And twice to Day pick'd out the dulleft Scent: Lord. Thou art a Fool, if Eccho were as fleet, Hun. I will, my Lord. Lord. What's here? one Dead, or Drunk? See, doth he breathe? 2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord. Were he not warm'd with Ale, this were a Bed but cold to fleep fo foundly. Lord. O monftrous Beaft! how like a Swine he lyes! And brave Attendants near him when he wakes; I Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe. And hang it round with all my wanton Pictures; Full of Rofe-water, and beftrew'd with Flowers, And fay, will please your Lordship cool your Hands ? And And when he fays he is poor, fay that he dreams, 1 Hun. My Lord, I warrant you we will play our Part, As he fhall think by our true Diligence, He is no less than what we fay he is. Lord. Take him up gently, and to Bed with him And each one to his Office when he wakes. [Sound Trumpets. Sirrah, go see what Trumpet 'tis that founds, Enter Servant. How now? Who is it? Ser. An't please your Honour, Players That offer Service to your Lordship. Lord. Bid them come near: Enter Players. Now Fellows, you are welcome. Lord. Do you intend to ftay with me to Night? 'Twas where you woo'd the Gentlewoman fo well: Sim. I think 'twas Soto that your Honour means. Play Play. Fear not, my Lord, we can contain our felves, Were he the verieft Antick in the World. Lord. Go Sirrah, take them to the Buttery, Let them want nothing that my House affords. [Exit one with the Players Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my Page, I know the Boy will well ufurp the Grace, [Exit Servant. I long to hear him call the Drunkard, Husband, And how my Men will stay themselves from Laughter, Enter Enter Sly with Attendants, some with Apparel, Bason and Ewer, and other Appurtenances. Sly. For God's fake a Pot of fmall Ale. 1 Serv. Will't please your Lordship drink a Cup of Sack? 2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Conerves? 3 Serv. What Raiment will your Honour wear to Day? Sly. I am Chriftophero Sly, call not me Honour, nor Lordship: I ne'er drank Sack in my Life; and if you give me any Conferves, give me Conferves 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 Shooes than Feet; nay fometimes more Feet than Shooes, or fuch Shooes as my Toes look through the over-leather. Lord. Heav'n cease this idle Humour in your Honour. Oh that a mighty Man of fuch Defcent, Of fuch Poffeffions, and fo high Esteem, Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Chriftophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Button-heath, by Birth a Pedler, by Education a Card-maker, by Tranfmutation a Bearherd, and now by prefent Profeffion a Tinker. Ask Marrian Hacket, the fat Ale-wife of Wincot, if the know me not; if the fay I am not fourteen Pence on the Score for Sheer Ale, fcore me up for the lying'ft Knave in Christendom. What I am not beftraught: here's I Man. Oh this it is that makes your Lady mourn. 2 Man. Oh this it is that makes your Servants droop. Lord. Hence comes it that your Kindred fhun your House, As beaten hence by your ftrange Lunacy. Oh noble Lord, bethink thee of thy Birth, Call home thy ancient Thoughts from Banifhment, 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 Mufick? Hark, Apollo plays, And twenty caged Nightingales do fing. Or wilt thou fleep? We'll have thee to a Couch, P 2 [Mufick. Say Say thou wilt walk, we will beftrow the Ground: are as fwift 2 Man. Doft thou love Pictures? We will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running Brook, And Citherea all in Sedges hid, Which feem to move, and wanton with her Breath, Even as the waving Sedges play with Wind. Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a Maid, And how the was beguiled and furpris'd, As lively painted as the Deed was done. 3 Man. Or Daphne roming through a thorny Wood, Scratching her Legs, that one fhall fwear fhe bleeds; And at the Sight fhall fad Apollo weep: So workmanly the Blood and Tears are drawn. Lord. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord: Thou haft a Lady far more beautiful, Than any Woman in this waining Age. 1 Man. And 'till the Tears that the hath fhed for thee, Like envious Floods, o'er-run her lovely Face, She was the faireft Creature in the World, And yet he is inferior to none. Sly. Am I a Lord, and have I fuch a Lady? I smell fweet Savours, and I feel foft Things: And not a Tinker, nor Chriftophero Sly. 2 Man. Wil't please your Mightiness to wash your Hands? Oh how we joy to fee your Wits reftor'd, Oh that once more you knew but what you are: Thefe fifteen Years you have been in a Dream, Or |