The Taming of the Shrew
William Shakespeare [Craig, Oxford edition]
Part 2 out of 3
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 o' Sunday.
[Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA, severally.]
Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly?
Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part,
And venture madly on a desperate mart.
'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;
'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.
The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.
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.
And I am one that love Bianca more
Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.
Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.
Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.
But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back; 'tis age that nourisheth.
But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth.
Content you, gentlemen; I'll 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?
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 belong
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.
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?
Two thousand ducats by the year of land!
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?
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 offer'st next.
Nay, I have offer'd 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.
Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,
By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied.
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?
That's but a cavil; he is old, I young.
And may not young men die as well as old?
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.
Adieu, good neighbour.
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.
A vengeance on your crafty wither'd 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.
SCENE I. Padua. A room in BAPTISTA'S house.
[Enter LUCENTIO, HORTENSIO, and BIANCA.]
Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir.
Have you so soon forgot the entertainment
Her sister Katherine welcome'd you withal?
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.
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.
Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.
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.
You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune?
That will be never: tune your instrument.
Where left we last?
Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.
'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.
Madam, my instrument's in tune.
O fie! the treble jars.
Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.
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.
Madam, 'tis now in tune.
All but the base.
The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.
How fiery and forward our pedant is!
[Aside] Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:
Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.
In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.
Mistrust it not; for sure, AEacides
Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather.
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.
[To LUCENTIO] You may go walk and give me leave awhile;
My lessons make no music in three parts.
Are you so formal, sir?
[Aside] Well, I must wait,
And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd,
Our fine musician groweth amorous.
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.
Why, I am past my gamut long ago.
Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.
'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.]
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.
Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone.
[Exeunt BIANCA and SERVANT.]
Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.
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.
SCENE II. The same. Before BAPTISTA'S house.
[Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, LUCENTIO, and
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?
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.'
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.
Would Katherine had never seen him though!
[Exit, weeping, followed by BIANCA and others.]
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.
Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heard
Is it new and old too? How may that be?
Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's coming?
Is he come?
Why, no, sir.
He is coming.
When will he be here?
When he stands where I am and sees you there.
But, say, what to thine old news?
Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old
jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots
that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old
rusty sword ta'en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt,
and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an
old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed
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 spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in
the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a
half-checked 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 pieced,
and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her
name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with
Who comes with him?
O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like
the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose
on the other, gartered 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.
'Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;
Yet oftentimes lie goes but mean-apparell'd.
I am glad he's come, howsoe'er he comes.
Why, sir, he comes not.
Didst thou not say he comes?
Who? that Petruchio came?
Ay, that Petruchio came.
No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back.
Why, that's all one.
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.]
Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home?
You are welcome, sir.
And yet I come not well.
And yet you halt not.
Not so well apparell'd
As I wish you were.
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?
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.
And tell us what occasion of import
Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife,
And sent you hither so unlike yourself?
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.
See not your bride in these unreverent robes;
Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.
Not I, believe me: thus I'll visit her.
But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.
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, GRUMIO, and BIODELLO.]
He hath some meaning in his mad attire.
We will persuade him, be it possible,
To put on better ere he go to church.
I'll after him and see the event of this.
[Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO and ATTENDENTS.]
But to her love concerneth us to add
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.
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.
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.
Signior Gremio, came you from the church?
As willingly as e'er I came from school.
And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?
A bridegroom, say you? 'Tis a groom indeed,
A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.
Curster than she? Why, 'tis impossible.
Why, he's a devil, a devil, a very fiend.
Why, she's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam.
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,
The 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.'
What said the wench, when he rose again?
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.
[Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA, HORTENSIO,
GRUMIO, and Train.]
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.
Is't possible you will away to-night?
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.
Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.
It may not be.
Let me entreat you.
It cannot be.
Let me entreat you.
I am content.
Are you content to stay?
I am content you shall entreat me stay;
But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.
Now, if you love me, stay.
Grumio, my horse!
Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses.
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.
O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry.
I will be angry: what hast thou to do?
Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.
Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.
Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:
I see a woman may be made a fool,
If she had not a spirit to resist.
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 anything;
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.]
Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.
Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.
Of all mad matches, never was the like.
Mistress, what's your opinion of your sister?
That, being mad herself, she's madly mated.
I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.
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.
Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?
She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let's go.
SCENE I. A hall in PETRUCHIO'S country house.
Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all
foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray'd? Was
ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are
coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon
hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof
of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to
thaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself; for,
considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold.
Holla, ho! Curtis!
Who is that calls so coldly?
A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my
shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my
neck. A fire, good Curtis.
Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?
O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no
Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported?
She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou knowest
winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old
master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.
Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.
Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot; and so long
am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain
on thee to our mistress, whose hand,--she being now at hand,--
thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy
I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?
A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and
therefore fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and
mistress are almost frozen to death.
There's fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news?
Why, 'Jack boy! ho, boy!' and as much news as thou wilt.
Come, you are so full of cony-catching.
Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold.
Where's the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes
strewed, cobwebs swept, the serving-men in their new fustian,
their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on?
Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpets
laid, and everything in order?
All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news?
First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.
Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale.
Let's ha't, good Grumio.
Lend thine ear.
[Striking him.] There.
This 'tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.
And therefore 'tis called a sensible tale; and this cuff
was but to knock at your car and beseech listening. Now I begin:
Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my
Both of one horse?
What's that to thee?
Why, a horse.
Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou
shouldst have heard how her horse fell and she under her horse;
thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was
bemoiled; how he left her with the horse upon her; how he beat me
because her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt to
pluck him off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayed
before; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle was
burst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of worthy memory,
which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to
By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.
Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find
when he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth
Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the
rest; let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brush'd
and their garters of an indifferent knit; let them curtsy with
their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master's
horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready?
Call them forth.
Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance my
Why, she hath a face of her own.
Who knows not that?
Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her.
I call them forth to credit her.
Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.
[Enter several SERVANTS.]
Welcome home, Grumio!
How now, Grumio!
How now, old lad!
Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you;
and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all
ready, and all things neat?
All things is ready. How near is our master?
E'en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,--
Cock's passion, silence! I hear my master.
[Enter PETRUCHIO and KATHERINA.]
Where be these knaves? What! no man at door
To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse?
Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?--
Here, here, sir; here, sir.
Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!
You logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms!
What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?
Where is the foolish knave I sent before?
Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.
You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge!
Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,
And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?
Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made,
And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel;
There was no link to colour Peter's hat,
And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing;
There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;
The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;
Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.
Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in.
[Exeunt some of the SERVANTS.]
Where is the life that late I led?
Where are those--? Sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Soud, soud, soud, soud!
[Re-enter SERVANTS with supper.]
Why, when, I say?--Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.--
Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! when?
It was the friar of orders grey,
As he forth walked on his way:
Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:
Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.
Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!
Where's my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence
And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:
One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with.
Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?
Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.--
[SERVANT lets the ewer fall. PETRUCHIO strikes him.]
You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?
Patience, I pray you; 'twas a fault unwilling.
A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave!
Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.
Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?--
What's this? Mutton?
Who brought it?
'Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.
What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?
How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,
And serve it thus to me that love it not?
[Throws the meat, etc., at them.]
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all.
You heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves!
What! do you grumble? I'll be with you straight.
I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet;
The meat was well, if you were so contented.
I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away,
And I expressly am forbid to touch it;
For it engenders choler, planteth anger;
And better 'twere that both of us did fast,
Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,
Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.
Be patient; to-morrow 't shall be mended.
And for this night we'll fast for company:
Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.
[Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, and CURTIS.]
Peter, didst ever see the like?
He kills her in her own humour.
Where is he?
In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
And sits as one new risen from a dream.
Away, away! for he is coming hither.
Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
And 'tis my hope to end successfully.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty.
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg'd,
For then she never looks upon her lure.
Another way I have to man my haggard,
To make her come, and know her keeper's call,
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites
That bate and beat, and will not be obedient.
