Luc.
Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir:
Have you so soon forgot the entertainment
Her sister Katharine welcomed you withal?

Hor.
But, wrangling pedant, this is ^{note note}
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.

Luc.
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 ^note I pause, serve in your harmony.

Hor.
Sirrah, I will not ^note bear these braves of thine.

Bian.
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 ^note times,
But learn my lessons as I please myself.
And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down:
Take you your ^note instrument, play you the whiles ^note;
His lecture will be done ere you have tuned. ^note

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

Luc.
That will be never: tune your instrument. ^note

Bian.
Where left we last? ^note

Luc.
Here, madam:
  ‘Hic ^note ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia ^note tellus;
    Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.’

Bian.

Construe ^note them.

Luc.

‘Hic ^note ibat,’ as I told you before,—‘Simois,’ I am Lucentio,—‘hic est,’ son unto Vincentio of Pisa,—‘Sigeia ^note 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.

Hor. ^note

Madam, my instrument's in tune.

Bian.

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

Luc.

Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Bian.

Now let me see if I can construe ^note it: ‘Hic ^note ibat ^note Simois,’ I know you not,—‘hic est Sigeia ^note tellus,’

I trust you not;—‘Hic steterat ^note Priami,’ take heed he hear us not,—‘regia,’ presume not,—‘celsa senis,’ despair not.

Hor.
Madam, 'tis now in tune.

Luc.
All but the base.

Hor.
The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars. [Aside]
How fiery and forward our pedant is! ^note
Now, for my life, the ^note knave doth court my love:
Pedascule ^note, I'll watch you better yet. ^note

Bian.
In time I may believe, yet I mistrust ^note.

Luc. ^note
Mistrust it not; for, sure, Æacides
Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather.

Bian. ^note
I must believe my master; else, I promise you,
I should be arguing still upon that doubt: ^note
But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you:
Good masters ^note, take it not unkindly, pray,
That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

Hor. ^note
You may go walk, and give me leave a while:
My lessons make no music in three parts.

Luc.
Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait, [Aside ^note]
And watch withal; for, but I be deceived,
Our fine musician groweth amorous. ^note

Hor.
Madam, before you touch the instrument,
To learn the order of my fingering,
I must begin with rudiments of art;
To teach you gamut ^note 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.

Bian.
Why, I am past my gamut ^note long ago.

Hor.
Yet read the gamut ^note of Hortensio.

Bian. [reads]

“‘Gamut ^note’ I am, the ground of all accord,
  ‘A re ^note,’ to plead Hortensio's passion;
‘B mi ^note,’ Bianca, take him for thy lord,
  ‘C fa ut ^note,’ that loves ^note with all affection:
‘D sol re,’ one clef ^note, two ^note notes have I:
‘E la mi,’ show ^note pity, or I die.”
Call you this gamut ^note? tut, I like it not:
Old fashions please me best; I am ^note not so nice,
To change ^note true ^note rules for old inventions. Enter a Servant. ^note

Serv. ^note
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.

Bian.
Farewell, sweet masters both; I must be gone. [Exeunt Bianca and Servant. ^note

Luc.
Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit. ^note

Hor.
But I have cause to pry into this pedant:
Methinks he looks as though he were ^note in love:
Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble,
To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale,
Seize thee that ^note list: if once I find thee ranging,
Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [Exit.

^note

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