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H.. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? Sly. No, not a deniere: go by, Jeronimo *
-go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
Hoft. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third borough.
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.
S C Ε Ν Ε ΙΙ.
l'ind horns, Enter a Lord from hunting, with a train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my
hounds: Leech Merriman, the poor cur is imbost; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd Brach. Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge-corner in the coldest fault? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.
Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my Lord; He cried
upon it at the meerelt lofs,
Lord. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet,
Hun. I will, my Lord.
he breathe? 2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord. Were he not warmd
with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so foundly.
Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies ! Grim death, how foul and lothsome is thy image!, Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,
Go by, Feronimo, was a kind of by-word in the author's days, as appears by its being used in the lame manner by Ben Johnson, Beau. mont, and Fletcher, anú other writers near that time. Ji arose farft from a palage in an old play called Heircaymo, or, Tbe Spanish traged.
Wrapp'd in sweet cloaths; rings put upon his fingers;
Lord, I think he cannot chuse,
i Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll play our part,
Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him;
[Some bear out Sly. Sound trumpets.
0 0 2
7 SCENE III. Re-enter fervant. 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.
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 fon : 'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well: ! I have forgot your name; but, fure, that irt Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform d.
Sim. I think 'twas Soto that your Honour means..
Lord. 'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.
Play. Fear not, my Lord, we can contain ourselves; Were he the veriest antic in the world.
2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a dishclout to make clean your thoes, 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 welcome every one : Let them want nothing that the house affords.
[Exit one with the players. 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,
SC E N E IV. Changes to a bedchamber in the Lord's house. Enter Sly with attendants, fome with apparel, bafon, ani
ener, and other appartenances. Re-enter Lord. Sly. For God's fake, a pot of small ale.
i Sere. Will't please your Lordfhip drink a cup of fack?
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 ne'er drank fack in my life; and if you give me any conferves, give me conserves of beef : ne'er alk me what raiment l'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. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Honour ! Oh 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 Christophero Sly, old Sly's fon of Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-marker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profeffion 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 lying'st knave in Christendom. What! I am not hestraught : here's
1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your servants