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Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred fhun your house,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.

Oh, noble Lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,
And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
Look, how thy fervants do attend on thee;
Each in his office ready at thy beck.

Wilt thou have mufick? hark, Apollo plays; [Mufick.
And twenty caged nightingales do fing.

Or wilt thou fleep? we'll have thee to a couch,
Softer and fweeter than the luftful bed
On purpofe trimm'd up for Semiramis.

Say, thou wilt walk, we will beftrow the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horfes fhall be trapp'd,
Their harness ftudded all with gold and pearl.
Doft thou love hawking? thou haft hawks, will foar
Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds fhall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch fhrill echoes from the hollow earth.

1 Man. Say, thou wilt courfe, thy greyhounds are as fwift

As breathed flags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

2 Man. Doft thou love pictures? we will fetch thee ftrait

Adonis, painted by a running brook;

And Citherea all in fedges hid;

Which feem to move, and wanton with her breath,

Ev'n as the waving fedges play with wind.

Lord. We'll fhew thee Io, as fhe was a maid, And how fhe was beguiled and furpris'd,

As lively painted as the deed was done.

3 Man. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one fhall fwear the bleeds: And at that fight fhall fad Apollo weep:

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.
Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:
Thou haft a lady far more beautiful

Than any woman in this waining age.

1 Man. And 'till the tears, that she hath fhed for


Like envious floods, o'er-ran her lovely face,

She was the fairest creature in the world,

And yet fhe is inferior to none.

Sly. Am I a Lord, and have I fuch a Lady?
Or do I dream? or have I dream'd 'till now?
I do not fleep; I fee, I hear, I fpeak;
I fmell fweet favours, and I feel foft things:
Upon my life, I am a Lord, indeed ;
And not a Tinker, nor Chriftophero Sly.
Well, bring our Lady hither to our fight,
And once again, a pot o' th' smallest ale.

2 Man. Will't please your Mightiness to wash your hands?

Oh, how we joy to fee your wits restor❜d!

Oh, that once more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream,
Or, when you wak'd, fo wak'd as if

you flept.
Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap:
But did I never speak of all that time?

1 Man. Oh, yes, my Lord, but very idle words.
For tho' you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you fay, ye were beaten out of door,
And rail'd upon the Hostess of the house;
And fay, you would prefent her at the Leet,
Because the bought ftone-jugs, and no feal'd quarts:
Sometimes, you would call out for Cicely Hacket.
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

3 Man. Why, Sir, you know no house; nor no fuch maid;

Nor no fuch men, as you have reckon'd up;
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,

And twenty more fuch names and men as these,
Which never were, nor no man ever saw.

Sly. Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!
All. Amen.

Sly. By th' Maís, I think I am a Lord indeed.
What is thy name ?


Man. Sim, an't please your Honour.

Sly. Sim? that's as much as to fay, Simeon or Simon ; put forth thy hand and fill the pot.

I thank thee;

[The fervant gives him drink.

Enter Lady, with Attendants.

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thou shalt not lose by it.

Lady. How fares my noble Lord?

Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough. Where's my wife?

Lady. Here, noble Lord, what is thy will with her? Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me hufband? My men should call me lord, I am your good


Lady. My husband and my lord, my Lord and hufband;

I am your wife in all obedience.

Sly. I know it well: what muft I call her?
Lord. Madam.

Sly. Alce madam, or Joan madam ?

Lord. Madam, and nothing else, fo lords call ladies. Sly. Come, fit down on my knee. Sim, drink to her. Madam wife, they fay, that I have dream'd, and flept above fome fifteen years and more.

Lady. Ay, and the time feems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.

Sly. 'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone:Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. Sim, drink to her.

Lady. Thrice-noble Lord, let me entreat of you,
To pardon me yet for a night or two:
Or, if not fo, until the fun be fet

For your Phyficians have exprefly charg'd,
In peril to incur your former malady,
That I fhould yet abfent me from


bed; I hope, this reason ftands for my excuse.

Sly. Ay, it ftands fo, that I may hardly tarry fo long; but I would be loath to fall into my dream again: I will therefore tarry in defpight of the flesh and the



Enter a Messenger.

Me. Your Honour's Players, hearing your amendment,

Are come to play a pleafant Comedy;

For fo your Doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much fadnefs hath congeal'd your blood;
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

Therefore, they thought it good you hear a play,
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment ;
Which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life.
Sly. Marry, I will; let them play; is it not a Com-
modity? a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling trick?
Lady. No, my good Lord, it is more pleasing stuff.
Sly. What, houfhold stuff?

Lady. It is a kind of history.

Sly. Well, we'll fee't: come, Madam wife, fit by my fide, and let the world flip, we shall ne'er be



The TAMING of the SHREW.


SCENE, a Street in PA DUA.

Flourish. Enter Lucentio and Tranio.


Rranio, fince for the great defire I had
To fee fair Padua, nursery of arts,
I am arriv'd from fruitful Lombardy, (6)
The pleafant garden of great Italy;

And, by my father's love and leave, am

With his good-will, and thy good company:
Most trusty servant, well approv'd in all,
Here let us breathe, and haply inftitute
A course of learning, and ingenious studies.
Pifa, renowned for grave citizens,

Gave me my Being; and my father firft,

A merchant of great traffick through the world:
Vincentio's come of the Bentivolii,

Vincentio his fon, brought up in Florence,

(6) I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy,] Tho' all the Impreffions concur in this, I take it to be a Blunder of the Editors, and not of the Author. Padua is not in Lombardy; but Pisa, from which Lucentio comes, is really in those Territories.

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