She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;
Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not;
As with the meat, some undeserved fault
I'll find about the making of the bed;
And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets;
Ay, and amid this hurly I intend
That all is done in reverend care of her;
And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night:
And if she chance to nod I'll rail and brawl,
And with the clamour keep her still awake.
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;
And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak; 'tis charity to show.
SCENE II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house.
[Enter TRANIO and HORTENSIO.]
Is 't possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca
Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?
I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.
Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,
Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching.
[They stand aside.]
[Enter BIANCA and LUCENTIO.]
Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?
What, master, read you, First resolve me that.
I read that I profess, the Art to Love.
And may you prove, sir, master of your art!
While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart.
Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray,
You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca
Lov'd none in the world so well as Lucentio.
O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!
I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.
Mistake no more; I am not Licio.
Nor a musician as I seem to be;
But one that scorn to live in this disguise
For such a one as leaves a gentleman
And makes a god of such a cullion:
Know, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio.
Signior Hortensio, I have often heard
Of your entire affection to Bianca;
And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,
I will with you, if you be so contented,
Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.
See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,
Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow
Never to woo her more, but do forswear her,
As one unworthy all the former favours
That I have fondly flatter'd her withal.
And here I take the like unfeigned oath,
Never to marry with her though she would entreat;
Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him!
Would all the world but he had quite forsworn!
For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,
I will be married to a wealtlly widow
Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov'd me
As I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard.
And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love; and so I take my leave,
In resolution as I swore before.
[Exit HORTENSIO. LUCENTIO and BIANCA advance.]
Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace
As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case!
Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love,
And have forsworn you with Hortensio.
Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me?
Mistress, we have.
Then we are rid of Licio.
I' faith, he'll have a lusty widow now,
That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day.
God give him joy!
Ay, and he'll tame her.
He says so, Tranio.
Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.
The taming-school! What, is there such a place?
Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master,
That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,
To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.
[Enter BIONDELLO, running.]
O master, master! I have watch'd so long
That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied
An ancient angel coming down the hill
Will serve the turn.
What is he, Biondello?
Master, a mercatante or a pedant,
I know not what; but formal in apparel,
In gait and countenance surely like a father.
And what of him, Tranio?
If he be credulous and trust my tale,
I'll make him glad to seem Vincentio,
And give assurance to Baptista Minola,
As if he were the right Vincentio.
Take in your love, and then let me alone.
[Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.]
[Enter a PEDANT.]
God save you, sir!
And you, sir! you are welcome.
Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?
Sir, at the farthest for a week or two;
But then up farther, and as far as Rome;
And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.
What countryman, I pray?
Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid,
And come to Padua, careless of your life!
My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard.
'Tis death for any one in Mantua
To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?
Your ships are stay'd at Venice; and the duke,--
For private quarrel 'twixt your duke and him,--
Hath publish'd and proclaim'd it openly.
'Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come
You might have heard it else proclaim'd about.
Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so;
For I have bills for money by exchange
From Florence, and must here deliver them.
Well, sir, to do you courtesy,
This will I do, and this I will advise you:
First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?
Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,
Pisa renowned for grave citizens.
Among them know you one Vincentio?
I know him not, but I have heard of him,
A merchant of incomparable wealth.
He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,
In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.
[Aside.] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.
To save your life in this extremity,
This favour will I do you for his sake;
And think it not the worst of all your fortunes
That you are like to Sir Vincentio.
His name and credit shall you undertake,
And in my house you shall be friendly lodg'd;
Look that you take upon you as you should!
You understand me, sir; so shall you stay
Till you have done your business in the city.
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.
O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever
The patron of my life and liberty.
Then go with me to make the matter good.
This, by the way, I let you understand:
My father is here look'd for every day
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage
'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here:
In all these circumstances I'll instruct you.
Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.
SCENE III. A room in PETRUCHIO'S house.
[Enter KATHERINA and GRUMIO.]
No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life.
The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.
What, did he marry me to famish me?
Beggars that come unto my father's door
Upon entreaty have a present alms;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity;
But I, who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat,
Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.
