Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir.

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katherine welcome’d you withal?

But, wrangling pedant, this is

The patroness of heavenly harmony:

Then give me leave to have prerogative;

And when in music we have spent an hour,

Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.

Preposterous ass, that never read so far

To know the cause why music 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 while I pause serve in your harmony.

Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

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 tied 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.

You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

That will be never: tune your instrument.

Where left we last?

Here, madam:—

_Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis._

Construe them.

_Hic ibat_, as I told you before, _Simois_, I am Lucentio, _hic est_,

son unto Vincentio of Pisa, _Sigeia tellus_, disguised thus to get your

love, _Hic steterat_, 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.

HORTENSIO. [_Returning._]

Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

Let’s hear.—

O fie! the treble jars.

Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Now let me see if I can construe it: _Hic ibat Simois_, I know you not;

_hic est Sigeia tellus_, I trust you not; _Hic steterat Priami_, take

heed he hear us not; _regia_, presume not; _celsa senis_, despair not.

Madam, ’tis now in tune.

All but the base.

The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars.

[_Aside_] How fiery and forward our pedant is!

Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:

Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet.

In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

Mistrust it not; for sure, Æacides

Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt;

But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you.

Good master, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

[_To Lucentio_] You may go walk and give me leave a while;

My lessons make no music in three parts.

Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait,

[_Aside_] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,

Our fine musician groweth amorous.

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.

Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

_Gamut_ I am, the ground of all accord,

_A re_, to plead Hortensio’s passion;

_B mi_, Bianca, take him for thy lord,

_C fa ut_, that loves with all affection:

_D sol re_, one clef, two notes have I

_E la mi_, show 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 true rules for odd inventions.

Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,

And help to dress your sister’s chamber up:

You know tomorrow is the wedding-day.

Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone.

Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

But I have cause to pry into this pedant:

Methinks he looks as though he were in 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.