For God’s sake! a pot of small ale.

Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves?

What raiment will your honour wear today?

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 over-leather.

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!

What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of

Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, 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—

O! this it is that makes your lady mourn.

O! this is it that makes your servants droop.

Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,

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 nightingales 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.

Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe.

Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight

Adonis painted by a running brook,

And Cytherea all in sedges hid,

Which seem to move and wanton with her breath

Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid

And how she was beguiled and surpris’d,

As lively painted as the deed was done.

Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,

Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds

And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful

Than any woman in this waning age.

And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee

Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face,

She was the fairest creature in the world;

And yet she is inferior to none.

Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?

Or do I dream? Or have I dream’d till now?

I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;

I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:

Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;

And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;

And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale.

Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands?

O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d!

O, that once more you knew but what you are!

These fifteen years you have been in a dream,

Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept.

These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.

But did I never speak of all that time?

O! yes, my lord, but very idle words;

For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,

Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door,

And rail upon the hostess of the house,

And say you would present her at the leet,

Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts.

Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Ay, the woman’s maid of the house.

Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,

Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up,

As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,

And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell;

And twenty more such names and men as these,

Which never were, nor no man ever saw.

Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!

Amen.

I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

How fares my noble lord?

Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough.

Where is my wife?

Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?

My men should call me lord: I am your goodman.

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;

I am your wife in all obedience.

I know it well. What must I call her?

Madam.

Alice madam, or Joan madam?

Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies.

Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d

And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandon’d from your bed.

’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.

Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you

To pardon me yet for a night or two;

Or, if not so, until the sun be set:

For your physicians have expressly charg’d,

In peril to incur your former malady,

That I should yet absent me from your bed:

I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath

to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the

flesh and the blood.

Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy;

For so your doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood,

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,

Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambold

or a tumbling-trick?

No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

What! household stuff?

It is a kind of history.

Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world

slip: we shall ne’er be younger.

Verona, for a while I take my leave,

To see my friends in Padua; but of all

My best beloved and approved friend,

Hortensio; and I trow this is his house.

Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.

Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Is there any man has rebused your

worship?

Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you

here, sir?

Villain, I say, knock me at this gate;

And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate.

My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,

And then I know after who comes by the worst.

Will it not be?

Faith, sirrah, and you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it;

I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it.

Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend

Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

_Con tutto il cuore ben trovato_, may I say.

Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If this be not a

lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me

knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to

use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a

pip out? Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, then had not

Grumio come by the worst.

A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain: ‘Sirrah

knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly’? And

come you now with ‘knocking at the gate’?

Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge;

Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.

And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?

Such wind as scatters young men through the world

To seek their fortunes farther than at home,

Where small experience grows. But in a few,

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceas’d,

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Haply to wive and thrive as best I may;

Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife?

Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel;

And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich: but th’art too much my friend,

And I’ll not wish thee to her.

Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we

Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know

One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife,

As wealth is burden of my wooing dance,

Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates’ Xanthippe or a worse,

She moves me not, or not removes, at least,

Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough

As are the swelling Adriatic seas:

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him

gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot

with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as

two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.

Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in,

I will continue that I broach’d in jest.

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife

With wealth enough, and young and beauteous;

Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman:

Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,—

Is, that she is intolerable curst,

And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure,

That, were my state far worser than it is,

I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect:

Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough;

For I will board her, though she chide as loud

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

Her father is Baptista Minola,

An affable and courteous gentleman;

Her name is Katherina Minola,

Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue.

I know her father, though I know not her;

And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;

And therefore let me be thus bold with you,

To give you over at this first encounter,

Unless you will accompany me thither.

I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, and she

knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good

upon him. She may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so; why,

that’s nothing; and he begin once, he’ll rail in his rope-tricks. I’ll

tell you what, sir, and she stand him but a little, he will throw a

figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no

more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir.

Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,

For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is:

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,

And her withholds from me and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love;

Supposing it a thing impossible,

For those defects I have before rehears’d,

That ever Katherina will be woo’d:

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en,

That none shall have access unto Bianca

Till Katherine the curst have got a husband.

Katherine the curst!

A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,

And offer me disguis’d in sober robes,

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca;

That so I may, by this device at least

Have leave and leisure to make love to her,

And unsuspected court her by herself.

Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks

lay their heads together!

Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha?

Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love. Petruchio, stand by awhile.

A proper stripling, and an amorous!

O! very well; I have perus’d the note.

Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound:

All books of love, see that at any hand,

And see you read no other lectures to her.

You understand me. Over and beside

Signior Baptista’s liberality,

I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too,

And let me have them very well perfum’d;

For she is sweeter than perfume itself

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you,

As for my patron, stand you so assur’d,

As firmly as yourself were still in place;

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

O! this learning, what a thing it is.

O! this woodcock, what an ass it is.

Peace, sirrah!

Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.

I promis’d to enquire carefully

About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;

And by good fortune I have lighted well

On this young man; for learning and behaviour

Fit for her turn, well read in poetry

And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

’Tis well; and I have met a gentleman

Hath promis’d me to help me to another,

A fine musician to instruct our mistress:

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me.

Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove.

[_Aside._] And that his bags shall prove.

Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love:

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,

I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either.

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katherine;

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

I know she is an irksome brawling scold;

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman?

Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son.

My father dead, my fortune lives for me;

And I do hope good days and long to see.

O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange!

But if you have a stomach, to’t a God’s name;

You shall have me assisting you in all.

But will you woo this wild-cat?

Will I live?

Will he woo her? Ay, or I’ll hang her.

Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,

And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang?

And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear

As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire?

Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

[_Aside_] For he fears none.

Hortensio, hark:

This gentleman is happily arriv’d,

My mind presumes, for his own good and yours.

I promis’d we would be contributors,

And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

And so we will, provided that he win her.

I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?

He that has the two fair daughters; is’t he you mean?

Even he, Biondello!

Hark you, sir, you mean not her to—

Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do?

Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away.

[_Aside_] Well begun, Tranio.

Sir, a word ere you go.

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

No; if without more words you will get you hence.

Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free

For me as for you?

But so is not she.

For what reason, I beseech you?

For this reason, if you’ll know,

That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.

That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen,

Do me this right; hear me with patience.

Baptista is a noble gentleman,

To whom my father is not all unknown;

And were his daughter fairer than she is,

She may more suitors have, and me for one.

Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers;

Then well one more may fair Bianca have;

And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

What, this gentleman will out-talk us all.

Sir, give him head; I know he’ll prove a jade.

Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two,

The one as famous for a scolding tongue

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by.

Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,

And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve.

Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth:

The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,

Her father keeps from all access of suitors,

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed;

The younger then is free, and not before.

If it be so, sir, that you are the man

Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest;

And if you break the ice, and do this feat,

Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access, whose hap shall be to have her

Will not so graceless be to be ingrate.

Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;

And since you do profess to be a suitor,

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,

And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health;

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone.

The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:—

Petruchio, I shall be your _ben venuto_.