Bianca.
Good Sister, wrong me not, nor wrong your self,
To make a bond-maid and a slave of me;
That I disdain; (11) ^note

Cath.
Of all thy Suitors here, I charge thee, tell
Whom thou lov'st best: see, thou dissemble not.

Bian.
Believe me, Sister, of all men alive
I never yet beheld that special face,

Which I could fancy more than any other.

Cath.
Minion, thou liest; is't not Hortensio?

Bian.
If you affect him, sister, here I swear,
I'll plead for you my self, but you shall have him.

Cath.
Oh, then, belike, you fancy riches more;
You will have Gremio, to keep you fair.

Bian.
Is it for him you do so envy me?
Nay, then you jest; and now, I well perceive,
You have but jested with me all this while;
I pr'ythee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

Cath.
If That be jest, then all the rest was so. [Strikes her. Enter Baptista.

Bap.
Why, how now, dame, whence grows this insolence?
Bianca, stand aside; poor girl, she weeps;
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?

Cath.
Her silence flouts me; and I'll be reveng'd. [Flies after Bianca.

Bap.
What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in. [Ex. Bian.

Cath.
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 Cath.

Bap.
Was ever gentleman thus griev'd, as I?
But who comes here? Enter Gremio, Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio with Hortensio, like a musician; Tranio and Biondello bearing a lute and books.

Gre.
Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

Bap.

Good morrow, neighbour Gremio: God save you, gentlemen.

Pet.

And you, good Sir; pray, have you not a daughter call'd Catharina, fair and virtuous?

Bap.
I have a daughter, Sir, call'd Catharina.

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

Pet.
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 shew my self 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, [Presenting Hor.
I do present you with a man of mine,
Cunning in musick, and the mathematicks,
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.

Bap.
You'are welcome, Sir, and he for your good sake.
But for my daughter Catharine, this I know,
She is not for your turn, the more's my grief.

Pet.
I see, you do not mean to part with her;
Or else you like not of my company.

Bap.
Mistake me not, I speak but what I find.
Whence are you, Sir? what may I call your name?

Pet.
Petruchio is my name, Antonio's son,
A man well known throughout all Italy.

Bap.
I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

Gre.

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. Baccalare!—you are marvellous forward.(12) ^note

Pet.

Oh, pardon me, Signior Gremio, I would fain be doing.(13) ^note

Gre.

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 my self, that have been more kindly beholden to you than any, free leave give to this young scholar, that hath been long studying at Reims, [Presenting Luc.] as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in musick and mathematicks; his name is Cambio; pray, accept his service.

Bap.

A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio: welcome, good Cambio. But, gentle Sir, methinks, you walk like a stranger; [To Tranio.] may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?

Tra.
Pardon me, Sir, the boldness is mine own,
That, being a stranger in this City here,
Do make my self 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. [They greet privately.

Bap.
Lucentio is your name? of whence I pray?

Tra.
Of Pisa, Sir, son to Vincentio.

Bap.
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, [To Hortensio and Lucentio.
You shall go see your pupils presently.
Holla, within!— Enter a servant.
Sirrah, lead these gentlemen
To my two daughters; and then tell them Both,
These are their tutors, bid them use them well. [Exit Serv. with Hortensio and Lucentio.
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 your selves.

Pet.
Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,
And every day I cannot come to wooe.
You knew my father well, and in him me,
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,
Which I have better'd, rather than decreas'd;
Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love,
What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

Bap.
After my death, the one half of my lands:
And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns.

Pet.
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 specialties be therefore drawn between us,
That covenants may be kept on either hand.

Bap.
Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd,
That is, her love; for that is all in all.

Pet.
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:
Tho' little fire grows great with little wind,
Yet extream gusts will blow out fire and all:
So I to her, and so she yields to me,
For I am rough, and wooe not like a babe.

Bap.
Well may'st thou wooe, and happy be thy speed!
But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.

Pet.
Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds:
That shake not, tho' they blow perpetually. Enter Hortensio with his head broke.

Bap.
How now, my friend; why dost thou look so pale?

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

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

Hor.
I think, she'll sooner prove a soldier;
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

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

Hor.
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 them? 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, fidler,
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,
As she had studied to misuse me so.

Pet.
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench;
I love her ten times more than e'er I did;
Oh, how I long to have some chat with her!

Bap.
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?

Pet.
I pray you, do. I will attend her here: [Exit Bap. with Grem. Horten. and Tranio.
And wooe 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 frowns; 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 tho' she bid me stay by her a week;
If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day
When I shall ask the banes, and when be married?
But here she comes, and now Petruchio speak. Enter Catharina.
Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear.

Cath.
Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing.
They call me Catharine, that do talk of me.

Pet.
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 Cates) 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:
My Self am mov'd to wooe thee for my wife

Cath.
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.

Pet.
Why, what's a moveable?

Cath.
A join'd stool.

Pet.
Thou hast hit it; come, sit on me.

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

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

Cath.
No such jade, Sir, as you; if me you mean.

Pet.
Alas, good Kate, I will not burthen thee;
For knowing thee to be but young and light—

Cath.
Too light for such a swain as you to catch;
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

Pet.
Should bee;—should buz.—

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

Pet.
Oh, slow-wing'd turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?

