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And twice to Day pick'd out the dulleft Scent:
Truft me, I take him for the better Dog.

Lord. Thou art a Fool, if Eccho were as fleet,
I would efteem him worth a Dozen fuch.
But fup them well, and look unto them all,
To Morrow I intend to hunt again.

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!
Grim Death, how foul and loathfome is thine Image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken Man.
What think you if he were convey'd to Bed,
Wrapt in fweet Cloaths: Rings put upon
his Finger;
A moft delicious Banquet by his Bed,

And brave Attendants near him when he wakes;
Would not the Beggar then forget himself?

I Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe.
2 Hun. It would feem ftrange unto him when he wak'd.
Lord. Even as a flatt'ring Dream, or worthless Fancy.
Then take him up, and manage well the Jeft:
Carry him gently to my faireft Chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton Pictures;
Balm his foul Head in warm diftilled Waters,
And burn fweet Wood to make the Lodging fweet.
Procure me Mufick ready when he wakes,
To make a Dulcet and a Heav'nly Sound;
And if he chance to fpeak, be ready ftraight,
And with a low fubmiffive Reverence,
Say, what is it your Honour will command;
Let one attend him with a filver Bafon

Full of Rofe-water, and beftrew'd with Flowers,
Another bear the Ewer; a third a Diaper,

And fay, will please your Lordship cool your Hands ?
Some one be ready with a coftly Suit,
And ask him what Apparel he will wear;
Another tell him of his Hounds and Horse,
And that his Lady mourns at his Disease;
Perfuade him that he hath been Lunatick,

And

And when he fays he is poor, fay that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty Lord:
This do, and do it kindly, gentle Sirs;
It will be Paftime paffing excellent,
If it be husbanded with Modefty.

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,
Belike fome noble Gentleman that means,
Travelling fome Journey, to repofe him here.

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.
Play. We thank your Honour.

Lord. Do you intend to ftay with me to Night?
2 Play. 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 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.
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 affift 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 fo offend him: For I tell you, Sirs,
If you should smile, he grows impatient.

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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,
And fee him dreft in all fuits like a Lady:
That done, condu& him to the Drunkard's Chamber,
And call him Madam, do him Obeifance.
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 foft low Tongue, and lowly Courtefie;
And fay; What is't your Honour will command,
Wherein your Lady, and your humble Wife,
May fhew her Duty, and make known her Love;
And then with kind Embracements, tempting Kiffes,
And with declining Head into his Bofom,
Bid him shed Tears, as being overjoy'd
To fee her noble Lord reftor'd to Health,
Who for this feven Years hath efteem'd himself
No better than a poor and loathfome Beggar:
And if the Boy have not a Woman's Gift
To rain a Shower of commanded Tears,
An Onion will do well for fuch a Shift,
Which in a Napkin being close convey'd,
Shall in defpight enforce a watry Eye.
See this difpatch'd with all the hafte thou canft,
Anon I'll give thee more Inftructions.

I know the Boy will well ufurp the Grace,
Voice, Gate, and Action of a Gentlewoman.

[Exit Servant.

I long to hear him call the Drunkard, Husband,

And how my Men will stay themselves from Laughter,
When they do Homage to this fimple Peasant;
I'll in to counsel them: Haply my Presence
May well abate the over-merry Spleen,
Which otherwise would grow into Extreams.

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,
Should be infufed with fo foul a Spirit.

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,
Softer and fweeter than the luftful Bed
On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

P 2

[Mufick.

Say

Say thou wilt walk, we will beftrow the Ground:
Or wilt thou ride? Thy Horses shall be trapp'd,
Their Harness ftudded all with Gold and Pearl.
Doft thou love Hawking? Thou haft Hawks will foar
Above the Morning Lark. Or wilt thou hunt,
Thy Hounds fhall make the Welkin anfwer them,
And fetch fhrill Ecchoes from the hollow Earth.
1 Man. Say thou wilt courfe, thy Grayhounds
As breathed Stags; ay, fleeter than the Roe.

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?
Or do I dream? Or have I dream'd 'till now?
I do not fleep; I fee, I hear, I fpeak;

I smell fweet Savours, and I feel foft Things:
Upon my Life I am a Lord indeed,

And not a Tinker, nor Chriftophero Sly.
Well, bring our Lady hither to our Sight,
And once again a Pot o'th' smallest Ale.

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

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