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.
And woo 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 frown, 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.

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