_Sly._ Y’are 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! 5

_Host._ You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

_Sly._ No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy
cold bed, and warm thee.

_Host._ I know my remedy; I must go fetch the thirdborough.
[_Exit._ 10

_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. [_Falls asleep._

_Horns winded_. _Enter a_ Lord _from hunting_, _with his train_.

_Lord._ Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d; 15
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.

_First Hun._ Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; 20
He cried upon it at the merest loss
And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

_Lord._ Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such. 25
But sup them well and look unto them all:
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

_First Hun._ I will, my lord.

_Lord._ What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

_Sec. Hun._ He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale, 30
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 convey’d to bed, 35
Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his bed,
And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
Would not the beggar then forget himself?

_First Hun._ Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. 40

_Sec. 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:
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures: 45
Balm his foul head in 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 50
And with a low submissive reverence
Say ‘What is it your honour will command?’
Let one attend him with a silver basin
Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers;
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, 55
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: 60
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, 65
If it be husbanded with modesty.

_First Hun._ My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,
As he shall think by our true diligence
He is no less than what we say he is.

_Lord._ Take him up gently and to bed with him; 70
And each one to his office when he wakes.
[_Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds._

Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:
[_Exit Servingman._

Belike, some noble gentleman that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

_Re-enter_ Servingman.

How now! who is it?

_Serv._ An’t please your honour, players 75
That offer service to your lordship.

_Lord._ Bid them come near.

_Enter_ Players.

Now, fellows, you are welcome.

_Players._ We thank your honour.

_Lord._ Do you intend to stay with me to-night?

_A Player._ So please your lordship to accept our duty. 80

_Lord._ With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son:
‘Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well:
I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part
Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d. 85

_A Player._ I think ’twas Soto that your honour means.

_Lord._ Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.
Well, you are come to me in happy time;
The rather for I have some sport in hand
Wherein your cunning can assist me much. 90
There is a lord will hear you play to-night:
But I am doubtful of your modesties;
Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,–
For yet his honour never heard a play,–
You break into some merry passion 95
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile he grows impatient.

_A Player._ Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves,
Were he the veriest antic in the world.

_Lord._ Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, 100
And give them friendly welcome every one:
Let them want nothing that my house affords.
[_Exit one with the Players._