Part 3

Beg. What would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Slie, old Slies sonne of Burton-heath, by byrth a Pedler, by education a Cardmaker, by transmutation a Beare-heard, and now by present profession a Tinker. Aske Marrian Hacket the fat Alewife of Wincot, if shee know me not: if she say I am not xiiii.d. on the score for sheere Ale, score me vp for the lyingst knaue in Christen dome. What I am not bestraught: here's- 3.Man. Oh this it is that makes your Ladie mourne

2.Man. Oh this is it that makes your seruants droop

Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred shuns your house As beaten hence by your strange Lunacie. Oh Noble Lord, bethinke thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abiect lowlie dreames: Looke how thy seruants do attend on thee, Each in his office readie at thy becke. Wilt thou haue Musicke? Harke Apollo plaies,

Musick

And twentie caged Nightingales do sing. Or wilt thou sleepe? Wee'l haue thee to a Couch, Softer and sweeter then the lustfull bed On purpose trim'd vp for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walke: we wil bestrow the ground. Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shal be trap'd, Their harnesse studded all with Gold and Pearle. Dost thou loue hawking? Thou hast hawkes will soare Aboue the morning Larke. Or wilt thou hunt, Thy hounds shall make the Welkin answer them And fetch shrill ecchoes from the hollow earth

1.Man. Say thou wilt course, thy gray-hounds are as swift As breathed Stags: I fleeter then the Roe

2.M. Dost thou loue pictures? we wil fetch thee strait Adonis painted by a running brooke, And Citherea all in sedges hid, Which seeme to moue and wanton with her breath, Euen as the wauing sedges play with winde

Lord. Wee'l shew thee Io, as she was a Maid, And how she was beguiled and surpriz'd, As liuelie painted, as the deede was done

3.Man. Or Daphne roming through a thornie wood, Scratching her legs, that one shal sweare she bleeds, And at that sight shal sad Apollo weepe, So workmanlie the blood and teares are drawne

Lord. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord: Thou hast a Ladie farre more Beautifull, Then any woman in this waining age

1.Man. And til the teares that she hath shed for thee, Like enuious flouds ore-run her louely face, She was the fairest creature in the world, And yet shee is inferiour to none

Beg. Am I a Lord, and haue I such a Ladie? Or do I dreame? Or haue I dream'd till now? I do not sleepe: I see, I heare, I speake: I smel sweet sauours, and I feele soft things: Vpon my life I am a Lord indeede, And not a Tinker, nor Christopher Slie. Well, bring our Ladie hither to our sight, And once againe a pot o'th smallest Ale

2.Man. Wilt please your mightinesse to wash your hands: Oh how we ioy to see your wit restor'd, Oh that once more you knew but what you are: These fifteene yeeres you haue bin in a dreame, Or when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept

Beg. These fifteene yeeres, by my fay, a goodly nap, But did I neuer speake of all that time

1.Man. Oh yes my Lord, but verie idle words, For though you lay heere in this goodlie chamber, Yet would you say, ye were beaten out of doore, And raile vpon the Hostesse of the house, And say you would present her at the Leete, Because she brought stone-Iugs, and no seal'd quarts: Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket

Beg. I, the womans maide of the house

3.Man. Why sir you know no house, nor no such maid Nor no such men as you haue reckon'd vp, As Stephen Slie, and old Iohn Naps of Greece, And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell, And twentie more such names and men as these, Which neuer were, nor no man euer saw

Beg. Now Lord be thanked for my good amends

All. Amen. Enter Lady with Attendants.

Beg. I thanke thee, thou shalt not loose by it

Lady. How fares my noble Lord? Beg. Marrie I fare well, for heere is cheere enough. Where is my wife? La. Heere noble Lord, what is thy will with her? Beg. Are you my wife, and will not cal me husband? My men should call me Lord, I am your good-man

La. My husband and my Lord, my Lord and husband I am your wife in all obedience

Beg. I know it well, what must I call her? Lord. Madam

Beg. Alce Madam, or Ione Madam? Lord. Madam, and nothing else, so Lords cal Ladies Beg. Madame wife, they say that I haue dream'd, And slept aboue some fifteene yeare or more

Lady. I, and the time seeme's thirty vnto me, Being all this time abandon'd from your bed

Beg. 'Tis much, seruants leaue me and her alone: Madam vndresse you, and come now to bed

La. Thrice noble Lord, let me intreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two: Or if not so, vntill the Sun be set. For your Physitians haue expressely charg'd, In perill to incurre your former malady, That I should yet absent me from your bed: I hope this reason stands for my excuse

Beg. I, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long: But I would be loth to fall into my dreames againe: I wil therefore tarrie in despight of the flesh & the blood Enter a Messenger.