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Wind borns. Enter a Lord from bunting, with a Train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my
Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord ;
Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccbo were as fleet,
1 But fup them well, and look unto them all, To morrow I intend to hunt again.
Hun. I will, my lord.
with ale, This were a bed but cold, to sleep so foundly.
Lord. O monstrous beast ! how like a swine he lies !
i Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chuse.
Procure me mufick ready, when he wakes,
i Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll play our partj. 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 ; And each one to his Ofice, when he wakes.
[Some bear out Sly. Sound Trumpets. Sirrah, go see what trumpet is that sounds. Belike, fome noble gentieman that means, [Ex. Servant,. Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
Ser. An't please your Honour, Players:
Play. We thank your Honour. Lord. Do you intend to fiay 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, sure, that part Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform’d.
Sim. I think, 'twas Soto that your Honour means. (4)
Lord. 'Tis very true ; thou didst it excellent :
There is a Lord will hear you play to night;
his honour never heard a Play,)
Play. Fear not; my lord, we can contain our felves Were he the veriert antick in the world.
2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Dishclout to make clean your shoes, 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 Playersa. Sirrah, go you to Bartholmer my page, And see him drest in all suits like a lady. That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,
(4) I tbink, 'twas Soto.] I take our Author here to be pay... ing a Compliment to Beaumont and Fletcher's Women pleas'd, in which comedy there is the Character of Soro, who is a Farmer's Son, and a very facetious Serving-man. Mr. Rowe and Mr. Pope prefix the Name of Sim to the Line here spoken ; but the first fotio has it Sincklo ;' which, no doubt, was the Name of one of the Players here introduc'd, and who had play'd the Part of Sato with Applause..
And call him Madam, do him all obeisance.
(5) Wbo for these seven years batb esteem'd bimfelf
No better eban a poor and loatbfom Beggar. ] I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, I Mall be justified in it by two subsequent Passages. That the Poet design'd, "the Tinker's fuppos'd Lunacy should be of 14 years standing at least, is evident upon two parallel Passages in the Play to that Purpose.
SCENE changes to a Bed-Chamber in the
cup of fack?
Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bason and
ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord. Sly. TOR God's fake, a pot of small ale.
1 Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a 2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Con
serves ? 3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear to
day? Sly. I am Chrißopbero Sly, call not me Honour, nor lordship : I ne'er drank fack 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 hoes than feet ; nay, sometimes, more feet than shoes ; or such focs as my toes look through the over-leather.
Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Ho-
Sly. What, would you make me mad ? am not I Christophero 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 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 theer ale, score me up for the lying'it knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught : here's
1 Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn.