Luc.
Fidler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir:
Have you so soon forgot the entertainment
Her sister Catherine welcom'd you withal?

Hor.
She is a shrew;14Q0354 but, wrangling pedant, this is
The patroness of heavenly harmony:
Then give me leave to have prerogative;
And when in musick we have spent an hour,
Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.

Luc.
Prepost'rous ass! that never read so far,
To know the cause why musick 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, when I ^note pause, serve in your harmony.

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

Bia.
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 ty'd 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.

Hor.
You'll leave his lecture, when I am in tune? [to Bia. taking up his Lute.

Luc.
That will be never;—tune your instrument.

Bia.
Where left we last? [sitting to a Table with Luc.

Luc.
Here, madam:— [shewing a Book.
Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia ^note tellus;
  Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

Bia.

Construe them.

Luc.

Hic 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 ^note, 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.

Madam, my instrument's in tune.

Bia.
Let's hear:— [Hor. plays.
O, fie! the treble jars.

Luc.
Spit in the hole, man,
And tune again.

Bia.
Now let me see if I can construe it.

Hic ibat Simois, I know you not;—Hic est Sigeia ^note tellus, I trust you not;—Hic steterat 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— ^note
&clquo;How fiery and how forward is our pedant ^note!&crquo;
&clquo;Now, for my life, the knave ^note doth court my love.&crquo;
&clquo;Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.&crquo;

Bia.
In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. [seeing Hor. listen.

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

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

Hor.
You ^note may go walk, [to Luc.] and give me leave a while;
My lessons make no musick in three parts.

&clquo;Luc.
&clquo;Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait, [retiring.
&clquo;And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd,&crquo;
&clquo;Our fine musician groweth amorous.&crquo;

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 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. [gives a Paper.

Bia.
Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

Hor.
Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

Bia.
Gamut I am, the ground of all accord, [reads.
    A re, to plead Hortensio's passion;
  B me ^note, Bianca, take him for thy lord,
    C faut, that loves with all affection:
  D sol re, one cliff, not two notes have I;
    E la mi, show me 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 ^note true rules for odd ^note inventions. Enter a Servant.

Ser.
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.

Bia.
Farewel, sweet masters both; I must be gone. [Exeunt Ser. and Bia.

Luc.
'Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit Lucentio.

Hor.
But I have cause to pry into this pedant;
Methinks, he looks as though he were in ^note 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. [Exit.

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