Poetry Moment

ACT III.

SCENE II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house, continued

TRANIO. He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

We will persuade him, be it possible,

To put on better ere he go to church.

BAPTISTA. I'll after him and see the event of this.

Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO, BIONDELLO, and ATTENDENTS

TRANIO. But to her love concerneth us to ad

Her father's liking; which to bring to pass,

As I before imparted to your worship,

I am to get a man- whate'er he be

It skills not much; we'll fit him to our turn-

And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,

And make assurance here in Padua

Of greater sums than I have promised.

So shall you quietly enjoy your hope

And marry sweet Bianca with consent.

LUCENTIO. Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster

Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly,

'Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;

Which once perform'd, let all the world say no,

I'll keep mine own despite of all the world.

TRANIO. That by degrees we mean to look into

And watch our vantage in this business;

We'll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,

The narrow-prying father, Minola,

The quaint musician, amorous Licio-

All for my master's sake, Lucentio.

Re-enter GREMIO

Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

GREMIO. As willingly as e'er I came from school.

TRANIO. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

GREMIO. A bridegroom, say you? 'Tis a groom indeed,

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

TRANIO. Curster than she? Why, 'tis impossible.

GREMIO. Why, he's a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

TRANIO. Why, she's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam.

GREMIO. Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him!

I'll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest

Should ask if Katherine should be his wife,

'Ay, by gogs-wouns' quoth he, and swore so loud

That, all amaz'd, the priest let fall the book;

And as he stoop'd again to take it up,

This mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff

That down fell priest and book, and book and priest.

'Now take them up,' quoth he 'if any list.'

TRANIO. What said the wench, when he rose again?

GREMIO. Trembled and shook, for why he stamp'd and swore

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done

He calls for wine: 'A health!' quoth he, as if

He had been abroad, carousing to his mates

After a storm; quaff'd off the muscadel,

And threw the sops all in the sexton's face,

Having no other reason

But that his beard grew thin and hungerly

And seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking.

This done, he took the bride about the neck,

And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack

That at the parting all the church did echo.

And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;

And after me, I know, the rout is coming.

Such a mad marriage never was before.

Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [Music plays]

Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA, HORTENSIO,

GRUMIO, and train

PETRUCHIO. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains.

I know you think to dine with me to-day,

And have prepar'd great store of wedding cheer

But so it is- my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

BAPTISTA. Is't possible you will away to-night?

PETRUCHIO. I must away to-day before night come.

Make it no wonder; if you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.

And, honest company, I thank you all

That have beheld me give away myself

To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.

Dine with my father, drink a health to me.

For I must hence; and farewell to you all.

TRANIO. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

PETRUCHIO. It may not be.

GREMIO. Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO. It cannot be.

KATHERINA. Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO. I am content.

KATHERINA. Are you content to stay?

PETRUCHIO. I am content you shall entreat me stay;

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

KATHERINA. Now, if you love me, stay.

PETRUCHIO. Grumio, my horse.

GRUMIO. Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses.

KATHERINA. Nay, then,

Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day;

No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself.

The door is open, sir; there lies your way;

You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;

For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself.

'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom

That take it on you at the first so roundly.

PETRUCHIO. O Kate, content thee; prithee be not angry.

KATHERINA. I will be angry; what hast thou to do?

Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

GREMIO. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

KATHERINA. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner.

I see a woman may be made a fool

If she had not a spirit to resist.

PETRUCHIO. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.

Obey the bride, you that attend on her;

Go to the feast, revel and domineer,

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead;

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves.

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;

I will be master of what is mine own-

She is my goods, my chattels, she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing,

And here she stands; touch her whoever dare;

I'll bring mine action on the proudest he

That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,

Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves;

Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.

Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate;

I'll buckler thee against a million.

Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, and GRUMIO

BAPTISTA. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

GREMIO. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

TRANIO. Of all mad matches, never was the like.

LUCENTIO. Mistress, what's your opinion of your sister?

BIANCA. That, being mad herself, she's madly mated.

GREMIO. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

BAPTISTA. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants

For to supply the places at the table,

You know there wants no junkets at the feast.

Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place;

And let Bianca take her sister's room.

TRANIO. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

BAPTISTA. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let's go.

Exeunt

ACT III.

SCENE II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house

Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO as LUCENTIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA,

LUCENTIO as CAMBIO, and ATTENDANTS

BAPTISTA. [To TRANIO] Signior Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day

That Katherine and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? What mockery will it be

To want the bridegroom when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

KATHERINA. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc'd

To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart,

Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen,

Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure.

I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;

And, to be noted for a merry man,

He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage,

Make friends invited, and proclaim the banns;

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd.

Now must the world point at poor Katherine,

And say 'Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife,

If it would please him come and marry her!'

TRANIO. Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too.

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,

Whatever fortune stays him from his word.

Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;

Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest.

KATHERINA. Would Katherine had never seen him though!

Exit, weeping, followed by BIANCA and others

BAPTISTA. Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep,

For such an injury would vex a very saint;

Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter BIONDELLO

Master, master! News, and such old news as you never heard of!

BAPTISTA. Is it new and old too? How may that be?

BIONDELLO. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's coming?

BAPTISTA. Is he come?

BIONDELLO. Why, no, sir.

BAPTISTA. What then?

BIONDELLO. He is coming.

BAPTISTA. When will he be here?

BIONDELLO. When he stands where I am and sees you there.

TRANIO. But, say, what to thine old news?

BIONDELLO. Why, Petruchio is coming- in a new hat and an old

jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turn'd; a pair of boots

that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another lac'd; an old

rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt,

and chapeless; with two broken points; his horse hipp'd, with an

old motley saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possess'd

with the glanders and like to mose in the chine, troubled with

the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped

with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives,

stark spoil'd with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, sway'd in

the back and shoulder-shotten, near-legg'd before, and with a

half-cheek'd bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather which,

being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often

burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times piec'd,

and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her

name fairly set down in studs, and here and there piec'd with

pack-thread.

BAPTISTA. Who comes with him?

BIONDELLO. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparison'd like

the horse- with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose

on the other, gart'red with a red and blue list; an old hat, and

the humour of forty fancies prick'd in't for a feather; a

monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian

footboy or a gentleman's lackey.

TRANIO. 'Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;

Yet oftentimes lie goes but mean-apparell'd.

BAPTISTA. I am glad he's come, howsoe'er he comes.

BIONDELLO. Why, sir, he comes not.

BAPTISTA. Didst thou not say he comes?

BIONDELLO. Who? that Petruchio came?

BAPTISTA. Ay, that Petruchio came.

BIONDELLO. No, sir; I say his horse comes with him on his back.

BAPTISTA. Why, that's all one.

BIONDELLO. Nay, by Saint Jamy,

I hold you a penny,

A horse and a man

Is more than one,

And yet not many.

Enter PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO

PETRUCHIO. Come, where be these gallants? Who's at home?

BAPTISTA. You are welcome, sir.

PETRUCHIO. And yet I come not well.

BAPTISTA. And yet you halt not.

TRANIO. Not so well apparell'd

As I wish you were.

PETRUCHIO. Were it better, I should rush in thus.

But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?

How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown;

And wherefore gaze this goodly company

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet or unusual prodigy?

BAPTISTA. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day.

First were we sad, fearing you would not come;

Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.

Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate,

An eye-sore to our solemn festival!

TRANIO. And tell us what occasion of import

Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife,

And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

PETRUCHIO. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear;

Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,

Though in some part enforced to digress,

Which at more leisure I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied withal.

But where is Kate? I stay too long from her;

The morning wears, 'tis time we were at church.

TRANIO. See not your bride in these unreverent robes;

Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.

PETRUCHIO. Not I, believe me; thus I'll visit her.

BAPTISTA. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

PETRUCHIO. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha' done with words;

To me she's married, not unto my clothes.

Could I repair what she will wear in me

As I can change these poor accoutrements,

'Twere well for Kate and better for myself.

But what a fool am I to chat with you,

When I should bid good-morrow to my bride

And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

Exeunt PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO

TRANIO. He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

ACT III. SCENE I. Padua. BAPTISTA'S house

Enter LUCENTIO as CAMBIO, HORTENSIO as LICIO, and BIANCA

LUCENTIO. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir.

