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Wind horns. Enter a Lord from bunting, with a Train. Lord. Huntfman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;
(Brach, Merriman! the poor cur is imbost ;)
Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord ;
Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccho were as fleet,
Hun. I will, my lord.
Lord. What's here ? one dead, or drunk? fee, doth he breathe?
2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord. Were he not warm'd with ale,
This were a bed but cold, to fleep fo foundly.
Lord. O monftrous beaft! how like a fwine he lies!.
And brave attendants near him, when he wakes;
1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe.
Lord. Even as a flatt'ring dream, or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jeft: Carry him gently to my faireft chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pictures; Balm his foul head with warm diftilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet..
Procure me mufick ready, when he wakes,
Say, what is it your Honour will command ?
1 Hun. My Lord, I warrant you, we'll play our part,
Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him ;
How now? who is it?
Ser. An't please your Honour, Players
Now, Fellows, you are welcome.
Which Com mer's Son, Mr. Pope P the firft fol
of one of
the Part of
Lord. With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
Sim. I think, 'twas Soto that your Honour means. (4)
Play. Fear not, my lord, we can contain our felves; Were he the veriest antick in the world.
2 Play. [to the other.] Go get a Dishclout to make clean your shoes, and I'll fpeak 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 wellcome, every one: Let them want nothing that the house affords. [Exit one with the Players.
Sirrah, go you to Bartholmew my page,
(4) I think, 'twas Soto.] I take our Author here to be paying a Compliment to Beaumont and Fletcher's Women pleas'd,in which Comedy there is the Character of Soto, 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 firft folio 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 Soto with Applaufe.
And call him Madam, do him all obeisance.
(5) Who for these seven years hath esteem'd himself. No better than a poor and loathfom· Beggar.]
I have ventur'd to alter a Word here, against the Authority of the printed Copies; and hope, 1 shall be justified in it by two fubfequent Paffages. That the Poet defign'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 Bedchamber in the Lord's Houfe.
Enter Sly with Attendants, fome with apparel, bafon and ewer, and other appurtenances. Re-enter Lord.
OR God's fake, a pot of fmall ale.
1 Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of fack?
2 Serv. Will't please your Honour taste of these Conferves?
3 Serv. What raiment will your Honour wear to day?
Sly. I am Chriftophero Sly, call not me Honour, nor lordship: I ne'er drank fack in my life: and if you give me any Conferves, give me Conferves of beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more ftockings than legs, nor no more fhoes than feet; nay, fometimes, more feet than fhoes; or fuch fhoes as my toes look through the over-leather.
Lord. Heav'n cease this idle humour in your Honour!
Oh, that a mighty man of fuch descent,
Sly. What, would you make me mad? am not I Chriftophero Sly, old Sly's Son of Burton-heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by tranfmutation a bearherd, and now by prefent 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 fheer ale, fcore me up for the lying't knave in Christendom. What, I am not beftraught:
I Man. Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn. z Man. Oh, this it is that makes your fervants droop.