And therefore let me be thus bold with you,
To give you over at this first encounter,
Unless you will accompany me thither.

GRUMIO.
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.

HORTENSIO.
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.

GRUMIO.
Katherine the curst!
A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

HORTENSIO.
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.

GRUMIO.
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?

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

GRUMIO.
A proper stripling, and an amorous!

GREMIO.
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?

LUCENTIO.
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.

GREMIO.
O! this learning, what a thing it is.

GRUMIO.
O! this woodcock, what an ass it is.

PETRUCHIO.
Peace, sirrah!

HORTENSIO.
Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio!

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.

HORTENSIO.
’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.

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

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

HORTENSIO.
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.

GREMIO.
So said, so done, is well.
Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

PETRUCHIO.
I know she is an irksome brawling scold;
If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

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

PETRUCHIO.
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.

GREMIO.
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?

PETRUCHIO.
Will I live?

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

PETRUCHIO.
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.

GRUMIO.
[_Aside_] For he fears none.

GREMIO.
Hortensio, hark:
This gentleman is happily arriv’d,
My mind presumes, for his own good and yours.

HORTENSIO.
I promis’d we would be contributors,
And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

GREMIO.
And so we will, provided that he win her.

GRUMIO.
I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello.

TRANIO.
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?

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

TRANIO.
Even he, Biondello!

GREMIO.
Hark you, sir, you mean not her to—

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

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

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

LUCENTIO.
[_Aside_]  Well begun, Tranio.

HORTENSIO.
Sir, a word ere you go.
Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

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

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

TRANIO.
Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free
For me as for you?

GREMIO.
But so is not she.

TRANIO.
For what reason, I beseech you?

GREMIO.
For this reason, if you’ll know,
That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.

HORTENSIO.
That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

TRANIO.
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.

GREMIO.
What, this gentleman will out-talk us all.

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

PETRUCHIO.
Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

HORTENSIO.
Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,
Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter?

TRANIO.
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.

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

GREMIO.
Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,
And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve.

PETRUCHIO.
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.

TRANIO.
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.

HORTENSIO.
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.

TRANIO.
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.

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

HORTENSIO.
The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:—
Petruchio, I shall be your _ben venuto_.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.

Enter Katherina and Bianca.

BIANCA.
Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,
To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;
That I disdain; but for these other gawds,
Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself,
Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;
Or what you will command me will I do,
So well I know my duty to my elders.

KATHERINA.
Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell
Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not.

BIANCA.
Believe me, sister, of all the men alive
I never yet beheld that special face
Which I could fancy more than any other.

KATHERINA.
Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio?

BIANCA.
If you affect him, sister, here I swear
I’ll plead for you myself but you shall have him.

KATHERINA.
O! then, belike, you fancy riches more:
You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

BIANCA.
Is it for him you do envy me so?
Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive
You have but jested with me all this while:
I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

KATHERINA.
If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

[_Strikes her._]

Enter Baptista.

BAPTISTA.
Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence?
Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps.
Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.
For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,
Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee?
When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

KATHERINA.
Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d.

[_Flies after Bianca._]

BAPTISTA.
What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

[_Exit Bianca._]

KATHERINA.
What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see
She is your treasure, she must have a husband;
I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,
And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.
Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep
Till I can find occasion of revenge.

[_Exit._]

BAPTISTA.
 Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I?
But who comes here?

Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with
Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing a lute and
books.

GREMIO.
Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

BAPTISTA.
Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen!

PETRUCHIO.
And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter
Call’d Katherina, fair and virtuous?

BAPTISTA.
I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katherina.

GREMIO.
You are too blunt: go to it orderly.

PETRUCHIO.
You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.
I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,
That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,
Her affability and bashful modesty,
Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,
Am bold to show myself a forward guest
Within your house, to make mine eye the witness
Of that report which I so oft have heard.
And, for an entrance to my entertainment,
I do present you with a man of mine,

[_Presenting Hortensio._]

Cunning in music and the mathematics,
To instruct her fully in those sciences,
Whereof I know she is not ignorant.
Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:
His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

BAPTISTA.
Y’are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake;
But for my daughter Katherine, this I know,
She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

PETRUCHIO.
I see you do not mean to part with her;
Or else you like not of my company.

BAPTISTA.
Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.
Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name?

PETRUCHIO.
Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son;
A man well known throughout all Italy.

BAPTISTA.
I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

GREMIO.
Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,
Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too.
Backare! you are marvellous forward.

PETRUCHIO.
O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

GREMIO.
I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing. Neighbour, this is
a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness,
myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely
give unto you this young scholar,

[_Presenting Lucentio._]

that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and
other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is
Cambio; pray accept his service.

