PLAYERS. We thank your honour.
LORD. Do you intend to stay with me to-night?
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 part
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.
PLAYER. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.
LORD. 'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.
Well, you are come to me in happy time,
The rather for I have some sport in hand
Wherein 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-eying of his odd behaviour,
For yet his honour never heard a play,
You break into some merry passion
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile, he grows impatient.
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 Bartholomew 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 observ'd in noble ladies
Unto their lords, by them accomplished;
Such duty to the drunkard let him do,
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,
And say 'What is't your honour will command,
Wherein your lady and your humble wife
May 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 overjoyed
To see her noble lord restor'd to health,
Who for this seven years hath esteemed him
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.
And if the boy have not a woman's gift
To rain a shower of commanded tears,
An onion will do well for such a shift,
Which, in a napkin being close convey'd,
Shall 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 laughter
When they do homage to this simple peasant.
I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence
May well abate the over-merry spleen,
Which otherwise would grow into extremes. Exeunt
SCENE II
A bedchamber in the LORD'S house
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 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, sometime more feet
than
shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
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 Christopher Sly, old
Sly's son of Burton Heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a
cardmaker, 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 lying'st knave
in
Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. [Taking a pot of
ale]
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 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, [Music]
And