Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant.
SLY.
For God’s sake! a pot of small ale.
FIRST SERVANT.
Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack
SECOND SERVANT.
Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves
THIRD SERVANT.
What raiment will your honour wear today
SLY.
I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour nor lordship. I ne’er 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, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather.
LORD.
Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour
O, that a mighty man of such descent
Of such possessions, and so high esteem
Should be infused with so foul a spirit
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 cardmaker, 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
THIRD SERVANT.
O! this it is that makes your lady mourn.
SECOND SERVANT.
O! this is it that makes your servants droop.
LORD.
Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house
As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment
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 music? Hark! Apollo plays
Music.
And twenty caged nightingales do sing
Or wilt thou sleep? We’ll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis.
Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground
Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp’d
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar
Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.
FIRST SERVANT.
Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.
SECOND SERVANT.
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.
LORD.
We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid
And how she was beguiled and surpris’d
As lively painted as the deed was done.
THIRD SERVANT.
Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood
Scratching her legs, 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 this waning age.
FIRST SERVANT.
And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee
Like envious floods o’er-run 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
Or do I dream? Or have I dream’d till now
I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak
I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed
And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight
And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale.
SECOND SERVANT.
Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands
Servants present a ewer, basin and napkin.
O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d
O, that once more you knew but what you are
These fifteen years you have been in a dream
Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept.
SLY.
These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.
But did I never speak of all that time
FIRST SERVANT.
O! yes, my lord, but very idle words
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber
Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door
And rail upon the hostess of the house
And say you would present her at the leet
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts.
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.
SLY.
Ay, the woman’s maid of the house.
THIRD SERVANT.
Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid
Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece
And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell
And twenty more such names and men as these
Which never were, nor no man ever saw.
SLY.
Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends
ALL.
Amen.
Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.
SLY.
I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.
PAGE.
How fares my noble lord
SLY.
Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough.
Where is my wife
PAGE.
Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her
SLY.
Are you my wife, and will not call me husband
My men should call me lord: I am your goodman.
PAGE.
My husband and my lord, my lord and husband
I am your wife in all obedience.
SLY.
I know it well. What must I call her
LORD.
Madam.
SLY.
Alice madam, or Joan madam
LORD.
Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies.
SLY.
Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d
And slept above some fifteen year or more.
PAGE.
Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me
Being all this time abandon’d from your bed.
SLY.
Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.
Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.
PAGE.
Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you
To pardon me yet for a night or two
Or, if not so, until the sun be set
For your physicians have expressly charg’d
In peril to incur your former malady
That I should yet absent me from your bed
I hope this reason stands for my excuse.
SLY.
Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment
Are come to play a pleasant comedy
For so your doctors hold it very meet
Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy
Therefore they thought it good you hear a play
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
SLY.
Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick
PAGE.
No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.
SLY.
What! household stuff
PAGE.
It is a kind of history.
SLY.
Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.
