Pet. Father, 'tis thus: Yourself and all the world, For the's not froward, but modeft as the dove: Cath. I'll fee thee hang'd on Sunday first. Gre. Hark: Petruchio! the fays fhe'll fee thee hang'd firit. Tra. Is this your fpeeding? nay, then, good night, our part ! Pet. Be patient, Sirs, I chufe her for myfelf; How much he loves me; oh, the kindeft Kate ! Bap. I know not what to fay, but give your hands; God fend you joy, Petruchio! 'tis a match. Gre. Tra. Amen, fay we; we will be witneffes. I will to Venice, Sunday comes apace, We will have rings and things, and fine array; [Exeunt Petruchio and Catharine feverally. SCENE VI. Gre. Was ever match clapt up fo fuddenly? And And venture madly on a desperate mart. Tra. 'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you; 'Twill bring you gain, or perith on the feas. Bap. The gain I feek is quiet in the match. Tra. And I am one, that love Bianca more Than words can witnefs, or your thoughts can guefs. Gre. Youngling! thou can't not love fo dear as I. Tra. Grey-beard! thy love doth freeze. Gre. But thine doth fry. Skipper, ftand back; 'tis age that nourisheth. 'Tis deels mult win the prize; and he, of both, Say, Signior Gremio, what can you affure her? Balons and ewers to lave her dainty hands: In ivory coffers i have ftuff'd my crowns; Fine linen, Turky cushions bols'd with pearl; Sir, list to me; I am my father's heir, and only fon; Within rich Pifa walls, as any one Old Signior Gremio has in Padua; Of fruitful land; all which thall be her jointure. Tra. Gremio, 'tis known, my father hath no less Bap. I must confess, your offer is the best; My daughter Catharine is to be married. And fo I take my leave, and thank you both. [Exit. not Sirrah, young gamefter, your father were a fool [Exit. Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide! Yet I have face'd it with a card of ten : 'Tis in my head to do my master good, I fee no reason, but fuppos'd Lucentio May May get a father, call'd, fuppos'd Vincentio; Do get their children; but, in this cafe of wooing, [The prefenters, above, speak here. Sly. Sim, when will the fool come again? [Exit. Sly. Give's fome more drink here—Where's the tapfter? Here, Sim, eat fome of these things. Sim. So I do, my Lord. Sly. Here, Sim, I drink to thee. A CT III. SCENE I. Luc. Baptifta's houfe. Enter Lucentio, Hortenfio, and Bianca. Idler, forbear; you grow too forward, Sir: The patronefs of heavenly harmony; Luc. Prepofterous afs! that never read so far And, while I paufe, ferve in your harmony. Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear thefe braves of thine, Bian. Why, Gentlemen, you do me double wrong, To ftrive for that which refteth in my choice. I am no breeching scholar in the schools; I'll not be tied to hours, nor 'pointed times, But learn my leffons as I pleafe myfelf; And to cut off all strife, here fit we down, Take you your inftrument, play you the while; His lecture will be done ere you have tun'd. Her. Hor. You'll leave his lecture, when I am in tune? [Hortenfio retires. Luc. That will be never: tune your inftrument. Luc. Here, Madam: Hac ibat Simois; hic eft Sigeia tellus ; Hic fteterat Priami regia celfa fenis. Bian. Conftrue them. Luc. Hac ibat, as I told you before; Simois, I am Lucentio; hic eft, fon unto Vincentio of Pifa; Sigeia tellus, difguifed thus to get your love; hic fteterat, and that Lucentio that comes a wooing; Priami, is my man Tranio; regia, bearing my port; celfa fenis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon. Hor. Madam, my inftrument's in tune. [Returning. Bian. Now let me fee if I can conftrue it. Hac ibat Simois, I know you not; hic eft Sigeia tellus, I trust you not; hic fteterat Priami, take heed he hear us not; regia, prefume not; celfa fenis, despair not. Hor. Madam, 'tis now in tune. Luc. All but the bafe. Hor. The bafe is right; 'tis the base knave that jars. How fiery and how froward is our pedant! Now, for my life, that knave doth court my love; Pedafcale, I'll watch you better yet. Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. Luc. Miftruft it not ;-for, fure, Æacides Was Ajax, call'd fo from his grandfather. Bian. I must believe my mafter, elfe I promise you, I fhould be arguing ftill upon that doubt; But let it reft. Now, Licio, to you:` Good mafters, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. Hor. You may go walk, and give me leave a while; My leffons make no mufic in three parts. Luc. Are you fo formal, Sir? well, I must wait, And watch withal; for but I be deceiv'd, Our fine musician groweth amorous. He would have faid didafcale; but thinking this too honourable, he coins the word pedafeole in imitation of it, from pedant. Hor. |