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katherine welcome'd you withal?

HORTENSIO. But, wrangling pedant, this is

The patroness of heavenly harmony.

Then give me leave to have prerogative;

And when in music we have spent an hour,

Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.

LUCENTIO. Preposterous ass, that never read so far

To know the cause why music was ordain'd!

Was it not to refresh the mind of man

After his studies or his usual pain?

Then give me leave to read philosophy,

And while I pause serve in your harmony.

HORTENSIO. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

BIANCA. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong

To strive for that which resteth in my choice.

I am no breeching scholar in the schools,

I'll not be tied to hours nor 'pointed times,

But learn my lessons as I please myself.

And to cut off all strife: here sit we down;

Take you your instrument, play you the whiles!

His lecture will be done ere you have tun'd.

HORTENSIO. You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

LUCENTIO. That will be never- tune your instrument.

BIANCA. Where left we last?

LUCENTIO. Here, madam:

'Hic ibat Simois, hic est Sigeia tellus,

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.'

BIANCA. Construe them.

LUCENTIO. 'Hic ibat' as I told you before- 'Simois' I am Lucentio-

'hic est' son unto Vincentio of Pisa- 'Sigeia tellus' disguised

thus to get your love- 'Hic steterat' and that Lucentio that

comes a-wooing- 'Priami' is my man Tranio- 'regia' bearing my

port- 'celsa senis' that we might beguile the old pantaloon.

HORTENSIO. Madam, my instrument's in tune.

BIANCA. Let's hear. O fie! the treble jars.

LUCENTIO. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

BIANCA. Now let me see if I can construe it: 'Hic ibat Simois' I

know you not- 'hic est Sigeia tellus' I trust you not- 'Hic

steterat Priami' take heed he hear us not- 'regia' presume not-

'celsa senis' despair not.

HORTENSIO. Madam, 'tis now in tune.

LUCENTIO. All but the bass.

HORTENSIO. The bass is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.

[Aside] How fiery and forward our pedant is!

Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love.

Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.

BIANCA. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

LUCENTIO. Mistrust it not- for sure, AEacides

Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather.

BIANCA. I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt;

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.

Good master, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

HORTENSIO. [To LUCENTIO] You may go walk and give me leave awhile;

My lessons make no music in three Parts.

LUCENTIO. Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait,

[Aside] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd,

Our fine musician groweth amorous.

HORTENSIO. Madam, before you touch the instrument

To learn the order of my fingering,

I must begin with rudiments of art,

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,

More pleasant, pithy, and effectual,

Than hath been taught by any of my trade;

And there it is in writing fairly drawn.

BIANCA. Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

HORTENSIO. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

BIANCA. [Reads]

'"Gamut" I am, the ground of all accord-

"A re" to plead Hortensio's passion-

"B mi" Bianca, take him for thy lord-

"C fa ut" that loves with all affection-

"D sol re" one clef, two notes have I-

"E la mi" show pity or I die.'

Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not!

Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice

To change true rules for odd inventions.

Enter a SERVANT

SERVANT. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books

And help to dress your sister's chamber up.

You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.

BIANCA. Farewell, sweet masters, both; I must be gone.

Exeunt BIANCA and SERVANT

LUCENTIO. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

Exit

HORTENSIO. But I have cause to pry into this pedant;

Methinks he looks as though he were in love.

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble

To cast thy wand'ring eyes on every stale-

Seize thee that list. If once I find thee ranging,

HORTENSIO will be quit with thee by changing. Exit

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO

PETRUCHIO. Here comes your father. Never make denial;

I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

BAPTISTA. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO. How but well, sir? how but well?

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

BAPTISTA. Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps?

KATHERINA. Call you me daughter? Now I promise you

You have show'd a tender fatherly regard

To wish me wed to one half lunatic,

A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,

That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

PETRUCHIO. Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world

That talk'd of her have talk'd amiss of her.

If she be curst, it is for policy,

For,she's not froward, but modest as the dove;

She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;

For patience she will prove a second Grissel,

And Roman Lucrece for her chastity.

And, to conclude, we have 'greed so well together

That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.

KATHERINA. I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.

GREMIO. Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee hang'd first.

TRANIO. Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part!

PETRUCHIO. Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself;

If she and I be pleas'd, what's that to you?

'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,

That she shall still be curst in company.

I tell you 'tis incredible to believe.

How much she loves me- O, the kindest Kate!

She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss

She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,

That in a twink she won me to her love.

O, you are novices! 'Tis a world to see,

How tame, when men and women are alone,

A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.

Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice,

To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;

I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine.

BAPTISTA. I know not what to say; but give me your hands.

God send you joy, Petruchio! 'Tis a match.

GREMIO, TRANIO. Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.

PETRUCHIO. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.

I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace;

We will have rings and things, and fine array;

And kiss me, Kate; we will be married a Sunday.

Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA severally

GREMIO. Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly?

BAPTISTA. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part,

And venture madly on a desperate mart.

TRANIO. 'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;

'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

BAPTISTA. The gain I seek is quiet in the match.

GREMIO. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.

But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:

Now is the day we long have looked for;

I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

TRANIO. And I am one that love Bianca more

Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.

GREMIO. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

TRANIO. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.

GREMIO. But thine doth fry.

Skipper, stand back; 'tis age that nourisheth.

TRANIO. But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth.

BAPTISTA. Content you, gentlemen; I will compound this strife.

'Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both

That can assure my daughter greatest dower

Shall have my Bianca's love.

Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

GREMIO. First, as you know, my house within the city

Is richly furnished with plate and gold,

Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;

My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;

In ivory coffers I have stuff'd my crowns;

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,

Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,

Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl,

Valance of Venice gold in needle-work;

Pewter and brass, and all things that belongs

To house or housekeeping. Then at my farm

I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,

Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls,

And all things answerable to this portion.

Myself am struck in years, I must confess;

And if I die to-morrow this is hers,

If whilst I live she will be only mine.

TRANIO. That 'only' came well in. Sir, list to me:

I am my father's heir and only son;

If I may have your daughter to my wife,

I'll leave her houses three or four as good

Within rich Pisa's walls as any one

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.

What, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO. Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

[Aside] My land amounts not to so much in all.-

That she shall have, besides an argosy

That now is lying in Marseilles road.

What, have I chok'd you with an argosy?

TRANIO. Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less

Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,

And twelve tight galleys. These I will assure her,

And twice as much whate'er thou off'rest next.

GREMIO. Nay, I have off'red all; I have no more;

And she can have no more than all I have;

If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

TRANIO. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world

By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied.

BAPTISTA. I must confess your offer is the best;

And let your father make her the assurance,

She is your own. Else, you must pardon me;

If you should die before him, where's her dower?

TRANIO. That's but a cavil; he is old, I young.

GREMIO. And may not young men die as well as old?

BAPTISTA. Well, gentlemen,

I am thus resolv'd: on Sunday next you know

My daughter Katherine is to be married;

Now, on the Sunday following shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you make this assurance;

If not, to Signior Gremio.

And so I take my leave, and thank you both.

GREMIO. Adieu, good neighbour. Exit BAPTISTA

Now, I fear thee not.

Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool

To give thee all, and in his waning age

Set foot under thy table. Tut, a toy!

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. Exit

TRANIO. A vengeance on your crafty withered hide!

Yet I have fac'd it with a card of ten.

'Tis in my head to do my master good:

I see no reason but suppos'd Lucentio

Must get a father, call'd suppos'd Vincentio;

And that's a wonder- fathers commonly

Do get their children; but in this case of wooing

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

Exit

Exit SERVANT leading HORTENSIO carrying the lute

and LUCENTIO with the books

BAPTISTA. We will go walk a little in the orchard,

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,

And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

PETRUCHIO. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,

And every day I cannot come to woo.

You knew my father well, and in him me,

Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,

Which I have bettered rather than decreas'd.

Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love,

What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

BAPTISTA. After my death, the one half of my lands

And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns.

PETRUCHIO. And for that dowry, I'll assure her of

Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,

In all my lands and leases whatsoever.

Let specialities be therefore drawn between us,

That covenants may be kept on either hand.

