Imatges de pàgina

Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred shun your

house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. Oh, noble Lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abječt lowly dreams. Look, how thy servants do attend on thee; Each in his office ready at thy beck. Wilt thou have musick? hark, Apollo plays ; [Mufick. And twenty caged nightingales do fing Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch, Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. Say, thou wilt walk, we will bestrow 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 foar Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them, And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. 1 Man. Say, thou wilt course, thy greyhounds are

as swift As breathed ftags ; ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Man. Dost thou love pictures ? we will fetch thee

Adonis, painted by a running brook ;
And Citherea all in fedges hid ;
Which seem to move, and wanton with her breath,
Ev'n as the waving fedges play with wind:

Lord. We'll shew thee To, as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surpris’d,
As lively painted as the deed was done.

3 Man. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds :
And at that fight shall fad 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 beautiful
Than any woman in this waining age.

i Man. And 'till the tears, that she hath shed for

Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face,
She was the faireft 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 favours, and I feel soft things :
Upon my life, I am a Lord, indeed ;
And not a 'Tinker, nor Christophero Sly.
Well, bring our Lady hither to our fight,
And once again, a pot o' th’smallest ale.
2 Man. Will’t please your Mightiness to wash your

Oh, how we joy to see your wits restor'd !
Oh, 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. These fifteen years ! by my fay, a goodly nap: But did I never speak of all that time? 1 Man. Oh, yes, my Lord, but very

idle words.
For tho’you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you say, ye were beaten out of door,
And rail'd upon the Hostess of the house;
And say, you would present her at the Leet,
Because she bought ftone-jugs, and no feal'd quarts :
Sometimes, you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
3 Man. Why, Sir, you know no house ; nor no such

Nor no such men, as you have reckon'd up;
E As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,

And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,
And twenty more such names and men as these,
Which never were, nor no man ever saw.

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

Sly. By th' Maís, I think I am a Lord indeed.
What is thy name ?


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Man. Sim, an't please your Honour.

Sly. Sim ? that's as much as to say, Simeon or Simon; put forth thy hand and fill the pot.

[The servant gives him drink. Enter Lady, with Attendants. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

Lady. How fares my noble Lord ?

Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough. Where's 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

Lady. My husband and my lord, my Lord and hufI am your wife in all obedience.

Sly. I know it well : what must I call her ? Lord. Madam. Sly. Alce madam, or Joan madam ? Lord. Madam, and nothing else, fo lords call ladies. Sly. Come, sit down on my knee. Sim, drink to her. Madam wife, they say, that I have dream'd, and slept above some fifteen years and more.

Lady. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon'd from


bed. Sly. 'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone :Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. Sim, drink to her.

Lady. Thrice-noble Lord, let me entreat of you,
To pardon me yet for a night or two:
Or, if not so, until the sun be set ;
For your Physicians have exprefly charg'd,
In peril to incur your former malady,
That I should yet absent me from your bed ;
I hope, this reason ftands for my excuse.

Sly. Ay, it stands fo, that Í may hardly tarry fo long ; but I would be loath to fall into my dream again: I will therefore tarry in despight of the flesh and the blood.


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Enter a Messenger.

Mell. Your Honour's Players, hearing your amend.

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 play,
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment ;
Which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life.

Sly. Marry, I will ; let them play ; iš it not a Commodity ? a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling trick?

Lady. No, my good Lord, it is more pleasing stuff.
Sly. What, houshold stuff ?
Lady. It is a kind of history.

Sly. Well, we'll see't: come, Madam wife, fit by my side, and let the world slip, we shall ne'er be younger.

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And, by my

Rranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,
I am arriy'd from fruitful Lombardy, (6)
The pleasant garden of great Italy ;

father's love and leave, am

With his good-will, and thy good company :
Most trusty servant, well approv'd in all,
Here let us breathe, and haply institute
A course of learning, and ingenious studies.
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,
Gave me my Being; and my father first,
A merchant of great traffick through the world :
Vincentio's come of the Bentivolii,
Vincentio his fon, brought up in Florence,

(6) I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy,] Tho' all the Impressions concur in this, I take it to be a Blunder of the Editors, and not of the Author. Padua is not in Lombardy; but Pisa, from which Lucentio comes, is really in those Territories.

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