Get this No Fear to go!
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SLY
What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old
Sly’s son of Burton Heath, by birth a peddler, by education
a cardmaker, by transmutation a bearherd, and now by present
profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife 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 lying’st knave in
Christendom. What! I am not bestraught!
Here’s—
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SLY
What, are you trying to make me crazy? I’m Christopher
Sly, son of old Sly of Barton-on-Heath, a peddler by birth, a cardmaker by trade, a keeper of trained bears by bad luck, and now, by
present profession, a tinker. Go ask Marian Hacket, the fat
innkeeper of Wincot. She knows me! She’ll tell you about
the tab I’ve run up—fourteen pence just for
ale. If she doesn’t, call me the biggest liar in
Christendom. I’m not crazy! Just look at
how—
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THIRD SERVANT
Oh, this it is that makes your lady mourn!
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THIRD SERVANT
Oh, this is why your poor wife is mourning!
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SECOND SERVANT
Oh, this is it that makes your servants droop!
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SECOND SERVANT
And this is why your servants hang their heads in sorrow!
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15 20 |
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,
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LORD
And this is why your relatives never visit, frightened away by
this unnatural insanity of yours. Oh noble lord, consider your
lineage. Try to recall your former state of mental health and forget
these crass, lowly desires. Look how your servants wait on you, each
one ready to do whatever you command. Would you care to hear some
music? Listen! That’s Apollo playing.
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Music |
Music plays. |
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25 30 |
And twenty cagèd nightingales do sing:
Or wilt thou sleep? We’ll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
On purpose trimmed up for Semiramis.
Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground.
Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapped,
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.
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And those birds you hear—twenty caged nightingales. Do
you want to sleep? We’ll have a couch made up
that’s softer and more fragrant even than the bed of lustful Semiramis. Say you want to take a walk, and we’ll sprinkle
the ground with flowers. Or do you want to go horseback riding? Your
horses will be adorned with harnesses decorated in gold and pearls.
Do you like hawking? You have hawks that can soar higher than the
morning lark. Or do you want to hunt? Your hounds will make the sky
echo with their high-pitched voices.
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