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Wind borns. Enter a Lord from bunting, with a Train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my
Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he; my lord ;
I take him for the better dog.
he breathe? 2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord. Were he not warm'd
with ale, This were a bed but cold, to sleep so foundly.
Lord. O monstrous beaft! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thy image ! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, Wrapt in fweet cloaths; 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?
i Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chuse. 2 Hun. It would seem strange unto him, when he
wak'd. Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest : Carry him gently to my faireft chamber, And hang it round with all my wantor pictures ; Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet..
Procure me mufick ready, when he wakes,
i Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll play our fart,
Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him ;
[Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpets.
Ser. An't please your Honour, Players
Honour. Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to night? 2 Play. So please your Lordship to accept our duty,
here he 2 Pla
which mer's s Mr. Por
Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Sim. I think, 'twas Soto that your Honour means. (4)
you are come to me in happy time,
Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain our selves ; Were he the verieft antick in the world.
2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Disclout to make clean your thoes, and I'll speak for the properties.
[Exit Player: My lord, we must have a shoulder of mutton for a property, and a little Vinegar to make our devil roar.
Lord. Go, firrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly wellcome, every one : Let them want nothing that the house affords.
[Exit one with the Players. Sirrah, go you to Bartholmew my page, And see him drest in all suits like a lady. That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,
(4) I think, 'twas Soto.] I take our Author here to be paying a Compliment to Beaumont and Fletcher's Women pleas’d, in which Comedy there is the Character of Soto, who is a Farmer's Son, and a very facetious Serving-man. Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope prefix the Name of Sim to the Line here fpoken; but the first folio has it Sinckle ; which, no doubt, was the Name of one of the Players here introduc'd, and who had play'd the Part of Soto with Applause.
And call him Madam, do him all obeisance.
(5) Who for these seven years bath esteem'd himfolf.
No better than a poor and loathsom. Beggar.) I have ventur’d to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, 1 Mall be justified in it by two subsequent Passages. That the Poet design'd, the Tinker's suppos'd Lunacy Tould be of 14 years landing at least, is evident upon two parallel Pallages in the play to that Purposc.
SCENE changes to a Bedchamber in the
Lord's House. Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bason and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord.
OR God's sake, a pot of
cup of fack?
2 Serv. Will'e please your Honour taste of these Con
serves ? 3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear to
day? Sly. I am Christophero Sly, call not me Honour, nor lordship: I ne'er drank fack in my life: and if you give me any Conserves, give me Conserves of beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, sometimes, more feet than shoes ; or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather.
Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Honour ! Oh, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such poffessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit!
Sly. What, would you make me mad ? am not I Christophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bearherd, and now by present profession a tinker? ask Marian Hacket, thé fát ale-wife of Wincot, if the know me not; if she say, I am not fourteen pence on the scare for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'it knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught : here's
1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your servants droop.