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THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
CHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinker.
Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants.
suitors to Bianca.
servants to Lucentio.
BAPTISTA, a rich gentleman of
LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio, in
PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Ver
ona, a suitor to Katharina.
SCENE: Padua and Petruchio's country house.
KATHARINA, daughters to Bap-
Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.
SCENE I. Before an ale house on a heath.
Sly. I'll pheeze you, in faith.
Sly. Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore paucus pallabris; let the world slide: sessa!
Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.
Host. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the thirdborough. [Exit. Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly. [Falls asleep. Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his train. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Trash Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd;
First Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
Lord. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such.
But sup them well and look unto them all :
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
First Hun. I will, my lord.
Lord. What's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he
Sec. Hun. He breathes, my lord.
Were he not warm'd
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.
Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
Lord. Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.
Say "What is it your honour will command?"
Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;
First Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. Sec. Hun. It would seem strange unto him when he
Another tell him of his hounds and horse,
First Hun. My lord, I warrant you we will play our part, As he shall think by our true diligence He is no less than what we say he is.
Lord. Take him up gently and to bed with him; And each one to his office when he wakes.
[Some bear out Sly. A trumpet sounds. Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds:
Belike, some noble gentleman that means,
How now! who is it?
An't please your honour, players
Now, fellows, you are welcome. 80
Players. We thank your honour. Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to-night? A Player. So please your lordship to accept our duty. Lord. "With all my heart. This fellow I remember, Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son : "Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well: I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.
A Player. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means. Lord. 'Tis very true: thou didst it excellent. Well, you are come to me in happy time; The rather for I have some sport in hand Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play to-night: But I am doubtful of your modesties; Lest over-eyeing of his odd behaviour,— For yet his honour never heard a playYou break into some merry passion And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile he grows impatient.
A Player. Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antic in the world.
Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one : Let them want nothing that my house affords. [Exit one with the Players.
Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page,
To see her noble lord restored to health.
[Exit a Servingman
And how my men will stay themselves from laughter
SCENE II. A bedchamber in the Lord's house.
Enter aloft SLY, with Attendants; some with apparel, others with basin and ewer and other appurtenances; and Lord.
Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale.
First Serv. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?
Sec. Serv. Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?
Third Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day? Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me "honour" nor "lordship:" I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear; for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent,
Of such possessions and so high esteem,
Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale wife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom, What! I am not bestraught here's
Third Serv. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!
As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment
Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground:
First Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy grey-hounds are as swift
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.