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TAMING OF THE SHREW.
SCENE I. Before an Alehouse on a Heath.
Enter Hostess and SLY.
Sly. Y'are a baggage; the Slies are no rogues: Look in the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris ; let the world slide. Sessa!
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 Hunts
men and Servants. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my
1 Hunt. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
Lord. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such.
1 Hunt. I will, my lord.
breathe ? 2 Hunt. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warmed
Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
1 Hunt. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.
waked. 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 : Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet : Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound: And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, And, with a low, submissive reverence, Say,— What is it your honor will command ? Let one attend him with a silver basin, Full of rose-water, and bestrewed with flowers; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper; And say,--Will’t please your lordship cool your hands? Some one be ready with a costly 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: Persuade him that he hath been lunatic. And, when he says he is say that he dreams, For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs; It will be pastime passing excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty.
1 Hunt. My lord, I warrant you, we'll play our part,
As he shall think, by our true diligence,
Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him.
[Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds. Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds :
[Exit Servant. Belike, some noble gentleman, that means, Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
Re-enter a Servant.
An it please your honor,
Now, fellows, you are welcome. 1 Play. We thank your honor. 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,
1 Play. I think 'twas Soto that your honor means. Lord. 'Tis very true;
thou didst it excellent.
1 Play. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were be the veriest antic in the world.
Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
[Ereunt Servant and Players. Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, [To a Servant. And see him dressed in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,
SCENE II. A Bedchamber in the Lord's House. SLY is
discovered in a rich night-gown, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other appurte
Enter Lord, dressed like a Servant. Sly. For God'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 honor taste of these conserves ? 3 Serv. What raiment will your honor wear to-day?
Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me — honor, 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 over-leather. Lord. Heaven cease this
idle humor in your honor ! 0, 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 pedler, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bearherd, 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. 2 Serv. 0, this it is that makes your servants droop. 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, 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, 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 trimmed up for Semiramis. Say, thou wilt walk ? we will bestrew the ground. Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapped, 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. 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;