Act 1 - Scene 2
A bedchamber in the Lord's house.
Enter aloft SLY, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and appurtenances; and
For God's sake, a pot of small ale.
Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?
Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?
What raiment will your honour wear to-day?
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,
sometimes more feet than
shoes, or such shoes as my
toes look through the over-leather.
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!
What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher
Sly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth a
by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a
bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker?
Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if
she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence
score for sheer ale, score me up for the
lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not
O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!
O, this is it that makes your servants droop!
Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,
As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment
And banish hence these
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