Wind horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with a Train. Lord. Huntfman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; (Brach, Merriman! the poor cur is imboft ;) And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd Brach, Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; And twice to day pick'd out the dulleft fcent : Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccho were as fleet, Hun. I will, my lord. Lord. What's here ? one dead, or drunk? fee, 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 fwine he lies!. And brave attendants near him, when he wakes; 1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chuse. Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthless fancy. And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;, Pro Procure me mufick ready, when he wakes, Say, what is it your Honour will command ? Full of Rofe-water, and beftrew'd with flowers; And ask him what apparel he will wear ; 1 Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll 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. Sirrah, go [Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpets. fee what trumpet is that founds. Belike, fome noble gentleman that means, [Ex. Servant. Travelling fome journey, to repofe him here. Re-enter Servant. How now? who is it? Ser. An't please your Honour, Players That offer fervice 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? Lord. Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember, Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest fon : 'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman fo well: I have forgot your name; but, fure, that part Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd. Sim. I think, 'twas Soto that your Honour means. (4) Lord. 'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent : Well, you are come to me in happy time, The rather for I have fome 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 modefties, Left, over-eying of his odd Behaviour, (For yet his honour never heard a Play,) You break into fome merry Paffion, And so offend him: for I tell you, Sirs, you fhould fmile, he grows impatient. If Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain our felves; Were he the verieft antick in the world. 2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Dishclout to make clean your fhoes, 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 fee him dreft in all fuits 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 spoken; but the first folio has it Sincklo; 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 And call him Madam, do him all obeisance. [Exit Lord. (5) Who for these seven years hath esteem'd himself. No better than a poor and loathfom Beggar.] I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, 1 shall be justified in it by two fubfequent Paffages. That the Poet defign'd, the Tinker's fuppos'd Lunacy fhould be of 14 years standing at least, is evident upon two parallel Paffages in the play to that Purpose. SCENE SCENE changes to a Bedchamber in the Lord's House. Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. Sly. OR God's fake, a pot of fmall ale. 1 Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of fack? 2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Conferves? 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 fack 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 ftockings than legs, nor no more fhoes than feet; nay, fometimes, more feet than fhoes; or fuch fhoes as my toes look through the over-leather. Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Ho nour! Oh, that a mighty man of fuch descent, Sly. What, would you make me mad? am not I Chriftophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by tranfmutation a bearherd, and now by prefent profeffion a tinker? ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not; if fhe fay, I am not fourteen pence on the score for fheer ale, fcore me up for the lying'ft knave in Christendom. What, I am not beftraught: here's 1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your fervants droop. Lord |