BAPTISTA. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd,

That is, her love; for that is all in all.

PETRUCHIO. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,

I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;

And where two raging fires meet together,

They do consume the thing that feeds their fury.

Though little fire grows great with little wind,

Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all.

So I to her, and so she yields to me;

For I am rough, and woo not like a babe.

BAPTISTA. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed

But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.

PETRUCHIO. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,

That shake not though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter HORTENSIO, with his head broke

BAPTISTA. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

BAPTISTA. What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

HORTENSIO. I think she'll sooner prove a soldier:

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

BAPTISTA. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

HORTENSIO. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering,

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,

'Frets, call you these?' quoth she 'I'll fume with them.'

And with that word she struck me on the head,

And through the instrument my pate made way;

And there I stood amazed for a while,

As on a pillory, looking through the lute,

While she did call me rascal fiddler

And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,

As she had studied to misuse me so.

PETRUCHIO. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench;

I love her ten times more than e'er I did.

O, how I long to have some chat with her!

BAPTISTA. Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;

Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;

She's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.

Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

PETRUCHIO. I pray you do. Exeunt all but PETRUCHIO

I'll attend her here,

And woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.

Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly wash'd with dew.

Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;

Then I'll commend her volubility,

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,

As though she bid me stay by her a week;

If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.

But here she comes; :Lnd.now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter KATHERINA

Good morrow, Kate- for that's your name, I hear.

KATHERINA. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:

They call me Katherine that do talk of me.

PETRUCHIO. You lie, in faith, for you are call'd plain Kate,

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;

But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,

Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,

For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation-

Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town,

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,

Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,

Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.

KATHERINA. Mov'd! in good time! Let him that mov'd you hither

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first

You were a moveable.

PETRUCHIO. Why, what's a moveable?

KATHERINA. A join'd-stool.

PETRUCHIO. Thou hast hit it. Come, sit on me.

KATHERINA. Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

PETRUCHIO. Women are made to bear, and so are you.

KATHERINA. No such jade as you, if me you mean.

PETRUCHIO. Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee!

For, knowing thee to be but young and light-

KATHERINA. Too light for such a swain as you to catch;

And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

PETRUCHIO. Should be! should- buzz!

KATHERINA. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO. O, slow-wing'd turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?

KATHERINA. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO. Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.

KATHERINA. If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO. My remedy is then to pluck it out.

KATHERINA. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

PETRUCHIO. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?

In his tail.

KATHERINA. In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue?

KATHERINA. Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO. What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,

Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

KATHERINA. That I'll try. [She strikes him]

PETRUCHIO. I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again.

KATHERINA. So may you lose your arms.

If you strike me, you are no gentleman;

And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

PETRUCHIO. A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books!

KATHERINA. What is your crest- a coxcomb?

PETRUCHIO. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

KATHERINA. No cock of mine: you crow too like a craven.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

KATHERINA. It is my fashion, when I see a crab.

PETRUCHIO. Why, here's no crab; and therefore look not sour.

KATHERINA. There is, there is.

PETRUCHIO. Then show it me.

KATHERINA. Had I a glass I would.

PETRUCHIO. What, you mean my face?

KATHERINA. Well aim'd of such a young one.

PETRUCHIO. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

KATHERINA. Yet you are wither'd.

PETRUCHIO. 'Tis with cares.

KATHERINA. I care not.

PETRUCHIO. Nay, hear you, Kate- in sooth, you scape not so.

KATHERINA. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.

PETRUCHIO. No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.

'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar;

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,

But slow in speech, yet sweet as springtime flowers.

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;

But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers;

With gentle conference, soft and affable.

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

O sland'rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig

Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue

As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

O, let me see thee walk. Thou dost not halt.

KATHERINA. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.

PETRUCHIO. Did ever Dian so become a grove

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate;

And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!

KATHERINA. Where did you study all this goodly speech?

PETRUCHIO. It is extempore, from my mother wit.

KATHERINA. A witty mother! witless else her son.

PETRUCHIO. Am I not wise?

KATHERINA. Yes, keep you warm.

PETRUCHIO. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed.

And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented

That you shall be my wife your dowry greed on;

And will you, nill you, I will marry you.

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,

Thou must be married to no man but me;

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

Conformable as other household Kates.

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO

Here comes your father. Never make denial;

I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

BAPTISTA. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO. How but well, sir? how but well?

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

Phoebus, arise!

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red:

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed

That she may thy career with roses spread:

The nightingales thy coming each-where sing:

Make an eternal Spring!

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;

Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,

And emperor-like decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light

—This is that happy morn

That day, long-wishèd day

Of all my life so dark,

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn

And fates my hopes betray),

Which, purely white, deserves

An everlasting diamond should it mark.

This is the morn should bring unto this grove

My Love, to hear and recompense my love.

Fair King, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams

Did once thy heart surprise.

Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:

If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,

Your furious chiding stay;

Let Zephyr only breathe,

And with her tresses play.

—The winds all silent are,

And Phoebus in his chair

Ensaffroning sea and air

Makes vanish every star:

Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:

The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;

Here is the pleasant place—

And nothing wanting is, save She, alas!

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay,

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,

In every street these tunes our ears do greet,

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

Spring! the sweet Spring!

ACT Il. SCENE I. Padua. BAPTISTA'S house

Enter KATHERINA and BIANCA

BIANCA. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,

To make a bondmaid and a slave of me-

That I disdain; but for these other gawds,

Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,

Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;

Or what you will command me will I do,

So well I know my duty to my elders.

KATHERINA. Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell

Whom thou lov'st best. See thou dissemble not.

BIANCA. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

I never yet beheld that special face

Which I could fancy more than any other.

KATHERINA. Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hortensio?

BIANCA. If you affect him, sister, here I swear

I'll plead for you myself but you shall have him.

KATHERINA. O then, belike, you fancy riches more:

You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

BIANCA. Is it for him you do envy me so?

Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive

You have but jested with me all this while.

I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

KATHERINA. [Strikes her] If that be jest, then an the rest was so.

Enter BAPTISTA

BAPTISTA. Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence?

Bianca, stand aside- poor girl! she weeps.

[He unbinds her]

Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.

For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee?

When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

KATHERINA. Her silence flouts me, and I'll be reveng'd.

[Flies after BIANCA]

BAPTISTA. What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

Exit BIANCA

KATHERINA. What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see

She is your treasure, she must have a husband;

I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,

And for your love to her lead apes in hell.

Talk not to me; I will go sit and weep,

Till I can find occasion of revenge. Exit KATHERINA

BAPTISTA. Was ever gentleman thus griev'd as I?

But who comes here?

Enter GREMIO, with LUCENTIO in the habit of a mean man;

PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a musician; and TRANIO,

as LUCENTIO, with his boy, BIONDELLO, bearing a lute and books

GREMIO. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

BAPTISTA. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio.

God save you, gentlemen!

PETRUCHIO. And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter

Call'd Katherina, fair and virtuous?

BAPTISTA. I have a daughter, sir, call'd Katherina.

GREMIO. You are too blunt; go to it orderly.

PETRUCHIO. You wrong me, Signior Gremio; give me leave.

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,

That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,

Her affability and bashful modesty,

Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,

Am bold to show myself a forward guest

Within your house, to make mine eye the witness

Of that report which I so oft have heard.

And, for an entrance to my entertainment,

I do present you with a man of mine,

[Presenting HORTENSIO]

Cunning in music and the mathematics,

To instruct her fully in those sciences,

Whereof I know she is not ignorant.

Accept of him, or else you do me wrong-

His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

BAPTISTA. Y'are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake;

But for my daughter Katherine, this I know,

She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

PETRUCHIO. I see you do not mean to part with her;

Or else you like not of my company.

BAPTISTA. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.

Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name?

PETRUCHIO. Petruchio is my name, Antonio's son,

A man well known throughout all Italy.

BAPTISTA. I know him well; you are welcome for his sake.

GREMIO. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,

Let us that are poor petitioners speak too.

Bacare! you are marvellous forward.

PETRUCHIO. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio! I would fain be doing.

GREMIO. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing.

Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To

express the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly

beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young

scholar [Presenting LUCENTIO] that hath been long studying at

Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the

other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio. Pray accept

his service.

