Sly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth a
	pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a
	bear-herd, and now by present profession 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 sheer ale, score me up for the
	lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not
	bestraught: here's--

Third Servant	O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!

Second Servant	O, this is it that makes your servants droop!

Lord	Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,
	As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
	O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
	Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment
	And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
	Look how thy servants do attend on thee,
	Each in his office ready at thy beck.
	Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,

	[Music]

	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:
	Or 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.

First Servant	Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
	As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Second Servant	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 wind.

Lord	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.

Third Servant	Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
	Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,
	And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,
	So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Lord	Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:
	Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
	Than any woman in this waning age.

First Servant	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.

SLY	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 ale.

Second Servant	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.

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

First Servant	O, yes, my lord, but very idle words:
	For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
	Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door;
	And rail upon the hostess of the house;
	And say you would present her at the leet,
	Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts:
	Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

SLY	Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

Third Servant	Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,
	Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up,
	As Stephen Sly and did John Naps of Greece
	And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell
	And twenty more such names and men as these
	Which never were nor no man ever saw.

SLY	Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!