Taming of the Shrew — Act 0, Scene 2 · Shakespeare for Bharat

SLY

For God's sake, a pot of small ale.

First Servant

Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Second Servant

Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third Servant

What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

SLY

I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor'lordship:' I ne'er drank sack in my life; and ifyou give me any conserves, give me conserves ofbeef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear; for Ihave no more doublets than backs, no more stockingsthan legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay,sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as mytoes look through the over-leather.

Lord

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!

SLY

What, would you make me mad? Am not I ChristopherSly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth apedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation abear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker?Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, ifshe know me not: if she say I am not fourteen penceon the score for sheer ale, score me up for thelyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am notbestraught: 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 banishmentAnd 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,

Lord

And twenty caged nightingales do sing:Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couchSofter and sweeter than the lustful bedOn 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 soarAbove the morning lark or wilt thou hunt?Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer themAnd fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

First Servant

Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swiftAs breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Second Servant

Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straightAdonis 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 beautifulThan any woman in this waning age.

First Servant

And till the tears that she hath shed for theeLike 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 indeedAnd 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 GreeceAnd Peter Turph and Henry PimpernellAnd twenty more such names and men as theseWhich never were nor no man ever saw.

SLY

Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!

ALL

Amen.

SLY

I thank thee: thou shalt not lose by it.

Page

How fares my noble lord?

SLY

Marry, I fare well for here is cheer enough.Where is my wife?

Page

Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

SLY

Are you my wife and will not call me husband?My men should call me 'lord:' I am your goodman.

Page

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;I am your wife in all obedience.

SLY

I know it well. What must I call her?

Lord

Madam.

SLY

Al'ce madam, or Joan madam?

Lord

'Madam,' and nothing else: so lordscall ladies.

SLY

Madam wife, they say that I have dream'dAnd slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.

SLY

'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.Madam, undress you and come now to bed.

Page

Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of youTo pardon me yet for a night or two,Or, if not so, until the sun be set:For your physicians have expressly charged,In peril to incur your former malady,That I should yet absent me from your bed:I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

SLY

Ay, it stands so that I may hardlytarry so long. But I would be loath to fall intomy dreams again: I will therefore tarry indespite of the flesh and the blood.

Messenger

Your honour's players, heating your amendment,Are come to play a pleasant comedy;For so your doctors hold it very meet,Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:Therefore they thought it good you hear a playAnd frame your mind to mirth and merriment,Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

SLY

Marry, I will, let them play it. Is not acomondy a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?

Page

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

SLY

What, household stuff?

Page

It is a kind of history.

SLY

Well, well see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my sideand let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.