BAPTISTA.
A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio. [_To Tranio._]
But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger. May I be so bold to
know the cause of your coming?

TRANIO.
Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,
That, being a stranger in this city here,
Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,
Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous.
Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,
In the preferment of the eldest sister.
This liberty is all that I request,
That, upon knowledge of my parentage,
I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo,
And free access and favour as the rest:
And, toward the education of your daughters,
I here bestow a simple instrument,
And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:
If you accept them, then their worth is great.

BAPTISTA.
Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray?

TRANIO.
Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

BAPTISTA.
A mighty man of Pisa: by report
I know him well: you are very welcome, sir.
[_To Hortensio_.] Take you the lute,
[_To Lucentio_.] and you the set of books;
You shall go see your pupils presently.
Holla, within!

Enter a Servant.

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen
To my daughters, and tell them both
These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

[_Exeunt Servant with Hortensio, Lucentio and Biondello._]

We will go walk a little in the orchard,
And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,
And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

PETRUCHIO.
Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,
And every day I cannot come to woo.
You knew my father well, and in him me,
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,
Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d:
Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love,
What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

BAPTISTA.
After my death, the one half of my lands,
And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

PETRUCHIO.
And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,
In all my lands and leases whatsoever.
Let specialities be therefore drawn between us,
That covenants may be kept on either hand.

BAPTISTA.
Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d,
That is, her love; for that is all in all.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,
I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;
And where two raging fires meet together,
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:
Though little fire grows great with little wind,
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all;
So I to her, and so she yields to me;
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

BAPTISTA.
Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!
But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words.

PETRUCHIO.
Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,
That shake not though they blow perpetually.

Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke.

BAPTISTA.
How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO.
For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

BAPTISTA.
What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

HORTENSIO.
I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier:
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

BAPTISTA.
Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

HORTENSIO.
Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she ‘I’ll fume with them’;
And with that word she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way;
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute;
While she did call me rascal fiddler,
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.

PETRUCHIO.
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!
I love her ten times more than e’er I did:
O! how I long to have some chat with her!

BAPTISTA.
[_To Hortensio_.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;
She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,
Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

PETRUCHIO.
I pray you do.

[_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio._]

I will attend her here,
And woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Say that she rail; why, then I’ll tell her plain
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:
Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:
Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:
If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks,
As though she bid me stay by her a week:
If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day
When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.
But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

Enter Katherina.

Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.

KATHERINA.
Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:
They call me Katherine that do talk of me.

PETRUCHIO.
You lie, in faith, for you are call’d plain Kate,
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;
But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,
Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,
For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;
Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,—
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,—
Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.

KATHERINA.
Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither
Remove you hence. I knew you at the first,
You were a moveable.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, what’s a moveable?

KATHERINA.
A joint-stool.

PETRUCHIO.
Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

KATHERINA.
Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

PETRUCHIO.
Women are made to bear, and so are you.

KATHERINA.
No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.

PETRUCHIO.
Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;
For, knowing thee to be but young and light,—

KATHERINA.
Too light for such a swain as you to catch;
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

PETRUCHIO.
Should be! should buz!

KATHERINA.
Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO.
O, slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

KATHERINA.
Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO.
Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry.

KATHERINA.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO.
My remedy is then to pluck it out.

KATHERINA.
Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

PETRUCHIO.
Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?
In his tail.

KATHERINA.
In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO.
Whose tongue?

KATHERINA.
Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO.
What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,
Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

KATHERINA.
That I’ll try.

[_Striking him._]

PETRUCHIO.
I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again.

KATHERINA.
So may you lose your arms:
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

PETRUCHIO.
A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.

KATHERINA.
What is your crest? a coxcomb?

PETRUCHIO.
A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

KATHERINA.
No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

PETRUCHIO.
Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

KATHERINA.
It is my fashion when I see a crab.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour.

KATHERINA.
There is, there is.

PETRUCHIO.
Then show it me.

KATHERINA.
Had I a glass I would.

PETRUCHIO.
What, you mean my face?

KATHERINA.
Well aim’d of such a young one.

PETRUCHIO.
Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

KATHERINA.
Yet you are wither’d.

PETRUCHIO.
’Tis with cares.

KATHERINA.
I care not.

PETRUCHIO.
Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so.

KATHERINA.
I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.

PETRUCHIO.
No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.
’Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,
And now I find report a very liar;
For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,
But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers.
Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,
Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,
Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;
But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers;
With gentle conference, soft and affable.
Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?
O sland’rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig
Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue
As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.
O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

KATHERINA.
Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command.

PETRUCHIO.
Did ever Dian so become a grove
As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?
O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,
And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful!

KATHERINA.
Where did you study all this goodly speech?

PETRUCHIO.
It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

KATHERINA.
A witty mother! witless else her son.

