SLY.
I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour nor lordship. I
ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves,
give me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear,
for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than
legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than
shoes, or such shoes as my toes 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 Christopher Sly, old
Sly's son of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a
card-maker, 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.