BAPTISTA. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio. Welcome, good Cambio.

[To TRANIO] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger.

May I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?

TRANIO. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own

That, being a stranger in this city here,

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,

Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous.

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me

In the preferment of the eldest sister.

This liberty is all that I request-

That, upon knowledge of my parentage,

I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo,

And free access and favour as the rest.

And toward the education of your daughters

I here bestow a simple instrument,

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books.

If you accept them, then their worth is great.

BAPTISTA. Lucentio is your name? Of whence, I pray?

TRANIO. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

BAPTISTA. A mighty man of Pisa. By report

I know him well. You are very welcome, sir.

Take you the lute, and you the set of books;

You shall go see your pupils presently.

Holla, within!

Enter a SERVANT

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen

To my daughters; and tell them both

These are their tutors. Bid them use them well.

Exit SERVANT leading HORTENSIO carrying the lute

and LUCENTIO with the books

GRUMIO. Will he woo her? Ay, or I'll hang her.

PETRUCHIO. Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,

And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang?

And do you tell me of a woman's tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear

As will a chestnut in a fariner's fire?

Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs.

GRUMIO. For he fears none.

GREMIO. Hortensio, hark:

This gentleman is happily arriv'd,

My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.

HORTENSIO. I promis'd we would be contributors

And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe'er.

GREMIO. And so we will- provided that he win her.

GRUMIO. I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Enter TRANIO, bravely apparelled as LUCENTIO, and BIONDELLO

TRANIO. Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?

BIONDELLO. He that has the two fair daughters; is't he you mean?

TRANIO. Even he, Biondello.

GREMIO. Hark you, sir, you mean not her to-

TRANIO. Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do?

PETRUCHIO. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

TRANIO. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let's away.

LUCENTIO. [Aside] Well begun, Tranio.

HORTENSIO. Sir, a word ere you go.

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

TRANIO. And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

GREMIO. No; if without more words you will get you hence.

TRANIO. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free

For me as for you?

GREMIO. But so is not she.

TRANIO. For what reason, I beseech you?

GREMIO. For this reason, if you'll know,

That she's the choice love of Signior Gremio.

HORTENSIO. That she's the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

TRANIO. Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen,

Do me this right- hear me with patience.

Baptista is a noble gentleman,

To whom my father is not all unknown,

And, were his daughter fairer than she is,

She may more suitors have, and me for one.

Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers;

Then well one more may fair Bianca have;

And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

GREMIO. What, this gentleman will out-talk us all!

LUCENTIO. Sir, give him head; I know he'll prove a jade.

PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

HORTENSIO. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter?

TRANIO. No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two:

The one as famous for a scolding tongue

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

PETRUCHIO. Sir, sir, the first's for me; let her go by.

GREMIO. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,

And let it be more than Alcides' twelve.

PETRUCHIO. Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth:

The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,

Her father keeps from all access of suitors,

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed.

The younger then is free, and not before.

TRANIO. If it be so, sir, that you are the man

Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest;

And if you break the ice, and do this feat,

Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access- whose hap shall be to have her

Will not so graceless be to be ingrate.

HORTENSIO. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;

And since you do profess to be a suitor,

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

TRANIO. Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,

And quaff carouses to our mistress' health;

And do as adversaries do in law-

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

GRUMIO, BIONDELLO. O excellent motion! Fellows, let's be gone.

HORTENSIO. The motion's good indeed, and be it so.

Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. Exeunt

HORTENSIO. Her father is Baptista Minola,

An affable and courteous gentleman;

Her name is Katherina Minola,

Renown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue.

PETRUCHIO. I know her father, though I know not her;

And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;

And therefore let me be thus bold with you

To give you over at this first encounter,

Unless you will accompany me thither.

GRUMIO. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O' my

word, and she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding

would do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a

score knaves or so. Why, that's nothing; and he begin once, he'll

rail in his rope-tricks. I'll tell you what, sir: an she stand

him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so

disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see

withal than a cat. You know him not, sir.

HORTENSIO. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,

For in Baptista's keep my treasure is.

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca;

And her withholds from me, and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love;

Supposing it a thing impossible-

For those defects I have before rehears'd-

That ever Katherina will be woo'd.

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en,

That none shall have access unto Bianca

Till Katherine the curst have got a husband.

GRUMIO. Katherine the curst!

A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

HORTENSIO. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,

And offer me disguis'd in sober robes

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca;

That so I may by this device at least

Have leave and leisure to make love to her,

And unsuspected court her by herself.

Enter GREMIO with LUCENTIO disguised as CAMBIO

GRUMIO. Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the

young folks lay their heads together! Master, master, look about

you. Who goes there, ha?

HORTENSIO. Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love. Petruchio,

stand by awhile.

GRUMIO. A proper stripling, and an amorous!

[They stand aside]

GREMIO. O, very well; I have perus'd the note.

Hark you, sir; I'll have them very fairly bound-

All books of love, see that at any hand;

And see you read no other lectures to her.

You understand me- over and beside

Signior Baptista's liberality,

I'll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too,

And let me have them very well perfum'd;

For she is sweeter than perfume itself

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

LUCENTIO. Whate'er I read to her, I'll plead for you

As for my patron, stand you so assur'd,

As firmly as yourself were still in place;

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

GREMIO. O this learning, what a thing it is!

GRUMIO. O this woodcock, what an ass it is!

PETRUCHIO. Peace, sirrah!

HORTENSIO. Grumio, mum! [Coming forward]

God save you, Signior Gremio!

GREMIO. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.

I promis'd to enquire carefully

About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;

And by good fortune I have lighted well

On this young man; for learning and behaviour

Fit for her turn, well read in poetry

And other books- good ones, I warrant ye.

HORTENSIO. 'Tis well; and I have met a gentleman

Hath promis'd me to help me to another,

A fine musician to instruct our mistress;

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so beloved of me.

GREMIO. Beloved of me- and that my deeds shall prove.

GRUMIO. And that his bags shall prove.

HORTENSIO. Gremio, 'tis now no time to vent our love.

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair

I'll tell you news indifferent good for either.

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katherine;

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

GREMIO. So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

PETRUCHIO. I know she is an irksome brawling scold;

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

GREMIO. No, say'st me so, friend? What countryman?

PETRUCHIO. Born in Verona, old Antonio's son.

My father dead, my fortune lives for me;

And I do hope good days and long to see.

GREMIO. O Sir, such a life with such a wife were strange!

But if you have a stomach, to't a God's name;

You shall have me assisting you in all.

But will you woo this wild-cat?

PETRUCHIO. Will I live?

GRUMIO. Will he woo her? Ay, or I'll hang her.

ACT I. SCENE II. Padua. Before HORTENSIO'S house

Enter PETRUCHIO and his man GRUMIO

PETRUCHIO. Verona, for a while I take my leave,

To see my friends in Padua; but of all

My best beloved and approved friend,

Hortensio; and I trow this is his house.

Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.

GRUMIO. Knock, sir! Whom should I knock?

Is there any man has rebus'd your worship?

PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

GRUMIO. Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I

should knock you here, sir?

PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate,

And rap me well, or I'll knock your knave's pate.

GRUMIO. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,

And then I know after who comes by the worst.

PETRUCHIO. Will it not be?

Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock I'll ring it;

I'll try how you can sol-fa, and sing it.

[He wrings him by the ears]

GRUMIO. Help, masters, help! My master is mad.

PETRUCHIO. Now knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

Enter HORTENSIO

HORTENSIO. How now! what's the matter? My old friend Grumio and my

good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

'Con tutto il cuore ben trovato' may I say.

HORTENSIO. Alla nostra casa ben venuto,

Molto honorato signor mio Petruchio.

Rise, Grumio, rise; we will compound this quarrel.

GRUMIO. Nay, 'tis no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin. If this

be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service- look you, sir:

he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir. Well, was it fit

for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I

see, two and thirty, a pip out?

Whom would to God I had well knock'd at first,

Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

PETRUCHIO. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

GRUMIO. Knock at the gate? O heavens! Spake you not these words

plain: 'Sirrah knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and

knock me soundly'? And come you now with 'knocking at the gate'?