PETRUCHIO.
Am I not wise?

KATHERINA.
Yes; keep you warm.

PETRUCHIO.
Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed;
And therefore, setting all this chat aside,
Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented
That you shall be my wife your dowry ’greed on;
And will you, nill you, I will marry you.
Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;
For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,—
Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,—
Thou must be married to no man but me;
For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
Conformable as other household Kates.

Re-enter Baptista, Gremio and Tranio.

Here comes your father. Never make denial;
I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

BAPTISTA.
Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO.
How but well, sir? how but well?
It were impossible I should speed amiss.

BAPTISTA.
Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps?

KATHERINA.
Call you me daughter? Now I promise you
You have show’d a tender fatherly regard
To wish me wed to one half lunatic,
A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

PETRUCHIO.
Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world
That talk’d of her have talk’d amiss of her:
If she be curst, it is for policy,
For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove;
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
For patience she will prove a second Grissel,
And Roman Lucrece for her chastity;
And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together
That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.

KATHERINA.
I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

GREMIO.
Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first.

TRANIO.
Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part!

PETRUCHIO.
Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself;
If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you?
’Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone,
That she shall still be curst in company.
I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe
How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss
She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
That in a twink she won me to her love.
O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see,
How tame, when men and women are alone,
A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.
Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice,
To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;
I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine.

BAPTISTA.
I know not what to say; but give me your hands.
God send you joy, Petruchio! ’Tis a match.

GREMIO, TRANIO.
Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.

PETRUCHIO.
Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.
I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace;
We will have rings and things, and fine array;
And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o’ Sunday.

[_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina, severally._]

GREMIO.
Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?

BAPTISTA.
Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part,
And venture madly on a desperate mart.

TRANIO.
’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;
’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

BAPTISTA.
The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

GREMIO.
No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.
But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:
Now is the day we long have looked for;
I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

TRANIO.
And I am one that love Bianca more
Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.

GREMIO.
Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

TRANIO.
Greybeard, thy love doth freeze.

GREMIO.
But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back; ’tis age that nourisheth.

TRANIO.
But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth.

BAPTISTA.
Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife:
’Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both
That can assure my daughter greatest dower
Shall have my Bianca’s love.
Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

GREMIO.
First, as you know, my house within the city
Is richly furnished with plate and gold:
Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;
In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns;
In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,
Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,
Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,
Valance of Venice gold in needlework;
Pewter and brass, and all things that belong
To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm
I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,
Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls,
And all things answerable to this portion.
Myself am struck in years, I must confess;
And if I die tomorrow this is hers,
If whilst I live she will be only mine.

TRANIO.
That ‘only’ came well in. Sir, list to me:
I am my father’s heir and only son;
If I may have your daughter to my wife,
I’ll leave her houses three or four as good
Within rich Pisa’s walls as anyone
Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;
Besides two thousand ducats by the year
Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.
What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO.
Two thousand ducats by the year of land!
My land amounts not to so much in all:
That she shall have, besides an argosy
That now is lying in Marseilles’ road.
What, have I chok’d you with an argosy?

TRANIO.
Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less
Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,
And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her,
And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next.

GREMIO.
Nay, I have offer’d all; I have no more;
And she can have no more than all I have;
If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

TRANIO.
Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,
By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied.

BAPTISTA.
I must confess your offer is the best;
And let your father make her the assurance,
She is your own; else, you must pardon me;
If you should die before him, where’s her dower?

TRANIO.
That’s but a cavil; he is old, I young.

GREMIO.
And may not young men die as well as old?

BAPTISTA.
Well, gentlemen,
I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know,
My daughter Katherine is to be married;
Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca
Be bride to you, if you make this assurance;
If not, to Signior Gremio.
And so I take my leave, and thank you both.

GREMIO.
Adieu, good neighbour.

[_Exit Baptista._]

Now, I fear thee not:
Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool
To give thee all, and in his waning age
Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy!
An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

[_Exit._]

TRANIO.
A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide!
Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten.
’Tis in my head to do my master good:
I see no reason but suppos’d Lucentio
Must get a father, call’d suppos’d Vincentio;
And that’s a wonder: fathers commonly
Do get their children; but in this case of wooing
A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

[_Exit._]

ACT III

SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house.

Enter Lucentio, Hortensio and Bianca.

LUCENTIO.
Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir.
Have you so soon forgot the entertainment
Her sister Katherine welcome’d you withal?

HORTENSIO.
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.

LUCENTIO.
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.

HORTENSIO.
Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

BIANCA.
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.

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

[_Retires._]

LUCENTIO.
That will be never: tune your instrument.

BIANCA.
Where left we last?

LUCENTIO.
Here, madam:—
_Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis._

BIANCA.
Construe them.

