in this manner accused, in this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died.-Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato's: I will go before, and show him their examination. Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned. Con. Off, coxcomb! (Exit.) Dogb. God's my life! Where's the sexton? Let him write down-the prince's officer, coxcomb.-Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet! Con. Away! You are an ass! you are an ass! Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years?-Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass!-But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.-No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him.-Bring him away. Oh, that I had been writ down an ass! "Much Ado About Nothing." The Tinker's Dream Before an Ale-house on a Heath. SLY and HOSTESS. Sly. I'll pheese you, in faith. Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue! Sly. Y're a baggage: the Slys 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, Saint 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.) Enter a LORD, with HUNTSMEN. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds: Brach Merriman, the poor cur, is embossed; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouthed brach. At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. Ist Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice to-day picked out the dullest scent: Lord. Thou art a fool! if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. Ist Hun. I will, my lord. Lord. What's here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe? 2d Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warmed 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! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were conveyed to bed, Wrapped in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself? Ist Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 2d Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he waked. Lord. Even as a flattering dream, or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest. A Bed-chamber in the LORD's House. SLY, in a rich night-gown; SERVANTS; LORD, disguised as an attendant. Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale! 1st Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack? 2d Serv. Will't please your honour taste of these conserves? 3d Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day? 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! Oh, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infuséd 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 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 Ist Serv. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn! 2d Serv. Oh, 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, Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays, (Music.) And twenty cagéd nightingales do sing. Or wilt thou sleep? We'll have thee to a couch On purpose trimmed up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground; And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. Ist Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathéd stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 2d Serv. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight Adonis paintéd 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 beguiléd and surprised, As lively painted as the deed was done. 3d Serv. 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. Ist Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee Like envious floods o'erran her lovely face, |