PETRUCHIO. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

HORTENSIO. Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio's pledge;

Why, this's a heavy chance 'twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.

And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?

PETRUCHIO. Such wind as scatters young men through the world

To seek their fortunes farther than at home,

Where small experience grows. But in a few,

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceas'd,

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may;

Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

HORTENSIO. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour'd wife?

Thou'dst thank me but a little for my counsel,

And yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich; but th'art too much my friend,

And I'll not wish thee to her.

PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we

Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know

One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife,

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance,

Be she as foul as was Florentius' love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates' Xanthippe or a worse-

She moves me not, or not removes, at least,

Affection's edge in me, were she as rough

As are the swelling Adriatic seas.

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

GRUMIO. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is.

Why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an

aglet-baby, or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though

she has as many diseases as two and fifty horses. Why, nothing

comes amiss, so money comes withal.

HORTENSIO. Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in,

I will continue that I broach'd in jest.

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife

With wealth enough, and young and beauteous;

Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman;

Her only fault, and that is faults enough,

Is- that she is intolerable curst,

And shrewd and froward so beyond all measure

That, were my state far worser than it is,

I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, peace! thou know'st not gold's effect.

Tell me her father's name, and 'tis enough;

For I will board her though she chide as loud

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

HORTENSIO. Her father is Baptista Minola,

An affable and courteous gentleman;

Her name is Katherina Minola,

Renown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue.

BAPTISTA. ... Bianca, get you in;

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,

For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.

KATHERINA. A pretty peat! it is best

Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

BIANCA. Sister, content you in my discontent.

Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe;

My books and instruments shall be my company,

On them to look, and practise by myself.

LUCENTIO. Hark, Tranio, thou mayst hear Minerva speak!

HORTENSIO. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?

Sorry am I that our good will effects

Bianca's grief.

GREMIO. Why will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv'd.

Go in, Bianca. Exit BIANCA

And for I know she taketh most delight

In music, instruments, and poetry,

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,

Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such,

Prefer them hither; for to cunning men

I will be very kind, and liberal

To mine own children in good bringing-up;

And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay;

For I have more to commune with Bianca. Exit

KATHERINA. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not?

What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,

I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha! Exit

GREMIO. You may go to the devil's dam; your gifts are so good

here's none will hold you. There! Love is not so great,

Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly

out; our cake's dough on both sides. Farewell; yet, for the love

I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man

to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her

father.

HORTENSIO. SO Will I, Signior Gremio; but a word, I pray. Though

the nature of our quarrel yet never brook'd parle, know now, upon

advice, it toucheth us both- that we may yet again have access to

our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca's love- to

labour and effect one thing specially.

GREMIO. What's that, I pray?

HORTENSIO. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

GREMIO. A husband? a devil.

HORTENSIO. I say a husband.

GREMIO. I say a devil. Think'st thou, Hortensio, though her father

be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?

HORTENSIO. Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to

endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the

world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all

faults, and money enough.

GREMIO. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this

condition: to be whipp'd at the high cross every morning.

HORTENSIO. Faith, as you say, there's small choice in rotten

apples. But, come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it

shall be so far forth friendly maintain'd till by helping

Baptista's eldest daughter to a husband we set his youngest free

for a husband, and then have to't afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man

be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you,

Signior Gremio?

GREMIO. I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in

Padua to begin his wooing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her,

and bed her, and rid the house of her! Come on.

Exeunt GREMIO and HORTENSIO

TRANIO. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

LUCENTIO. O Tranio, till I found it to be true,

I never thought it possible or likely.

But see! while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of love in idleness;

And now in plainness do confess to thee,

That art to me as secret and as dear

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was-

Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl.

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst;

Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

TRANIO. Master, it is no time to chide you now;

Affection is not rated from the heart;

If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so:

'Redime te captum quam queas minimo.'

LUCENTIO. Gramercies, lad. Go forward; this contents;

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound.

TRANIO. Master, you look'd so longly on the maid.

Perhaps you mark'd not what's the pith of all.

LUCENTIO. O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had,

That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,

When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand.

TRANIO. Saw you no more? Mark'd you not how her sister

Began to scold and raise up such a storm

That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

LUCENTIO. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air;

Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.

TRANIO. Nay, then 'tis time to stir him from his trance.

I pray, awake, sir. If you love the maid,

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:

Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd

That, till the father rid his hands of her,

Master, your love must live a maid at home;

And therefore has he closely mew'd her up,

Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors.

LUCENTIO. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he!

But art thou not advis'd he took some care

To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

TRANIO. Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now 'tis plotted.

LUCENTIO. I have it, Tranio.

TRANIO. Master, for my hand,

Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

LUCENTIO. Tell me thine first.

TRANIO. You will be schoolmaster,

And undertake the teaching of the maid-

That's your device.

LUCENTIO. It is. May it be done?

TRANIO. Not possible; for who shall bear your part

And be in Padua here Vincentio's son;

Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends,

Visit his countrymen, and banquet them?

LUCENTIO. Basta, content thee, for I have it full.

We have not yet been seen in any house,

Nor can we be distinguish'd by our faces

For man or master. Then it follows thus:

Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,

Keep house and port and servants, as I should;

I will some other be- some Florentine,

Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.

'Tis hatch'd, and shall be so. Tranio, at once

Uncase thee; take my colour'd hat and cloak.

When Biondello comes, he waits on thee;

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

TRANIO. So had you need. [They exchange habits]

In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,

And I am tied to be obedient-

For so your father charg'd me at our parting:

'Be serviceable to my son' quoth he,

Although I think 'twas in another sense-

I am content to be Lucentio,

Because so well I love Lucentio.

LUCENTIO. Tranio, be so because Lucentio loves;

And let me be a slave t' achieve that maid

Whose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye.

Enter BIONDELLO.

Here comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been?

BIONDELLO. Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you?

Master, has my fellow Tranio stol'n your clothes?

Or you stol'n his? or both? Pray, what's the news?

LUCENTIO. Sirrah, come hither; 'tis no time to jest,

And therefore frame your manners to the time.

Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life,

Puts my apparel and my count'nance on,

And I for my escape have put on his;

For in a quarrel since I came ashore

I kill'd a man, and fear I was descried.

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,

While I make way from hence to save my life.

You understand me?

BIONDELLO. I, sir? Ne'er a whit.

LUCENTIO. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:

Tranio is chang'd into Lucentio.

BIONDELLO. The better for him; would I were so too!

TRANIO. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,

That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest daughter.

But, sirrah, not for my sake but your master's, I advise

You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies.

When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;

But in all places else your master Lucentio.

LUCENTIO. Tranio, let's go.

One thing more rests, that thyself execute-

To make one among these wooers. If thou ask me why-

Sufficeth, my reasons are both good and weighty. Exeunt

The Presenters above speak

FIRST SERVANT. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play.

SLY. Yes, by Saint Anne do I. A good matter, surely; comes there

any more of it?

PAGE. My lord, 'tis but begun.

SLY. 'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady

Would 'twere done! [They sit and mark]

Enter the PAGE as a lady, with ATTENDANTS

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 lords call ladies.

SLY. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd

And 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.

Exeunt SERVANTS

Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

PAGE. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you

To pardon me yet for a night or two;

Or, if not so, until the sun be set.

For your physicians have expressly charg'd,

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 hardly tarry so long. But I would

be loath to fall into my dreams again. I will therefore tarry in

despite of the flesh and the blood.

Enter a MESSENGER

MESSENGER. Your honour'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 congeal'd 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.

SLY. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a comonty 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, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let

the world slip;-we shall ne'er be younger.

[They sit down]

A flourish of trumpets announces the play

ACT I. SCENE I. Padua. A public place

Enter LUCENTIO and his man TRANIO

LUCENTIO. Tranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,

I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy,

The pleasant garden of great Italy,

And by my father's love and leave am arm'd

With his good will and thy good company,

My trusty servant well approv'd in all,

Here let us breathe, and haply institute

A course of learning and ingenious studies.

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,

Gave me my being and my father first,

A merchant of great traffic through the world,

Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii;

Vincentio's son, brought up in Florence,

It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv'd,

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds.

And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,

Virtue and that part of philosophy

Will I apply that treats of happiness

By virtue specially to be achiev'd.

Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left

And am to Padua come as he that leaves

A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,

And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.

TRANIO. Mi perdonato, gentle master mine;

I am in all affected as yourself;

Glad that you thus continue your resolve

To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.

Only, good master, while we do admire

This virtue and this moral discipline,

Let's be no Stoics nor no stocks, I pray,

Or so devote to Aristotle's checks

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd.

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,

And practise rhetoric in your common talk;

Music and poesy use to quicken you;

The mathematics and the metaphysics,

Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you.

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en;

In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

LUCENTIO. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,

We could at once put us in readiness,

And take a lodging fit to entertain

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

Enter BAPTISTA with his two daughters, KATHERINA

and BIANCA; GREMIO, a pantaloon; HORTENSIO,

suitor to BIANCA. LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand by

But stay awhile; what company is this?

TRANIO. Master, some show to welcome us to town.

BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, importune me no farther,

For how I firmly am resolv'd you know;

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter

Before I have a husband for the elder.

If either of you both love Katherina,

Because I know you well and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

GREMIO. To cart her rather. She's too rough for me.

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?

KATHERINA. [To BAPTISTA] I pray you, sir, is it your will

To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

HORTENSIO. Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.

KATHERINA. I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;

Iwis it is not halfway to her heart;

But if it were, doubt not her care should be

To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool,

And paint your face, and use you like a fool.

HORTENSIO. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

GREMIO. And me, too, good Lord!

TRANIO. Husht, master! Here's some good pastime toward;

That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

LUCENTIO. But in the other's silence do I see

Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio!

TRANIO. Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good

What I have said- Bianca, get you in;

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,

For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.

SCENE II.

A bedchamber in the LORD'S house

Enter aloft SLY, with ATTENDANTS; some with apparel, basin

and ewer, and other appurtenances; and LORD

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 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 overleather.

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

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 lying'st knave in

Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. [Taking a pot of ale] 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 shall 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 wi' th' wind.

LORD. We'll show thee lo as she was a maid

And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,

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 Christopher Sly.

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;

And once again, a pot o' th' smallest ale.

SECOND SERVANT. Will't please your Mightiness to wash your hands?

O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd!

O, that once more you knew but what you are!

These fifteen years you have been in a dream;

Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd 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 old 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!

ALL. Amen.

LORD. Take him up gently, and to bed with him;

And each one to his office when he wakes.

[SLY is carried out. A trumpet sounds]

Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds-

Exit SERVANT

Belike some noble gentleman that means,

Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

Re-enter a SERVINGMAN

How now! who is it?

SERVANT. An't please your honour, players

That offer service to your lordship.

LORD. Bid them come near.

Enter PLAYERS

Now, fellows, you are welcome.

PLAYERS. We thank your honour.

LORD. Do you intend to stay with me to-night?

PLAYER. So please your lordship to accept our duty.

LORD. With all my heart. This fellow I remember

Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son;

'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well.

I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part

Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.

PLAYER. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.

LORD. 'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.

Well, you are come to me in happy time,

The rather for I have some sport in hand

Wherein your cunning can assist me much.

There is a lord will hear you play to-night;

But I am doubtful of your modesties,

Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,

For yet his honour never heard a play,

You break into some merry passion

And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,

If you should smile, he grows impatient.

PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,

Were he the veriest antic in the world.

LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,

And give them friendly welcome every one;

Let them want nothing that my house affords.

Exit one with the PLAYERS

Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page,

And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady;

That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,

And call him 'madam,' do him obeisance.

Tell him from me- as he will win my love-

He bear himself with honourable action,

Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished;

Such duty to the drunkard let him do,

With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,

And say 'What is't your honour will command,

Wherein your lady and your humble wife

May show her duty and make known her love?'

And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

And with declining head into his bosom,

Bid him shed tears, as being overjoyed

To see her noble lord restor'd to health,

Who for this seven years hath esteemed him

No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

And if the boy have not a woman's gift

To rain a shower of commanded tears,

An onion will do well for such a shift,

Which, in a napkin being close convey'd,

Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.

See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst;

Anon I'll give thee more instructions. Exit a SERVINGMAN

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

Voice, gait, and action, of a gentlewoman;

I long to hear him call the drunkard 'husband';

And how my men will stay themselves from laughter

When they do homage to this simple peasant.

I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence

May well abate the over-merry spleen,

Which otherwise would grow into extremes. Exeunt

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

by William Shakespeare

1594

Dramatis Personae

Persons in the Induction

A LORD

CHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinker

HOSTESS

PAGE

PLAYERS

HUNTSMEN

SERVANTS

BAPTISTA MINOLA, a gentleman of Padua

VINCENTIO, a Merchant of Pisa

LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca

PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katherina

Suitors to Bianca

GREMIO

HORTENSIO

Servants to Lucentio

TRANIO

BIONDELLO

Servants to Petruchio

GRUMIO

CURTIS

A PEDANT

Daughters to Baptista

KATHERINA, the shrew

BIANCA

A WIDOW

Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and

Petruchio

SCENE: Padua, and PETRUCHIO'S house in the country

SC_1

INDUCTION. SCENE I.

Before an alehouse on a heath

Enter HOSTESS and SLY

SLY. I'll pheeze you, in faith.

HOSTESS. A pair of stocks, you rogue!

SLY. Y'are 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?

SLY. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold

bed

and warm thee.

HOSTESS. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough.

Exit

SLY. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by

law.

I'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly.

[Falls asleep]

Wind horns. Enter a LORD from bunting, with his train

LORD. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;

Brach Merriman, the poor cur, is emboss'd;

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.

Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good

At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault?

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;

He cried upon it at the merest loss,

And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent;

Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

LORD. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet,

I would esteem him worth a dozen such.

But sup them well, and look unto them all;

To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

FIRST HUNTSMAN. I will, my lord.

LORD. What's here? One dead, or drunk?

See, doth he breathe?

SECOND HUNTSMAN. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with

ale,

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

LORD. O monstrous beast, how like a swine he lies!

Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!

Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.

What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,

Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,

A most delicious banquet by his bed,

And brave attendants near him when he wakes,

Would not the beggar then forget himself?

FIRST HUNTSMAN. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

SECOND HUNTSMAN. It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd.

LORD. Even as a flatt'ring dream or worthless fancy.

Then take him up, and manage well the jest:

Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;

Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters,

And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet;

Procure me music ready when he wakes,

To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight,

And with a low submissive reverence

Say 'What is it your honour will command?'

Let one attend him with a silver basin

Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;

Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,

And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'

Some one be ready with a costly suit,

And ask him what apparel he will wear;

Another tell him of his hounds and horse,

And that his lady mourns at his disease;

Persuade him that he hath been lunatic,

And, when he says he is, say that he dreams,

For he is nothing but a mighty lord.

This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs;

It will be pastime passing excellent,

If it be husbanded with modesty.

FIRST HUNTSMAN. My lord, I warrant you we will play our part

As he shall think by our true diligence

He is no less than what we say he is.

LORD. Take him up gently, and to bed with him;

And each one to his office when he wakes.

[SLY is carried out. A trumpet sounds]

Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds-

Exit SERVANT

Belike some noble gentleman that means,

Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

There was an Old Person of Spain,
Who hated all trouble and pain;
So he sate on a chair
with his feet in the air,
That umbrageous Old Person of Spain.

There was an Old Man who said, “Well!
Will nobody answer this bell?
I have pulled day and night,
till my hair has grown white,
But nobody answers this bell!”

There was an Old Man with an Owl,
Who continued to bother and howl;
He sat on a rail,
and imbibed bitter ale,
Which refreshed that Old Man and his Owl.

There was an Old Man in a casement,
Who held up his hands in amazement;
When they said, “Sir, you’ll fall!”
he replied, “Not at all!”
That incipient Old Man in a casement.

There was an Old Person of Ewell,
Who chiefly subsisted on gruel;
But to make it more nice,
he inserted some Mice,
Which refreshed that Old Person of Ewell.

There was an Old Man of Peru.
Who never knew what he should do;
So he tore off his hair,
and behaved like a bear,
That intrinsic Old Man of Peru.

