2 Play. So please your lordship to accept our duty. 1 Play. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means. 1 Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antick 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. Exeunt SERVANT and PLAYERS. Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd To see her noble lord restored to health, Who, for twice seven years, hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar: To rain a shower of commanded tears, [Exit SERVANT. See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst; 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 Which otherwise would grow into extremes. May well abate the over-merry spleen, [Exeunt. SCENE II-A Bedchamber in the LORD's House. SLY is discovered in a rich night-gown, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurtenances. Enter LORD, dressed like a Servant.. Sly. For God's sake a pot of small ale. 1 Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack ? Sly. I am Christopher Sly; call not me-honour, nor lordship. I never drank sack 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. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour ! Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Barton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife of Woncot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught:† Here's 1 Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Serv. O, this it is that makes your servants droop. Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shun your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O, noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth; Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And 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, Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couch, Say, thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: * Perhaps. + Distraught distracted. [Music. Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar 1 Serv. Say, thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight Adonis, 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 surpris'd, As lively painted as the deed was done. 3 Serv. 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 beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. 1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee, Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:- And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.- 2 Serv. Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands? [SERVANTS present an ewer, basin, and napkin. O, how we joy to see your wit restored! O, that once more you knew but what you are! 1 Serv. O, yes, my lord; but very idle words:- Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. 3 Serv. Why, Sir, you know no house, nor no such maid; Nor no such men as you have reckon❜d on *Faith. As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, 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. 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. I know it well:-What must I call her? Lord. Madam. Sly. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam? Lord. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies. 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 you To pardon me yet for a night or two; Or, if not so, until the sun be set: For your physicians have expressly charged, 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 hardly tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams again; I will therefore tarry, in despite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a SERVANT. Serv. Your honour's players, hearing your amendment, Are come to play a pleasant comedy, For so your doctors hold it very meet; Seeing too much saduess 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 it: Is not a commonty* a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling trick? Page. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. * Comedy. Sly. What, household stuff? Page. It is a kind of history. Sly. Well, we'll see't: Come, madam wife, sit by my side, and let the world slip; we shall ne'er be younger. [They sit down. ACT I. Scene I-Padua. A public Place. Enter LUCENTIO and TRANIO. Luc. Tranio, since-for the great desire I had And, by my father's love and leave, am arm'd Gave me my being, and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio his son, brought up in Florence, Tra. Mi perdonate,† gentle master mine, Glad that you thus continue your resolve, Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you: * Pool. + Pardon me. Harsh rules. |