The Taming of the Shrew | Page 5

husband; And how
my men will stay themselves from laughter When they do homage to
this simple peasant. I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence May
well abate the over-merry spleen, Which otherwise would grow into
extremes.
[Exeunt.]

SCENE II. A bedchamber in the LORD'S house.
[SLY is discovered in a rich nightgown, with ATTENDANTS: some
with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and LORD, dressed
like a servant.]
SLY. For God's sake! a pot of small ale.
FIRST SERVANT. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?
SECOND SERVANT. Will't please your honour taste of these
conserves?
THIRD SERVANT. 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! O, 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 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.
FIRST SERVANT. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.
SECOND SERVANT. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee
straight Adonis painted 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
beguiled and surpris'd, As lively painted as the deed was done.
THIRD SERVANT. 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.
FIRST SERVANT. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee Like
envious floods o'er-run her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in
the world; And yet she is inferior to none.
SLY. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? Or do I dream? Or have I
dream'd till now? I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak; I smell sweet
savours, and I feel soft things: Upon my life, I am a lord indeed; And
not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our
sight; And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.
SECOND SERVANT. Will't please your mightiness to wash your

hands?
[Servants present a ewer, basin, and napkin.]
O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd! O, that once more you knew but
what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream, Or, when
you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.
SLY. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never
speak of all that time?
FIRST SERVANT. O! yes, my lord, but very idle words; For though
you lay here