There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, “It is just as I feared!--
Two Owls and a Hen,
four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard.”

There was a Young Lady whose eyes
Were unique as to color and size;
When she opened them wide,
people all turned aside,
And started away in surprise.

There was a Young Lady of Ryde,
Whose shoe-strings were seldom untied;
She purchased some clogs,
and some small spotty Dogs,
And frequently walked about Ryde.

There was a Young Lady whose bonnet
Came untied when the birds sate upon it;
But she said, “I don’t care!
all the birds in the air
Are welcome to sit on my bonnet!”

There was a Young Lady of Parma,
Whose conduct grew calmer and calmer:
When they said, “Are you dumb?”
she merely said, “Hum!”
That provoking Young Lady of Parma.

There was an Old Person of Sparta,
Who had twenty-five sons and one “darter;”
He fed them on Snails,
and weighed them in scales,
That wonderful Person of Sparta.

There was an Old Man on whose nose
Most birds of the air could repose;
But they all flew away
at the closing of day,
Which relieved that Old Man and his nose.

There was a Young Lady of Turkey,
Who wept when the weather was murky;
When the day turned out fine,
she ceased to repine,
That capricious Young Lady of Turkey.

There was an Old Man of Aosta
Who possessed a large Cow, but he lost her;
But they said, “Don’t you see
she has run up a tree,
You invidious Old Man of Aosta?”

There was a Young Person of Crete,
Whose toilette was far from complete;
She dressed in a sack
spickle-speckled with black,
That ombliferous Person of Crete.

There was a Young Lady of Clare,
Who was madly pursued by a Bear;
When she found she was tired,
she abruptly expired,
That unfortunate Lady of Clare.

There was a Young Lady of Dorking,
Who bought a large bonnet for walking;
But its color and size
so bedazzled her eyes,
That she very soon went back to Dorking.

There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,
Who wished he had never been born;
So he sat on a Chair
till he died of despair,
That dolorous Man of Cape Horn.

There was an old Person of Cromer,
Who stood on one leg to read Homer;
When he found he grew stiff,
he jumped over the cliff,
Which concluded that Person of Cromer.

There was an Old Man of the Hague,
Whose ideas were excessively vague;
He built a balloon
to examine the moon,
That deluded Old Man of the Hague.

There was an Old Man of the West,
Who never could get any rest;
So they set him to spin
on his nose and his chin,
Which cured that Old Man of the West.

There was an Old Person of Cheadle
Was put in the stocks by the Beadle
For stealing some pigs,
some coats, and some wigs,
That horrible person of Cheadle.

There was an Old Person of Anerley,
Whose conduct was strange and unmannerly;
He rushed down the Strand
with a Pig in each hand,
But returned in the evening to Anerley.

There was a Young Lady of Wales,
Who caught a large Fish without scales;
When she lifted her hook,
she exclaimed, “Only look!”
That ecstatic Young Lady of Wales.

There was a Young Lady of Welling,
Whose praise all the world was a-telling;
She played on the harp,
and caught several Carp,
That accomplished Young Lady of Welling.

There was an Old Person of Tartary,
Who divided his jugular artery;
But he screeched to his Wife,
and she said, “Oh, my life!
Your death will be felt by all Tartary!”

There was an Old Man of Whitehaven,
Who danced a quadrille with a Raven;
But they said, “It’s absurd
to encourage this bird!”
So they smashed that Old Man of Whitehaven.

There was a Young Lady of Sweden,
Who went by the slow train to Weedon;
When they cried, “Weedon Station!”
she made no observation,
But thought she should go back to Sweden.

There was an Old Person of Chester,
Whom several small children did pester;
They threw some large stones,
which broke most of his bones,
And displeased that Old Person of Chester.

There was an Old Man of the Cape,
Who possessed a large Barbary Ape;
Till the Ape, one dark night,
set the house all alight,
Which burned that Old Man of the Cape.

There was an Old Person of Burton,
Whose answers were rather uncertain;
When they said, “How d’ ye do?”
he replied, “Who are you?”
That distressing Old Person of Burton.

There was an Old Person of Ems
Who casually fell in the Thames;
And when he was found,
they said he was drowned,
That unlucky Old Person of Ems.

There was a Young Girl of Majorca,
Whose Aunt was a very fast walker;
She walked seventy miles,
and leaped fifteen stiles,
Which astonished that Girl of Majorca.

There was a Young Lady of Poole,
Whose soup was excessively cool;
So she put it to boil
by the aid of some oil,
That ingenious Young Lady of Poole.

There was an Old Lady of Prague,
Whose language was horribly vague;
When they said, “Are these caps?”
she answered, “Perhaps!”
That oracular Lady of Prague.

There was an Old Man who said, “How
Shall I flee from this horrible Cow?
I will sit on this stile,
and continue to smile,
Which may soften the heart of that Cow.”

There was a Young Lady of Troy,
Whom several large flies did annoy;
Some she killed with a thump,
some she drowned at the pump,
And some she took with her to Troy.

There was a Young Lady of Hull,
Who was chased by a virulent Bull;
But she seized on a spade,
and called out, “Who’s afraid?”
Which distracted that virulent Bull.

There was an Old Person of Dutton,
Whose head was as small as a button;
So to make it look big
he purchased a wig,
And rapidly rushed about Dutton.

There was an Old Man who said, “Hush!
I perceive a young bird in this bush!”
When they said, “Is it small?”
he replied, “Not at all;
It is four times as big as the bush!”

There was a Young Lady of Russia,
Who screamed so that no one could hush her;
Her screams were extreme,--
no one heard such a scream
As was screamed by that Lady of Russia.

There was a Young Lady of Tyre,
Who swept the loud chords of a lyre;
At the sound of each sweep
she enraptured the deep,
And enchanted the city of Tyre.

There was an Old Person of Bangor,
Whose face was distorted with anger;
He tore off his boots,
and subsisted on roots,
That borascible Person of Bangor.

There was an Old Man of the East,
Who gave all his children a feast;
But they all ate so much,
and their conduct was such,
That it killed that Old Man of the East.

There was an Old Man of the Coast,
Who placidly sat on a post;
But when it was cold
he relinquished his hold,
And called for some hot buttered toast.

There was an Old Man of Kamschatka,
Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur;
His gait and his waddle
were held as a model
To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka.

There was an Old Person of Gretna,
Who rushed down the crater of Etna;
When they said, “Is it hot?”
he replied, “No, it’s not!”
That mendacious Old Person of Gretna.

There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who sat on a Horse when he reared;
But they said, “Never mind!
you will fall off behind,
You propitious Old Man with a beard!”

There was an Old Man of Berlin,
Whose form was uncommonly thin;
Till he once, by mistake,
was mixed up in a cake,
So they baked that Old Man of Berlin.

There was an Old Person of Rhodes,
Who strongly objected to toads;
He paid several cousins
to catch them by dozens,
That futile Old Person of Rhodes.

There was an Old Man of the South,
Who had an immoderate mouth;
But in swallowing a dish
that was quite full of Fish,
He was choked, that Old Man of the South.

There was an Old Man of Melrose,
Who walked on the tips of his toes;
But they said, “It ain’t pleasant
to see you at present,
You stupid Old Man of Melrose.”

There was an Old Man of the Dee,
Who was sadly annoyed by a Flea;
When he said, “I will scratch it!”
they gave him a hatchet,
Which grieved that Old Man of the Dee.

There was a Young Lady of Lucca,
Whose lovers completely forsook her;
She ran up a tree,
and said “Fiddle-de-dee!”
Which embarrassed the people of Lucca.

There was an Old Man of Coblenz,
The length of whose legs was immense;
He went with one prance
from Turkey to France,
That surprising Old Man of Coblenz.

There was an Old Man of Bohemia,
Whose daughter was christened Euphemia;
But one day, to his grief,
she married a thief,
Which grieved that Old Man of Bohemia.

There was an Old Man of Corfu,
Who never knew what he should do;
So he rushed up and down,
till the sun made him brown,
That bewildered Old Man of Corfu.

There was an Old Man of Vesuvius,
Who studied the works of Vitruvius;
When the flames burnt his book,
to drinking he took,
That morbid Old Man of Vesuvius.

