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A Lord.


Hostess, Page, Players, Huntsmen, and Servants.



CURTIS, servants to Petruchio,
A Pedant.

Persons in

suitors to Bianca.

servants to Lucentio.

BAPTISTA, a rich gentleman of
VINCENTIO, an old gentleman of

LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio, in
love with Bianca.

PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Ver

ona, a suitor to Katharina.

SCENE: Padua and Petruchio's country house.

KATHARINA, daughters to Bap-
the shrew,


Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.


SCENE I. Before an ale house on a heath.
Enter HOSTESS and SLY.

Sly. I'll pheeze you, in faith.
Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue!

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;
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.
Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

First Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
He cried upon it at the merest loss
And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

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

with ale,

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,
Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his bed,
And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
Would not the beggar then forget himself?

Lord. Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.
Then take him up and manage well the jest:
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures :
Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet:
Procure me music ready when he wakes,
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;
And if he chance to speak, be ready straight
And with a low submissive reverence


Say "What is it your honour will command?"
Let one attend him with a silver basin

Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers;
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,
And say
"Will't please your lordship cool your hands?
Some one be ready with a costly suit
And ask him what apparel he will wear;

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,
And that his lady mourns at his disease:
Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;
And when he says he is-say that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty lord.
This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs:
It will be pastime passing excellent,
If he be husbanded with modesty.

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:

[Exit Servingman.

Belike, some noble gentleman that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
Re-enter Servingman.

How now! who is it?
That offer service to your lordship.
Lord. Bid them come near.

An't please your honour, players

Enter 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,
And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber;
And call him "madam," do him obeisance.
Tell him from me, as he will win my love,
He bear himself with honourable action,
Such as he hath observed in noble ladies
Unto their lords, by them accomplished:
Such duty to the drunkard let him do
With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,
And say
"What is't your honour will command,
Wherein your lady and your humble wife
May show her duty and make known her love?"
And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,
And with declining head into his bosom,
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd

To see her noble lord restored to health.
Who for this seven years hath esteemed him
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar:
And if the boy have not a woman's gift
To rain a shower of commanded tears,
An onion will do well for such a shift,
Which in a napkin being close convey'd
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst :
Anon I'll give thee more instructions.
I know the boy will well usurp the grace,
Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman:
I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,



[Exit a Servingman

And how my men will stay themselves from laughter
When they do homage to this simple peasant.
I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence
May well abate the over-merry spleen
Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

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,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

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!
Sec. Serv. O, this is it that makes your servants droop!
Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your


As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,

Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment
And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
Look how thy servants do attend on thee,
Each in his office ready at thy beck.
Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays
And twenty caged nighingales do sing:
Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.

Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd,
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar
Above the morning lark or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.



First Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy grey-hounds are as swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.


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