And that which spites me more than all these wants,
He does it under name of perfect love;
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat
'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.
I prithee go and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.
What say you to a neat's foot?
'Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it.
I fear it is too choleric a meat.
How say you to a fat tripe finely broil'd?
I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me.
I cannot tell; I fear 'tis choleric.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
A dish that I do love to feed upon.
Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.
Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest.
Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.
Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.
Why then the mustard without the beef.
Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,
That feed'st me with the very name of meat.
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you
That triumph thus upon my misery!
Go, get thee gone, I say.
[Enter PETRUCHIO with a dish of meat; and HORTENSIO.]
How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?
Mistress, what cheer?
Faith, as cold as can be.
Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee:
[Sets the dish on a table.]
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not,
And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
Here, take away this dish.
I pray you, let it stand.
The poorest service is repaid with thanks;
And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.
I thank you, sir.
Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.
Come, Mistress Kate, I'll bear you company.
[Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.
Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!
Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love,
Will we return unto thy father's house
And revel it as bravely as the best,
With silken coats and caps, and golden rings,
With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;
With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery.
What! hast thou din'd? The tailor stays thy leisure,
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.
Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;
Lay forth the gown.--
What news with you, sir?
Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.
Why, this was moulded on a porringer;
A velvet dish: fie, fie! 'tis lewd and filthy:
Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap:
Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.
I'll have no bigger; this doth fit the time,
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.
When you are gentle, you shall have one too,
And not till then.
[Aside] That will not be in haste.
Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;
And speak I will. I am no child, no babe.
Your betters have endur'd me say my mind,
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break;
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
Why, thou say'st true; it is a paltry cap,
A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie;
I love thee well in that thou lik'st it not.
Love me or love me not, I like the cap;
And it I will have, or I will have none.
Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see't.
O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?
What's this? A sleeve? 'Tis like a demi-cannon.
What, up and down, carv'd like an appletart?
Here's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop.
Why, what i' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?
[Aside] I see she's like to have neither cap nor gown.
You bid me make it orderly and well,
According to the fashion and the time.
Marry, and did; but if you be remember'd,
I did not bid you mar it to the time.
Go, hop me over every kennel home,
For you shall hop without my custom, sir.
I'll none of it: hence! make your best of it.
I never saw a better fashion'd gown,
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable;
Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.
Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee.
She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.
O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!
Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread!
Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st!
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.
Your worship is deceiv'd: the gown is made
Just as my master had direction.
Grumio gave order how it should be done.
I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.
But how did you desire it should be made?
Marry, sir, with needle and thread.
But did you not request to have it cut?
Thou hast faced many things.
TAILOR. I have.
Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I
will neither be fac'd nor brav'd. I say unto thee, I bid thy
master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces:
ergo, thou liest.
Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.
The note lies in 's throat, if he say I said so.
'Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.'
Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the
skirts of it and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread;
I said, a gown.
'With a small compassed cape.'
I confess the cape.
'With a trunk sleeve.'
I confess two sleeves.
'The sleeves curiously cut.'
Ay, there's the villainy.
Error i' the bill, sir; error i' the bill. I commanded the
sleeves should be cut out, and sew'd up again; and that I'll
prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.
This is true that I say; an I had thee in place where thou
shouldst know it.
I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thy
mete-yard, and spare not me.
God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds.
Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.
You are i' the right, sir; 'tis for my mistress.
Go, take it up unto thy master's use.
Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress' gown for
thy master's use!
Why, sir, what's your conceit in that?
O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for.
Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use!
O fie, fie, fie!
[Aside] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.
[To Tailor.] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.
[Aside to Tailor.] Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow;
Take no unkindness of his hasty words.
Away, I say! commend me to thy master.
Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's
Even in these honest mean habiliments.
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What, is the jay more precious than the lark
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array.
If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me;
And therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith,
To feast and sport us at thy father's house.
Go call my men, and let us straight to him;
And bring our horses unto Long-lane end;
There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.
Let's see; I think 'tis now some seven o'clock,
And well we may come there by dinner-time.
I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two,
And 'twill be supper-time ere you come there.