There was an Old Man of Dundee,
Who frequented the top of a tree;
When disturbed by the Crows,
he abruptly arose,
And exclaimed, “I’ll return to Dundee!”

There was an Old Lady whose folly
Induced her to sit in a holly;
Whereon, by a thorn
her dress being torn,
She quickly became melancholy.

There was an Old Man on some rocks,
Who shut his Wife up in a box:
When she said, “Let me out,”
he exclaimed, “Without doubt
You will pass all your life in that box.”

There was an Old Person of Rheims,
Who was troubled with horrible dreams;
So to keep him awake
they fed him with cake,
Which amused that Old Person of Rheims.

There was an Old Man of Leghorn,
The smallest that ever was born;
But quickly snapt up he
was once by a Puppy,
Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn.

There was an Old Man in a pew,
Whose waistcoat was spotted with blue;
But he tore it in pieces,
to give to his Nieces,
That cheerful Old Man in a pew.

There was an Old Person of Philoe,
Whose conduct was scroobious and wily;
He rushed up a Palm
when the weather was calm,
And observed all the ruins of Philoe.

There was an Old Man with a poker,
Who painted his face with red ochre.
When they said, “You ‘re a Guy!”
he made no reply,
But knocked them all down with his poker.

There was an Old Person of Prague,
Who was suddenly seized with the plague;
But they gave him some butter,
which caused him to mutter,
And cured that Old Person of Prague.

There was an Old Man of Peru,
Who watched his wife making a stew;
But once, by mistake,
in a stove she did bake
That unfortunate Man of Peru.

There was an Old Man of the North,
Who fell into a basin of broth;
But a laudable cook
fished him out with a hook,
Which saved that Old Man of the North.

There was an Old Person of Troy,
Whose drink was warm brandy and soy,
Which he took with a spoon,
by the light of the moon,
In sight of the city of Troy.

There was an Old Person of Mold,
Who shrank from sensations of cold;
So he purchased some muffs,
some furs, and some fluffs,
And wrapped himself well from the cold.

There was an Old Person of Tring,
Who embellished his nose with a ring;
He gazed at the moon
every evening in June,
That ecstatic Old Person of Tring.

There was an Old Man of Nepaul,
From his horse had a terrible fall;
But, though split quite in two,
with some very strong glue
They mended that man of Nepaul.

There was an Old Man of the Nile,
Who sharpened his nails with a file,
Till he cut off his thumbs,
and said calmly, “This comes
Of sharpening one’s nails with a file!”

There was an Old Man of th’ Abruzzi,
So blind that he couldn’t his foot see;
When they said, “That’s your toe,”
he replied, “Is it so?”
That doubtful Old Man of th’ Abruzzi.

There was an Old Man of Calcutta,
Who perpetually ate bread and butter;
Till a great bit of muffin,
on which he was stuffing,
Choked that horrid Old Man of Calcutta.

There was an Old Man of the Isles,
Whose face was pervaded with smiles;
He sang “High dum diddle,”
and played on the fiddle,
That amiable Man of the Isles.

There was an Old Person of Basing,
Whose presence of mind was amazing;
He purchased a steed,
which he rode at full speed,
And escaped from the people of Basing.

There was an Old Man who supposed
That the street door was partially closed;
But some very large Rats
ate his coats and his hats,
While that futile Old Gentleman dozed.

There was an Old Person whose habits
Induced him to feed upon Rabbits;
When he’d eaten eighteen,
he turned perfectly green,
Upon which he relinquished those habits.

There was an Old Man of the West,
Who wore a pale plum-colored vest;
When they said, “Does it fit?”
he replied, “Not a bit!”
That uneasy Old Man of the West.

There was an Old Man of Marseilles,
Whose daughters wore bottle-green veils:
They caught several Fish,
which they put in a dish,
And sent to their Pa at Marseilles.

There was an Old Man of the Wrekin,
Whose shoes made a horrible creaking;
But they said, “Tell us whether
your shoes are of leather,
Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?”

There was a Young Lady whose nose
Was so long that it reached to her toes;
So she hired an Old Lady,
whose conduct was steady,
To carry that wonderful nose.

There was a Young Lady of Norway,
Who casually sat in a doorway;
When the door squeezed her flat,
she exclaimed, “What of that?”
This courageous Young Lady of Norway.

There was an Old Man of Apulia,
Whose conduct was very peculiar;
He fed twenty sons
upon nothing but buns,
That whimsical Man of Apulia.

There was an Old Man of Quebec,--
A beetle ran over his neck;
But he cried, “With a needle
I’ll slay you, O beadle!”
That angry Old Man of Quebec.

There was a Young Lady of Bute,
Who played on a silver-gilt flute;
She played several jigs
to her Uncle’s white Pigs:
That amusing Young Lady of Bute.

There was an Old Man with a flute,--
A “sarpint” ran into his boot!
But he played day and night,
till the “sarpint” took flight,
And avoided that Man with a flute.

There was a Young Lady of Portugal,
Whose ideas were excessively nautical;
She climbed up a tree
to examine the sea,
But declared she would never leave Portugal.

There was an Old Person of Ischia,
Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier;
He danced hornpipes and jigs,
and ate thousands of figs,
That lively Old Person of Ischia.

There was an Old Man of Vienna,
Who lived upon Tincture of Senna;
When that did not agree,
he took Camomile Tea,
That nasty Old Man of Vienna.

There was an Old Man in a boat,
Who said, “I’m afloat! I’m afloat!”
When they said, “No, you ain’t!”
he was ready to faint,
That unhappy Old Man in a boat.

There was an Old Person of Buda,
Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder,
Till at last with a hammer
they silenced his clamor.
By smashing that Person of Buda.

There was an Old Man of Moldavia,
Who had the most curious behavior;
For while he was able,
he slept on a table,
That funny Old Man of Moldavia.

There was an Old Person of Hurst,
Who drank when he was not athirst;
When they said, “You’ll grow fatter!”
he answered “What matter?”
That globular Person of Hurst.

There was an Old Man of Madras,
Who rode on a cream-colored Ass;
But the length of its ears
so promoted his fears,
That it killed that Old Man of Madras.

There was an Old Person of Dover,
Who rushed through a field of blue clover;
But some very large Bees
stung his nose and his knees,
So he very soon went back to Dover.

There was an Old Person of Leeds,
Whose head was infested with beads;
She sat on a stool
and ate gooseberry-fool,
Which agreed with that Person of Leeds.

There was an Old Person of Cadiz,
Who was always polite to all ladies;
But in handing his daughter,
he fell into the water,
Which drowned that Old Person of Cadiz.

There was an Old Derry down Derry,
who loved to see little folks merry;
So he made them a Book,
and with laughter they shook
At the fun of that Derry down Derry.

There was an Old Man with a nose,
Who said, “If you choose to suppose
That my nose is too long,
you are certainly wrong!”
That remarkable Man with a nose.

There was a Young Person of Smyrna,
Whose Grandmother threatened to burn her;
But she seized on the Cat,
and said, “Granny, burn that!
You incongruous Old Woman of Smyrna!”

There was an Old Man on a hill,
Who seldom, if ever, stood still;
He ran up and down
in his Grandmother’s gown,
Which adorned that Old Man on a hill.

There was an Old Person of Chili,
Whose conduct was painful and silly;
He sate on the stairs,
eating apples and pears,
That imprudent Old Person of Chili.

There was an Old Man with a gong,
Who bumped at it all the day long;
But they called out, “Oh, law!
you’re a horrid old bore!”
So they smashed that Old Man with a gong.

There was an Old Man of Kilkenny,
Who never had more than a penny;
He spent all that money
in onions and honey,
That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny.

There was an Old Man of Columbia,
Who was thirsty, and called out for some beer;
But they brought it quite hot,
in a small copper pot,
Which disgusted that man of Columbia.

There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, “Does it buzz?”
he replied, “Yes, it does!
It’s a regular brute of a Bee.”

There was an Old Lady of Chertsey,
Who made a remarkable curtsey;
She twirled round and round,
till she sank underground,
Which distressed all the people of Chertsey.

There was a Young Lady whose chin
Resembled the point of a pin;
So she had it made sharp,
and purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin.