abject lowly dreams.
Look how thy servants do attend on thee,
Each in his office ready at thy beck.
thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,
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:
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 shrill echoes from the hollow earth.
Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.
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
We'll show thee Io as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surprised,
As lively painted as the
deed was done.
Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,
that sight shall sad Apollo weep,
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.
Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:
Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waning
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.
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
Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands?
O, how we joy to see your wit restored!
O, that once
more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream;
Or when you waked, so
waked as if you slept.
These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.
But did I never speak of all that time?
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