Luc. Preposterous ass! that never read so far Then give me leave to read philosophy, And, while I pause, serve in your harmony. Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. Bian. 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. Hor. You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune? [To Bianca.-Hortensio retires. Luc. That will be never;-tune your instrument. Bian. Where left we last? Luc. Here, madam: Hac ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis. Bian. Construe them. Luc. Hac ibat, as I told you before,-Simois, I am Lucentio,-hic est, so nunto 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 39. Hor. Madam, my instrument's in tune. Bian. Let's hear: O fie! the treble jars. [Returning. [Hortensio plays. Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it: Hac 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. Hor. Madam, 'tis now in tune. Luc. All but the base. Hor. The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars. How fiery and forward our pedant is! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: Pedascule 40, I'll watch you better yet. Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. Was Ajax,-call'd so from his grandfather. you, I should be arguing still upon that doubt: But let it rest.-Now, Licio, to you: Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. Hor. You may go walk, [To Lucentio,] and give me leave awhile; My lessons make no musick in three parts. Luc. Are you so formal, sir? well I must wait, And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd, Our fine musician groweth amorous. [Aside. Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument, To learn the ordering of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art: my trade: And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. Bian. [Reads.] Gamut I am, the ground of all accord, B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord, C faut, that loves with all affection: 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. Enter a Servant. Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books, And help to dress your sister's chamber up; You know to-morrow is the wedding day. Bian. Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone. [Exeunt Bianca and Servant. Luc. 'Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit. Hor. 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, Sieze thee, that list: If once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [Exit. SCENE II. The same. Before Baptista's House. Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, KATHARINA, BIANCA, LUCENTIO, and Attendants. Bap. Signior Lucentio, [To Tranio,] this is the 'pointed day That Katharine and Petruchio should be married. What will be said? what mockery will it be, To want the bridegroom, when the priest attends What says Lucentio to this shame of ours? Kath. No shame but mine: I must, forsooth, be forc'd To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart, Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen1; Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantick fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour: He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage, Make friends, invite, yes, and proclaim the banns; Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too; Kath. 'Would, Katharine had never seen him though! [Exit, weeping, followed by Bianca, and Others. Bap. Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep; For such an injury would vex a saint, Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter BIONDELLO. Bion. Master, master! news, old news, and such news as you never heard of! Bap. Is it new and old too? how may that be? Bion. Why, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio's coming? Bap. Is he come? Bion. Why, no, sir. Bap. What then? Bion. He is coming. Bap. When will he be here? Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees you there. |