SCENE.-Sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in Petruchio's House in the Country. INDUCTION.1 SCENE I.-BEFORE AN ALEHOUSE ON A HEATH. Enter Hostess and Sly. Sly. I'll pheese you in faith. Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue! Sly. Y'are a baggage; the Slies are no rogues: Look in the chronicles, we came in with Richard Conqueror. paucas pallabris; let the world slide: Sessa! Therefore Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? Sly. No, not a denier : Go by, says Jeronimy;-Go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the thirdborough." [Exit. Sly. Third or fourth or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law: I'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly. [Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep. Wind Horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds: Brach' Merriman,-the poor cur is embossed, And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach. 1 Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent: Lord. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 1 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 sleep so soundly. Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, 1 Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 2 Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd. Lord. Even as a flattering dream, or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest:- Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: Full of rose-water, and bestrew'd with flowers; And say,-Will't please your lordship cool your hands? This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs; If it be husbanded with modesty.1 1 Hu. My lord, I warrant you, we'll play our part. As he shall think, by our true diligence, 1 Moderation. 2 L A trumpet sounds. [Exit Servant. He is no less than what we say he is. How now? who is it? Serv. An it please your honour, Players that offer service to your lordship. Lord. Bid them come near : Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. 1 Play. We thank your honour. Lord. Do you intend to stay 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 so well: I have forgot your name; but sure that part Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd. 1 Play. I think, 'twas Soto that your honour means. 1 Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antick 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. [Exeunt Servant and Players. [To a Servant.] 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), 1 Behaviour. Wherein your lady, and your humble wife, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd To see her noble lord restor❜d to health, See this despatch'd with all the haste thou canst; I know, the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman: long to hear him call the drunkard, husband; [Exit Servant. And how my men will stay themselves from laughter, Which otherwise would go into extremes. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-A BEDCHAMBER IN THE LORD'S HOUSE. Sly is discovered in a rich night-gown, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with bason, ewer, and other appurte nances. Enter Lord, dressed like a Servant. Sly. For heaven's sake, a pot of small ale. 1 Serv. Will 't please your lordship, drink a cup of sack? 2 Serv. Will 't please your honour, taste of these conserves? 3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day? Sly. I am Christopher Sly; call not me-honour, nor lordship: I never 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, sometimes, more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! Of such possessions, and so high esteem, 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 card-maker, 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 lyingest knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught; Here's 1 Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn. Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shun your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O, noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth; Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, Wilt thou have musick? hark! Apollo plays, Say, thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground: [Musick. 1 Serv. Say, thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight, Adonis, painted by a running brook : And Cytherea all in sedges hid; Which seem to move and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving sedges play with wind. 3 Serv. Or Daphne, roaming through a thorny wood; Scratching her feet that one shall swear she bleeds: And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord, Thou hast a lady far more beautiful, Than any woman in the waning age. 1 Serv. And till the tears that she hath shed for them, Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet she is inferior to none. Sly. Am I a lord, and have I such a lady? I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:-- And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.- 2 Serv. Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands? Servants present an ewer, bason, and napkin. O, how we joy to see your wit restor❜d! O, that once more you knew but what you are! 1 Vault of heaven. |