PRELIMINARY REMARKS.

We have hitherto supposed Shakspeare the author of The Taming of The Shrew, but his property in it is extremely disputable. I will give my opinion, and the reasons on which it is founded. I suppose then the present play not originally the work of Shakspeare, but restored by him to the stage, with the whole Induction of the Tinker; and some other occasional improvements; especially in the character of Petruchio. It is very obvious that the Induction and the Play were either the words of different hands, or written at a great interval of time. The former is in our author's best manner, and a great part of the latter in his worst, or even below it. Dr. Warburton declares it to be certainly spurious; and without doubt, supposing it to have been written by Shakspeare, it must have been one of his earliest productions. Yet it is not mentioned in the list of his works by Meres in 1598.

I have met with a facetious piece of Sir John Harrington, printed in 1596, (and possibly there may be an earlier edition,) called The Metamorphosis of Ajax, where I suspect an allusion to the old play: “Read the Booke of Taming a Shrew, which hath made a number of us so perfect, that now every one can rule a shrew in our countrey, save he that hath hir.”—I am aware a modern linguist may object that the word book does not at present seem dramatick, but it was once technically so: Gosson, in his Schoole of Abuse, containing a pleasant Invective against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jesters, and such like Caterpillars of a Commonwealth, 1578, mentions “twoo prose bookes played at the Bell-Sauage:” and Hearne tells us, in a note at the end of William of Worcester, that he had seen a MS. in the nature of a Play or Interlude, intitled The Booke of Sir Thomas Moore.

And in fact there is such an old anonymous play in Mr. Pope's list: “A pleasant conceited history, called, The Taming of a Shrew—sundry times acted by the Earl of Pembroke his servants.” Which seems to have been republished by the remains of that company in 1607, when Shakspeare's copy appeared at the Black-Friars or the Globe.—Nor let this seem derogatory from the character of our poet. There is no reason to believe that he wanted to claim the play as his own; for it was not even printed till some years after his death; but he merely revived it on his stage as a manager.

In support of what I have said relative to this play, let me

only observe further at present, that the author of Hamlet speaks of Gonzago, and his wife Baptista; but the author of The Taming of the Shrew knew Baptista to be the name of a man. Mr. Capell indeed made me doubt, by declaring the authenticity of it to be confirmed by the testimony of Sir Aston Cockayn. I knew Sir Aston was much acquainted with the writers immediately subsequent to Shakspeare; and I was not inclined to dispute his authority: but how was I surprised, when I found that Cockayn ascribes nothing more to Shakspeare, than the Induction, Wincot Ale, and the Beggar! I hope this was only a slip of Mr. Capell's memory. Farmer.

The following is Sir Aston's Epigram:

“TO MR. CLEMENT FISHER, OF WINCOT.
“Shakspeare your Wincot-ale hath much renown'd,
“That fox'd a beggar so (by chance was found
“Sleeping) that there needed not many a word
“To make him to believe he was a lord:
“But you affirm (and in it seem most eager)
“'Twill make a lord as drunk as any beggar.
“Bid Norton brew such ale as Shakspeare fancies
“Did put Kit Sly into such lordly trances:
“And let us meet there (for a fit of gladness)
“And drink ourselves merry in sober sadness.”

Sir A. Cockayn's Poems, 1659, p. 124.

In spite of the great deference which is due from every commentator to Dr. Farmer's judgment, I own I cannot concur with him on the present occasion. I know not to whom I could impute this comedy, if Shakspeare was not its author. I think his hand is visible in almost every scene, though perhaps not so evidently as in those which pass between Katharine and Petruchio.

I once thought that the name of this play might have been taken from an old story, entitled, The Wyf lapped in Morells Skin, or The Taming of a Shrew; but I have since discovered among the entries in the books of the Stationers' Company the following: “Peter Shorte] May 2, 1594, a pleasaunt conceyted hystorie, called, The Taminge of a Shrowe.” It is likewise entered to Nich. Ling. Jan. 22, 1606; and to John Smythwicke, Nov. 19, 1607.

