Gru.
No, no, forsooth, I dare not for my life.

Cath.
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 intreaty, have a present alms;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:
But I, who never knew how to intreat,
Nor never needed that I should intreat,
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 would say, if I should sleep or eat
'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death:
I pr'ythee go, and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

Gru.
What say you to a neat's foot?

Cath.
'Tis passing good; I pr'ythee, let me have it.

Gru.
I fear, it is too flegmatick a meat:
How say you to a fat tripe finely broil'd?

Cath.
I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me.

Gru.
I cannot tell;—I fear, it's cholerick:
Way say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

Cath.
A dish, that I do love to feed upon.

Gru.
Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Cath.
Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Gru.
Nay, then I will not; you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

Cath.
Then both, or one, or any thing thou wilt.

Gru.
Why, then the mustard without the beef.

Cath.
Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, [Beats him.
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.

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