It shall be seven ere I go to horse.
Look what I speak, or do, or think to do,
You are still crossing it. Sirs, let 't alone:
I will not go to-day; and ere I do,
It shall be what o'clock I say it is.
Why, so this gallant will command the sun.
SCENE IV. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house.
[Enter TRANIO, and the PEDANT dressed like VINCENTIO.]
Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call?
Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,
Signior Baptista may remember me,
Near twenty years ago in Genoa,
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.
'Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,
With such austerity as 'longeth to a father.
I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;
'Twere good he were school'd.
Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you.
Imagine 'twere the right Vincentio.
Tut! fear not me.
But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?
I told him that your father was at Venice,
And that you look'd for him this day in Padua.
Thou'rt a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink.
Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.
[Enter BAPTISTA and LUCENTIO.]
Signior Baptista, you are happily met.
[To the PEDANT] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of;
I pray you stand good father to me now;
Give me Bianca for my patrimony.
Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua
To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio
Made me acquainted with a weighty cause
Of love between your daughter and himself:
And,--for the good report I hear of you,
And for the love he beareth to your daughter,
And she to him,--to stay him not too long,
I am content, in a good father's care,
To have him match'd; and, if you please to like
No worse than I, upon some agreement
Me shall you find ready and willing
With one consent to have her so bestow'd;
For curious I cannot be with you,
Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.
Sir, pardon me in what I have to say.
Your plainness and your shortness please me well.
Right true it is your son Lucentio here
Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him,
Or both dissemble deeply their affections;
And therefore, if you say no more than this,
That like a father you will deal with him,
And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,
The match is made, and all is done:
Your son shall have my daughter with consent.
I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best
We be affied, and such assurance ta'en
As shall with either part's agreement stand?
Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know
Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants;
Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,
And happily we might be interrupted.
Then at my lodging, an it like you:
There doth my father lie; and there this night
We'll pass the business privately and well.
Send for your daughter by your servant here;
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.
The worst is this, that at so slender warning
You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.
It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,
And bid Bianca make her ready straight;
And, if you will, tell what hath happened:
Lucentio's father is arriv'd in Padua,
And how she's like to be Lucentio's wife.
I pray the gods she may, with all my heart!
Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?
Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer;
Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.
I follow you.
[Exeunt TRANIO, Pedant, and BAPTISTA.]
What say'st thou, Biondello?
You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?
Biondello, what of that?
Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound
the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.
I pray thee moralize them.
Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the
deceiving father of a deceitful son.
And what of him?
His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.
The old priest at Saint Luke's church is at your
command at all hours.
And what of all this?
I cannot tell, except they are busied about a
counterfeit assurance. Take your assurance of her, cum privilegio
ad imprimendum solum; to the church! take the priest, clerk, and
some sufficient honest witnesses.
If this be not that you look for, I have more to say,
But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.
Hear'st thou, Biondello?
I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon
as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so
may you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to
go to Saint Luke's to bid the priest be ready to come against you
come with your appendix.
I may, and will, if she be so contented.
She will be pleas'd; then wherefore should I doubt?
Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her;
It shall go hard if Cambio go without her:
SCENE V. A public road
[Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, HORTENSIO, and SERVANTS.]
Come on, i' God's name; once more toward our father's.
Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!
The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now.
I say it is the moon that shines so bright.
I know it is the sun that shines so bright.
Now by my mother's son, and that's myself,
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,
Or ere I journey to your father's house.
Go on and fetch our horses back again.
Evermore cross'd and cross'd; nothing but cross'd!
Say as he says, or we shall never go.
Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;
And if you please to call it a rush-candle,
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.
I say it is the moon.
I know it is the moon.
Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.
Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun;
But sun it is not when you say it is not,
And the moon changes even as your mind.
What you will have it nam'd, even that it is,
And so it shall be so for Katherine.
Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.
Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,
And not unluckily against the bias.
But, soft! Company is coming here.
[Enter VINCENTIO, in a travelling dress.]
[To VINCENTIO] Good-morrow, gentle mistress; where away?
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
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