Sly

Sly
For God’s sake, a pot of small ale.
First Servingman
Will ’t please your Lord drink a cup of sack?
Second Servingman
Will ’t please your Honor taste of these conserves?
Third Servingman
What raiment will your Honor wear today?
Sly
I am Christophero Sly!
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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,
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Lord, as Attendant
Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord;
Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waning age.
First Servingman 
And till the tears that she hath shed for thee
Like envious floods o’errun her lovely face,
She was the fairest creature in the world—
And yet she is inferior to none.
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Second Servingman
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 Servingman
Oh, yes, my lord, but very idle words.
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
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Messenger
Your Honor’s players, hearing your amendment,
Are come to play a pleasant comedy,
For so your doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much sadness hath congealed your blood,
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
Therefore they thought it good you hear a play
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
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Sly
I’ll feeze you, in faith.
Hostess
A pair of stocks, you rogue!
Sly
You’re a baggage! The Slys are no rogues. Look
in the chronicles. We came in with Richard Conqueror.
Therefore, paucas pallabris, let the world slide. Sessa!
Hostess
You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?
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