A fine exclusive edition of one of literature’s most beloved stories. Featuring a laser-cut jacket on a textured book with foil stamping, all titles in this series will be first editions. No more than 10,000 copies will be printed, and each will be individually numbered from 1 to 10,000. * Now with bonus bookmark That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. - Sonnet 73 William Shakespeare has been lauded as one of the greatest and most influential writers of the English language in history. His poems and plays have been recited and studied for generations, and remain iconic works of literature. The Shakespeare Collection includes a selection of Shakespeare’s finest works, including: A Midsummer Night’s Dream Twelfth Night As You Like It The Taming of the Shrew Romeo and Juliet The Sonnets The Shakespeare Collection by William Shakespeare (Seasons Edition - Fall) is one of four titles available in August 2021. The Fall season set also will include Sense and Sensibility, Dracula, and Anne of Green Gables.
Release date: August 31, 2021
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Print pages: 640
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Shakespeare in Autumn
SCENE: Sometimes in Padua, and sometimes in PETRUCHIO’S house in the country.
Enter HOSTESS and SLY.
I’ll pheeze you, in faith.
A pair of stocks, you rogue!
Y’are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!
You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?
No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed and warm thee.
I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough.
Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I’ll answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.
[Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep.]
Horns winded. Enter a LORD from hunting, with HUNTSMEN and SERVANTS.
Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;
Brach 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.
Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord;
He cried upon it at the merest loss,
And twice today pick’d out the dullest scent;
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.
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;
Tomorrow I intend to hunt again.
I will, my lord.
What’s here? One dead, or drunk?
See, doth he breathe?
He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale,
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.
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?
Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.
It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d.
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?’
Someone be ready with a costly suit,
And ask him what apparel he will wear;
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 it be husbanded with modesty.
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.
Take him up gently, and to bed with him,
And each one to his office when he wakes.
[SLY is bourne out. A trumpet sounds.]
Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:
Belike some noble gentleman that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.
How now! who is it?
An, it please your honour, players
That offer service to your lordship.
Bid them come near.
Now, fellows, you are welcome.
We thank your honour.
Do you intend to stay with me tonight?
So please your lordship to accept our duty.
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.
I think ’twas Soto that your honour means.
’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 tonight;
But I am doubtful of your modesties,
Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,—
For yet his honour never heard a play,—
You break into some merry passion
And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile, he grows impatient.
Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,
Were he the veriest antick in the world.
Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
And give them friendly welcome everyone:
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 observ’d 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 restor’d 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;
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.
SLY is discovered in a rich nightgown, with ATTENDANTS: some with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and LORD, dressed like a servant.
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?
[Servants present a ewer, basin and napkin.]
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!
Enter the PAGE, as a lady, with ATTENDANTS.
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?
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.
Enter a MESSENGER.
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.
Flourish. Enter LUCENTIO and TRANIO.
Tranio, since for the great desire I had
To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,
I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy,
The pleasant garden of great Italy,
And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d
With his good will and thy good company,
My trusty servant well approv’d in all,
Here let us breathe, and haply institute
A course of learning and ingenious studies.
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,
Gave me my being and my father first,
A merchant of great traffic through the world,
Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii.
Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence,
It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d,
To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,
Virtue and that part of philosophy
Will I apply that treats of happiness
By virtue specially to be achiev’d.
Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left
And am to Padua come as he that leaves
A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,
And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.
Mi perdonato, gentle master mine;
I am in all affected as yourself;
Glad that you thus continue your resolve
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.
Only, good master, while we do admire
This virtue and this moral discipline,
Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;
Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks
As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d.
Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,
And practise rhetoric in your common talk;
Music and poesy use to quicken you;
The mathematics and the metaphysics,
Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you:
No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en;
In brief, sir, study what you most affect.
Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.
If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,
We could at once put us in readiness,
And take a lodging fit to entertain
Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.
But stay awhile; what company is this?
Master, some show to welcome us to town.
[LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand aside.]
Enter BAPTISTA, KATHERINA, BIANCA, GREMIO and HORTENSIO.
Gentlemen, importune me no farther,
For how I firmly am resolv’d you know;
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter
Before I have a husband for the elder.
If either of you both love Katherina,
Because I know you well and love you well,
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.
To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me.
There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?
I pray you, sir, is it your will
To make a stale of me amongst these mates?
Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you,
Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.
