Wind horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with a Train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; (Brach, Merriman ! the poor cur is imbost ;) And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd Brach. I would not lofe the dog for twenty pound. 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! Grim death, how foul and loathfome is thy image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, And brave attendants near him, when he wakes; 1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe. Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthless fancy. 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 fay, wilt please your lordship cool your hands? And ask him what apparel he will wear; fay, that he dreams; 1 Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll play our fart, 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. [Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpets. Sirrah, go fee what trumpet is that founds. Belike, fome noble gentleman that means, [Ex. Servant. Travelling fome journey, to repose 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 stay with me to night? Lord. Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember, Sim. I think, 'twas Soto that your Honour means. (4) 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 shoes, 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 firft 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. I long to hear him call the drunkard, husband; [Exit Lord, (5) Who for these seven years hath esteem'd himself. No better than a poor and leathfom Beggar.] I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, I 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 ftanding at leaft, is evi dent upon two parallel Paffages in the play to that Purpose. SCENE SCENE changes to a Bedchamber in the Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bason and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. and ewer, OR God's fake, a pot of small ale. Sly. FOR 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 defcent, 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 afe-wife of Wincot, if she know me not; if fhe fay, I am not fourteen pence on the fcore 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. |