It was no uncommon practice among the authors of the age of Shakspeare, to avail themselves of the titles of ancient performances. Thus, as Mr. Warton has observed, Spenser sent out his Pastorals under the title of The Shepherd's Kalendar, a work which had been printed by Wynken de Worde, and reprinted about twenty years before these poems of Spenser appeared, viz. 1559.

Dr. Percy, in the first volume of his Reliques of Ancient English

Poetry, is of opinion, that The Frolicksome Duke, or the Tinker's Good Fortune, an ancient ballad in the Pepys' Collection, might have suggested to Shakspeare the Induction for this comedy.

The following story, however, which might have been the parent of all the rest, is related by Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy, edit. 1632, p. 649: “A Tartar Prince, saith Marcus Polus, lib. ii. cap. 28, called Senex de Montibus, the better to establish his government amongst his subjects, and to keepe them in awe, found a convenient place in a pleasant valley environed with hills, in which he made a delitious parke full of odorifferous flowers and fruits, and a palace full of all contents that could possibly be devised, musicke, pictures, variety of meats, &c. and chose out a certaine young man whom with a soporiferous potion he so benummed, that he perceived nothing; and so fast asleepe as he was, caused him to be conveied into this faire garden. Where, after he had lived awhile in all such pleasures a sensuall man could desire, he cast him into a sleepe againe, and brought him forth, that when he waked he might tell others he had beene in Paradise.”—Marco Paolo, quoted by Burton, was a traveller of the 13th century.

Chance, however, has at last furnished me with the original to which Shakspeare was indebted for his fable; nor does this discovery at all dispose me to retract my former opinion, which the reader may find at the conclusion of the play. Such parts of the dialogue as our author had immediately imitated, I have occasionally pointed out at the bottom of the page; but must refer the reader, who is desirous to examine the whole structure of the piece, to Six old Plays on which Shakspeare founded, &c. published by S. Leacroft, at Charing-cross, as a Supplement to our commentaries on Shakspeare.

Beaumont and Fletcher wrote what may be called a sequel to this comedy, viz. The Woman's Prize, or the Tamer Tam'd; in which Petruchio is subdued by a second wife. Steevens.

Among the books of my friend the late Mr. William Collins of Chichester, now dispersed, was a collection of short comick stories in prose, printed in the black letter under the year 1570: “sett forth by maister Richard Edwards, mayster of her Majesties revels.” Among these tales was that of the Induction of the Tinker in Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew; and perhaps Edwards's story-book was the immediate source from which Shakspeare, or rather the author of the old Taming of a Shrew, drew that diverting apologue. If I recollect right, the circumstances almost tallied with an incident which Heuterus relates from an epistle of Ludovicus Vives to have actually happened at the marriage of Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy, about the year 1440. That perspicuous annalist, who flourished about the year 1580, says, this story was told to Vives by an old officer of the Duke's court. T. Warton.

See the earliest English original of this story, &c. at the conclusion of the play. Steevens.

Our author's Taming of the Shrew was written, I imagine, in 1596. See An Attempt to ascertain the Order of Shakspeare's Plays. Malone.

PERSONS REPRESENTED. A Lord. A Person in the Induction. Christopher Sly, a drunken Tinker. A Person in the Induction. Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and other Servants attending on the Lord. [Page], [Player 1], [Player 2], [Huntsman 1], [Huntsman 2], [Servant], [Servant 1], [Servant 2], [Servant 3], Persons in the Induction. Baptista, a rich Gentleman of Padua. Vincentio, an old Gentleman of Pisa. Lucentio, Son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca. Petruchio, a Gentleman of Verona, a Suitor to Katharina. Gremio, Suitor to Bianca. Hortensio, Suitor to Bianca. Tranio, Servant to Lucentio. Biondello, Servant to Lucentio. Grumio, Servant to Petruchio. Curtis, Servant to Petruchio. Pedant, an old fellow set up to personate Vincentio. Katharina [Katherina], the Shrew; Daughter to Baptista. Bianca, her Sister; Daughter to Baptista. Widow. Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio. [Nathaniel], [Philip], [Joseph], [Nicholas], [Peter] SCENE, sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in Petruchio's House in the Country.