I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;
I wis it is not half way to her heart;
But if it were, doubt not her care should be
To comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool,
And paint your face, and use you like a fool.
From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!
And me, too, good Lord!
Husht, master! Here’s some good pastime toward:
That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.
But in the other’s silence do I see
Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety.
Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.
Gentlemen, that I may soon make good
What I have said,—Bianca, get you in:
And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,
For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl.
A pretty peat! it is best put finger in the eye, and she knew why.
Sister, content you in my discontent.
Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe:
My books and instruments shall be my company,
On them to look, and practise by myself.
Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak.
Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?
Sorry am I that our good will effects
Why will you mew her up,
Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,
And make her bear the penance of her tongue?
Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d.
Go in, Bianca.
And for I know she taketh most delight
In music, instruments, and poetry,
Schoolmasters will I keep within my house
Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,
Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such,
Prefer them hither; for to cunning men
I will be very kind, and liberal
To mine own children in good bringing up;
And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay;
For I have more to commune with Bianca.
Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha!
You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so good here’s none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out; our cake’s dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father.
So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,—that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love,—to labour and effect one thing specially.
What’s that, I pray?
Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.
A husband! a devil.
I say, a husband.
I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell?
Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, and a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough.
I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition: to be whipp’d at the high cross every morning.
Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to’t afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio?
I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on.
[Exeunt GREMIO and HORTENSIO.]
I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible
That love should of a sudden take such hold?
O Tranio! till I found it to be true,
I never thought it possible or likely;
But see, while idly I stood looking on,
I found the effect of love in idleness;
And now in plainness do confess to thee,
That art to me as secret and as dear
As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was,
Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,
If I achieve not this young modest girl.
Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst:
Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.
Master, it is no time to chide you now;
Affection is not rated from the heart:
If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so:
Redime te captum quam queas minimo.
Gramercies, lad; go forward; this contents;
The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound.
Master, you look’d so longly on the maid.
Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all.
O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,
Such as the daughter of Agenor had,
That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,
When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand.
Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister
Began to scold and raise up such a storm
That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?
Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,
And with her breath she did perfume the air;
Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.
Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his trance.
I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,
Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:
Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd,
That till the father rid his hands of her,
Master, your love must live a maid at home;
And therefore has he closely mew’d her up,
Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors.
Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he!
But art thou not advis’d he took some care
To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?
Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now ’tis plotted.
I have it, Tranio.
Master, for my hand,
Both our inventions meet and jump in one.
Tell me thine first.
You will be schoolmaster,
And undertake the teaching of the maid:
That’s your device.
It is: may it be done?
Not possible; for who shall bear your part
And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son;
Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends;
Visit his countrymen, and banquet them?
Basta, content thee, for I have it full.
We have not yet been seen in any house,
Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces
For man or master: then it follows thus:
Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,
Keep house and port and servants, as I should;
I will some other be; some Florentine,
Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.
’Tis hatch’d, and shall be so: Tranio, at once
Uncase thee; take my colour’d hat and cloak.
When Biondello comes, he waits on thee;
But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.
[They exchange habits.]
So had you need.
In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,
And I am tied to be obedient;
For so your father charg’d me at our parting,
‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he,
Although I think ’twas in another sense:
I am content to be Lucentio,
Because so well I love Lucentio.
Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves;
And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid
Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye.
Here comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been?
Where have I been? Nay, how now! where are you?
Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes?
Or you stol’n his? or both? Pray, what’s the news?
Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest,
And therefore frame your manners to the time.
Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life,
Puts my apparel and my count’nance on,
And I for my escape have put on his;
For in a quarrel since I came ashore
I kill’d a man, and fear I was descried.
Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,
While I make way from hence to save my life.
You understand me?
I, sir! Ne’er a whit.
And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:
Tranio is changed to Lucentio.
The better for him: would I were so too!
So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,
That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter.
But, sirrah, not for my sake but your master’s, I advise
You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies:
When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;
But in all places else your master, Lucentio.
Tranio, let’s go.
One thing more rests, that thyself execute,
To make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why,
Sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty.
[The Presenters above speak.]
My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play.
Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it?
My lord, ’tis but begun.
’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ’twere done!
[They sit and mark.]
Enter PETRUCHIO and his man GRUMIO.
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.
[He wrings Grumio by the ears.]
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.
Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signor mio Petruchio.
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!
Enter GREMIO and LUCENTIO disguised, with books under his arm.
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; ...
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