord.This do and do it kindly, gentle
sirs:It will be pastime passing excellent,If it be husbanded
with modesty.
First Huntsman
My lord, I warrant you we will play
our part,As he shall think by our true diligenceHe is no less
than what we say he is.
Lord
Take him up gently and to bed with
him;And each one to his office when he wakes.
Some bear out SLY. A trumpet sounds
Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis
that sounds:
Exit Servingman
Belike, some noble gentleman that
means,Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
Re-enter Servingman
How now! who is it?
Servant
An't please your honour,
playersThat offer service to your lordship.
Lord
Bid them come near.
Enter Players
Now, fellows, you are welcome.
Players
We thank your honour.
Lord
Do you intend to stay with me
tonight?
A Player
So please your lordship to accept
our duty.
Lord
With all my heart. This fellow I
remember,Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son:'Twas
where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well:I have forgot your name;
but, sure, that partWas aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.
A Player
I think 'twas Soto that your honour
means.
Lord
'Tis very true: thou didst it
excellent.Well, you are come to me in a happy time;The rather
for I have some sport in handWherein your cunning can assist me
much.There is a lord will hear you play to-night:But I am
doubtful of your modesties;Lest over-eyeing of his odd
behavior,--For yet his honour never heard a play--You break
into some merry passionAnd so offend him; for I tell you,
sirs,If you should smile he grows impatient.
A Player
Fear not, my lord: we can contain
ourselves,Were he the veriest antic in the world.
Lord
Go, sirrah, take them to the
buttery,And give them friendly welcome every one:Let them
want nothing that my house affords.
Exit one with the Players
Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my
page,And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:That done,
conduct him to the drunkard's chamber;And call him 'madam,' do
him obeisance.Tell him from me, as he will win my love,He
bear himself with honourable action,Such as he hath observed in
noble ladiesUnto their lords, by them accomplished:Such duty
to the drunkard let him doWith soft low tongue and lowly
courtesy,And say 'What is't your honour will command,Wherein
your lady and your humble wifeMay show her duty and make known
her love?'And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,And
with declining head into his bosom,Bid him shed tears, as being
overjoy'dTo see her noble lord restored to health,Who for
this seven years hath esteem'd himNo better than a poor and
loathsome beggar:And if the boy have not a woman's giftTo
rain a shower of commanded tears,An onion will do well for such a
shift,Which in a napkin being close convey'dShall in despite
enforce a watery eye.See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou
canst:Anon I'll give thee more instructions.
Exit a Servingman
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 laughterWhen they do homage to this simple peasant.I'll
in to counsel them; haply my presenceMay well abate the
over-merry spleenWhich otherwise would grow into extremes.
Exeunt
SCENE II. A bedchamber in the Lord's
house.
Enter aloft SLY, with Attendants;
some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and appurtenances; and
Lord
SLY
For God's sake, a pot of small ale.
First Servant
Will't please your lordship drink a
cup of sack?
Second Servant
Will't please your honour taste of
these conserves?
Third Servant
What raiment will your honour wear
to-day?
SLY
I am Christophero Sly; call not me
'honour' nor'lordship:' I ne'er drank sack in my life; and ifyou
give me any conserves, give me conserves ofbeef: ne'er ask me
what raiment I'll wear; for Ihave no more doublets than backs, no
more stockingsthan legs, nor no more shoes than feet;
nay,sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as mytoes
look through the over-leather.
Lord
Heaven cease this idle humour in
your honour!O, that a mighty man of such descent,Of such
possessions and so high esteem,Should be infused with so foul a
spirit!
SLY
What, would you make me mad? Am not
I ChristopherSly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth
apedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation abear-herd,
and now by present profession a tinker?Ask Marian Hacket, the fat
ale-wife of Wincot, ifshe know me not: if she say I am not
fourteen penceon the score for sheer ale, score me up for
thelyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am notbestraught:
here's--
Third Servant
O, this it is that makes your lady
mourn!
Second Servant
O, this is it that makes your
servants droop!
Lord
Hence comes it that your kindred
shuns your house,As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.O
noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,Call home thy ancient
thoughts from banishmentAnd banish hence these abject lowly
dreams.Look how thy servants do attend on thee,Each in his
office ready at thy beck.Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo
plays,
Music
And twenty caged nightingales do
sing:Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couchSofter and
sweeter than the lustful bedOn purpose trimm'd up for
Semiramis.Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: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 soarAbove the morning lark or wilt thou hunt?Thy hounds
shall make the welkin answer themAnd fetch shrill echoes from the
hollow earth.
First Servant
Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds
are as swiftAs breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.
Second Servant
Dost thou love pictures? we will
fetch thee straightAdonis painted by a running brook,And
Cytherea all in sedges hid,Which seem to move and wanton with her
breath,Even as the waving sedges play with wind.
Lord
We'll show thee Io as she was a
maid,And how she was beguiled and surprised,As lively painted
as the deed was done.
Third Servant
Or Daphne roaming through a thorny
wood,Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,And
at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,So workmanly the blood and
tears are drawn.
Lord
Thou art a lord, and nothing but a
lord:Thou hast a lady far more beautifulThan any woman in
this waning age.
First Servant
And till the tears that she hath
shed for theeLike 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 indeedAnd not a tinker
nor Christophero Sly.Well, bring our lady hither to our
sight;And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.
Second Servant
Will't please your mightiness to
wash your hands?O, how we joy to see your wit restored!O,
that once more you knew but what you are!These fifteen years you
have been in a dream;Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept.
SLY
These fifteen years! by my fay, a
goodly nap.But did I never speak of all that time?
First Servant
O, yes, my lord, but very idle
words:For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,Yet
would you say ye were beaten out of door;And rail upon the
hostess of the house;And say you would present her at the
leet,Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd
quarts:Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.
SLY
Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
Third Servant
Why, sir, you know no house nor no
such maid,Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up,As Stephen
Sly and did John Naps of GreeceAnd Peter Turph and Henry
PimpernellAnd twenty more such names and men as theseWhich
never were nor no man ever saw.
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, with
attendants
Page
How fares my noble lord?
SLY
Marry, I fare well for here is cheer
enough.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?My 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.
SLY
I know it well. What must I call
her?
Lord
Madam.
SLY
Al'ce madam, or Joan madam?
Lord
'Madam,' and nothing else: so
lordscall ladies.
SLY
Madam wife, they say that I have
dream'dAnd slept above some fifteen year or more.
Page
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.
Page
Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of
youTo pardon me yet for a night or two,Or, if not so, until
the sun be set:For your physicians have expressly charged,In
peril to incur your former malady,That I should yet absent me
from your bed:I hope this reason stands for my excuse.
SLY
Ay, it stands so that I may
hardlytarry so long. But I would be loath to fall intomy
dreams again: I will therefore tarry indespite of the flesh and
the blood.
Enter a Messenger
Messenger
Your honour's players, heating your
amendment,Are come to play a pleasant comedy;For so your
doctors hold it very meet,Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd
your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:Therefore
they thought it good you hear a playAnd frame your mind to mirth
and merriment,Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
SLY
Marry, I will, let them play it. Is
not acomondy a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?
Page
No, my good lord; it is more
pleasing stuff.
SLY
What, household stuff?
Page
It is a kind of history.
SLY
Well, well see't. Come, madam wife,
sit by my sideand let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.
Flourish