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

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

Cath.
If I be waspish, 'best beware my sting.

Pet.
My remedy is then to pluck it out.

Cath.
Ah, if the fool could find it, where it lies.

Pet.
Who knows not, where a wasp doth wear his sting?
In his tail.—

Cath.
In his tongue.

Pet.
Whose tongue?

Cath.
Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewel.

Pet.
What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again,
Good Kate, I am a gentleman.

Cath.
That I'll try. [She strikes him.

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

Cath.
So may you lose your arms.
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why, then no arms.

Pet.
A herald, Kate? oh, put me in thy books.

Cath.
What is your crest, a coxcomb?

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

Cath.
No cock of mine, you crow too like a craven.

Pet.
Nay, come, Kate; come, you must not look so sower.

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

Pet.
Why, here's no crab, and therefore look not so sower.

Cath.
There is, there is.

Pet.
Then shew it me.

Cath.
Had I a glass, I would.

Pet.
What, you mean my face?

Cath.
Well aim'd, of such a young one.—

Pet.
Now, by St. George, I am too young for you.

Cath.
Yet you are wither'd.

Pet.
'Tis with Cares.

Cath.
I care not.

Pet.
Nay, hear you, Kate; Insooth, you 'scape not so.

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

Pet.
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 spring-time flowers.
Thou canst not frown, thou can'st not look ascance,
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 conf'rence, soft and affable.
Why doth the world report, that Kate doth limp?
Oh sland'rous world! Kate, like the hazle twig,
Is strait, and slender; and as brown in hue
As hazle nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.
O, let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

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

Pet.
Did ever Dian so become a grove,
As Kate this chamber with her princely gaite?
O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,
And then let Kate be chast, and Dian sportful!—

Cath.
Where did you study all this goodly speech?

Pet.
It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

Cath.
A witty mother, witless else her son.

Pet.
Am I not wise?

Cath.
Yes; keep you warm.

Pet.
Why, so I mean, sweet Catharine, 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 dow'ry '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 cat to a Kate,
Conformable as other houshold Kates;
Here comes your father, never make denial,
I must and will have Catharine to my wife. Enter Baptista, Gremio, and Tranio.

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

Pet.
How but well, Sir? how but well?
It were impossible, I should speed amiss.

Bap.
Why, how now, daughter Catharine, in your dumps?

Pet.
Call you me daughter? now, I promise you,
You've shew'd a tender fatherly regard,
To wish me wed to one half lunatick;
A madcap ruffian, and a swearing Jack,
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Pet.
Father, 'tis thus; your self 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've 'greed so well together,
That upon Sunday is the wedding day.

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

Gre.
Hark: Petruchio! she says, she'll see thee hang'd first.

Tra.
Is this your speeding? nay, then, good night, our part!

Pet.
Be patient, Sirs, I chuse her for my self;

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; oh, the kindest Kate!—
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss
She vy'd so fast, protesting oath on oath,
That in a twink she won me to her love.
Oh, 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;
Father, provide the feast, and bid the guests;
I will be sure, my Catharine shall be fine.

Bap.
I know not what to say, but give your hands;
God send you joy, Petruchio, 'tis a match.

Gre. Tra.
Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.

Pet.
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. [Ex. Petruchio, and Catharine severally.

Gre.
Was ever match clapt up so suddenly?

Bap.
Faith, gentlemen, I play a merchant's part,
And venture madly on a desperate mart.

Tra.
'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;
'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

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

Gre.
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.

Tra.
And I am one, that love Biancha more
Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

Gre.
Youngling! thou canst not love so dear as I.

Tra.
Grey-beard! thy love doth freeze.

Gre.
But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back; 'tis age, that nourisheth.

Tra.
But youth, in ladies eyes that flourisheth.

Bap.
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 Bianca's love.
Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

Gre.
First, as you know, my house within the city
Is richly furnished with plate and gold,
Basons and ewers to lave her dainty hands:
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;
In ivory coffers I have stufft my crowns;
In cypress chests my arras, counterpanes,
Costly apparel, tents and canopies,
Fine linnen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl;
Valance of Venice gold in needle-work;
Pewter and brass, and all things that belong
To house, or house-keeping: then, at my farm,
I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,
Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls;
And all things answerable to this portion.
My self 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.

Tra.
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 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?

Gre.
Two thousand ducats by the year of land!(14) ^note

My land amounts but to so much in all:
That she shall have, besides an Argosie
That now is lying in Marseilles's road.
What, have I choakt you with an Argosie?

Tra.
Gremio, 'tis known, my father hath no less
Than three great Argosies, besides two galliasses,
And twelve tight gallies; these I will assure her,
And twice as much, what e'er thou offer'st next.

Gre.
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.

Tra.
Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,
By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied.

Bap.
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?

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

Gre.
And may not young men die, as well as old?

Bap.
Well, gentlemen, then I am thus resolv'd:
On Sunday next, you know,
My daughter Catharine 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. [Exit.

Gre.
Adieu, good neighbour.—Now I fear thee not:
Sirrah, young gamester, your father were a fool
To give thee all; and in his waining age
Set foot under thy table: tut! a toy!
An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Exit.

Tra.
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
May 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. —[The Presenters, above, speak here. Sly.

Sim, when will the fool come again?