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 —
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 shall echoes from the hollow earth.