^note

TAMING OF THE SHREW.

INDUCTION. SCENE I. Before an Alehouse on a Heath. Enter Hostess and Sly.

Sly.
I'll pheese you^{1 note}

Host.
A pair of stocks, you rogue!

Sly.

Y'are a baggage; the Slies are no rogues^{2 note}

Host.

You will not pay for the glasses you have burst^{5 note}

Sly.

No, not a denier: Go by S. Jeronimy;— Go to thy cold bed, and warm thee^{6 note}

Host.

I know my remedy, I must go fetch the thirdborough^{7 note}

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.

Lord.
Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Brach Merriman,—the poor cur is emboss'd^{9 note}

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.
Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good^{1 note}

At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault?
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

1 Hun.
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.

1 Hun.
I will, my lord.

Lord.
What's here? one dead, or drunk? See doth he breathe?

2 Hun.
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?

1 Hun.
Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

2 Hun.
It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd.

Lord.
Even as a flattering 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 with warm distilled waters,
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet:
Procure me musick 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 bason,
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 lunatick;
And, when he says he is—, say, that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty lord^{2 note}

This do, and do it kindly^{3 note}, gentle sirs;
It will be pastime passing excellent,
If it be husbanded with modesty^{4 note}.

1 Hun.
My lord, I warrant you, we'll 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.— [Some bear out Sly. 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 Servant.
How now? who is it?

Serv.
An it please your honour,
Players that offer service to your lordship.

Lord.
Bid them come near:— Enter Players^{5 note}






.
Now, fellows, you are welcome.

1 Play.
We thank your honour.

Lord.
Do you intend to stay with me to night?

2 Play.
So please your lordship to accept our duty^{6 note}

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.

1 Play.
I think, 'twas Soto^{7 note}

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.

1 Play.
Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,
Were he the veriest antick in the world^{8 note}

Lord.
Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery^{9 note}

Let them want nothing that my house affords.— [Exeunt Servant and Players.

Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, [To a Servant.
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^{1 note}

, 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 overjoy'd
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^{2 note}

And if the boy have not a woman's gift,
To rain a shower of commanded tears,
An onion^{3 note}

SCENE II. A Bedchamber in the Lord's House^{4 note}

Sly.
For God's sake, a pot of small ale^{6 note}

1 Serv.
Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

2 Serv.
Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?

3 Serv.
What raiment will your honour wear today?

Sly.

I am Christophero Sly; call not me—honour, nor lordship: I never 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, sometimes, 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 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^{7 note}

by birth a pedler, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale^{8 note}, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What, I am not bestraught^{9 note}

1 Serv.
O, this it is that makes your lady mourn.

2 Serv.
O, this it is that makes your servants droop.

Lord.
Hence comes it that your kindred shun 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 musick? hark! Apollo plays. [Musick.
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 shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

1 Serv.
Say, thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

2 Serv.
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 with wind.

Lord.
We'll show thee Io, as she was a maid;

And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,
As lively painted as the deed was done.

3 Serv.
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.

1 Serv.
And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee,
Like envious floods, o'er-ran 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 Christophero Sly.—
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;
And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.

2 Serv.
Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands? [Servants present an ewer, bason, and napkin.
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?

1 Serv.
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^{1 note}

Sly.
Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

3 Serv.
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^{2 note}

And Peter Turf, 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^{3 note}




.

Sly.
I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it. Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants^{4 note}

























.

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 good-man.

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^{5 note}

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.—
Madam, undress you, and come now to bed^{6 note}.

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.

Serv.
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 commonty a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling trick^{7 note}

Page.

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

Sly.

What, houshold 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.

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