heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card- 20 maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, 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 be straught here 's— Third Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn! Sec. Serv. 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 banishment 30 Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays [Music. And twenty caged nightingales do sing: Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: soar Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt? 21. bear-herd, bearward. 23. Wincot, or Wilnecote, is a village near Tamworth. Cf. Lee, Life of W. Shakespeare, p. 66. 25. sheer, unmixed. 26. bestraught, distracted. 40 Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. Sec. 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. Third Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a 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. First Serv. And till the tears that she hath shed Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face, Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? 50. breathed, in full career. 65. waning, decaying; an 50 60 70 age in which beauty is declining. 69. yet, even now. And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly. O, how we joy to see your wit restored! 'O, that once more you knew but what you are! nap. But did I never speak of all that time? First Serv. O, yes, my lord, but very idle For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. Third Serv. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid, Nor no such men as you have reckon❜d up, And twenty more such names and men as these 80 90 95. Stephen Sly was the name of a resident at Stratford, variously described in the records as a labourer and as servant to W. Combe.' A Joan Sly was subsequently (1630) fined by the Stratford magistrates for breaking the Sabbath by travelling (Lee). Which 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 good man. Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; I am your wife in all obedience. 100 Sly. I know it well. What must I call her? 110 Lord. Madam. Sly. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam? Lord. 'Madam,' and nothing else: so lords call ladies. Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, alone. Madam, undress you and come now to bed. 99. amends, amendment. 120 Or, if not so, until the sun be set : That I should yet absent me from your bed: 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 Messenger. Mess. 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 sadness hath congeal'd your blood, And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy: 130 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 comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling- 140 trick? Page. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. 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. Flourish. |