LUCENTIO.
_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.

BIANCA.
Let’s hear.—

[Hortensio _plays._]

O fie! the treble jars.

LUCENTIO.
Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

BIANCA.
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.

HORTENSIO.
Madam, ’tis now in tune.

LUCENTIO.
All but the base.

HORTENSIO.
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.

BIANCA.
In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

LUCENTIO.
Mistrust it not; for sure, Æacides
Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

BIANCA.
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.

HORTENSIO.
[_To Lucentio_] You may go walk and give me leave a while;
My lessons make no music in three parts.

LUCENTIO.
Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait,
[_Aside_] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,
Our fine musician groweth amorous.

HORTENSIO.
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.

BIANCA.
Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

HORTENSIO.
Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

BIANCA.
   _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.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT.
Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,
And help to dress your sister’s chamber up:
You know tomorrow is the wedding-day.

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

[_Exeunt Bianca and Servant._]

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

[_Exit._]

HORTENSIO.
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.

[_Exit._]

SCENE II. The same. Before Baptista’s house.

Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katherina, Bianca, Lucentio and
Attendants.

BAPTISTA.  [_To Tranio_.]
Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed day
That Katherine and Petruchio should be married,
And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.
What will be said? What mockery will it be
To want the bridegroom when the priest attends
To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!
What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

KATHERINA.
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 spleen;
Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure.
I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,
Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;
And to be noted for a merry man,
He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage,
Make friends, invite, and proclaim the banns;
Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d.
Now must the world point at poor Katherine,
And say ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife,
If it would please him come and marry her.’

TRANIO.
Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too.
Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,
Whatever fortune stays him from his word:
Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;
Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest.

KATHERINA.
Would Katherine had never seen him though!

[_Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others._]

BAPTISTA.
Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep,
For such an injury would vex a very saint;
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter Biondello.

Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heard of!

BAPTISTA.
Is it new and old too? How may that be?

BIONDELLO.
Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming?

BAPTISTA.
Is he come?

BIONDELLO.
Why, no, sir.

BAPTISTA.
What then?

BIONDELLO.
He is coming.

BAPTISTA.
When will he be here?

BIONDELLO.
When he stands where I am and sees you there.

TRANIO.
But say, what to thine old news?

BIONDELLO.
Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old
breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases,
one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town
armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his
horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred;
besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine;
troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of
windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the
fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed
in the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a
half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which, being
restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now
repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s crupper
of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in
studs, and here and there pieced with pack-thread.

BAPTISTA.
Who comes with him?

BIONDELLO.
O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with
a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered
with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the humour of forty fancies
prick’d in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and
not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.

TRANIO.
’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;
Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d.

BAPTISTA.
I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes.

BIONDELLO.
Why, sir, he comes not.

BAPTISTA.
Didst thou not say he comes?

BIONDELLO.
Who? that Petruchio came?

BAPTISTA.
Ay, that Petruchio came.

BIONDELLO.
No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

BAPTISTA.
Why, that’s all one.

BIONDELLO.
     Nay, by Saint Jamy,
     I hold you a penny,
     A horse and a man
     Is more than one,
     And yet not many.

Enter Petruchio and Grumio.

PETRUCHIO.
Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home?

BAPTISTA.
You are welcome, sir.

PETRUCHIO.
And yet I come not well.

BAPTISTA.
And yet you halt not.

TRANIO.
Not so well apparell’d as I wish you were.

PETRUCHIO.
Were it better, I should rush in thus.
But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?
How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown;
And wherefore gaze this goodly company,
As if they saw some wondrous monument,
Some comet or unusual prodigy?

BAPTISTA.
Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day:
First were we sad, fearing you would not come;
Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.
Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,
An eye-sore to our solemn festival.

TRANIO.
And tell us what occasion of import
Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,
And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

PETRUCHIO.
Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear;
Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,
Though in some part enforced to digress;
Which at more leisure I will so excuse
As you shall well be satisfied withal.
But where is Kate? I stay too long from her;
The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

TRANIO.
See not your bride in these unreverent robes;
Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.

PETRUCHIO.
Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her.

BAPTISTA.
But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

PETRUCHIO.
Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words;
To me she’s married, not unto my clothes.
Could I repair what she will wear in me
As I can change these poor accoutrements,
’Twere well for Kate and better for myself.
But what a fool am I to chat with you
When I should bid good morrow to my bride,
And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

[_Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio and Biondello._]

TRANIO.
He hath some meaning in his mad attire.
We will persuade him, be it possible,
To put on better ere he go to church.

BAPTISTA.
I’ll after him and see the event of this.

[_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio and Attendants._]

TRANIO.
But, sir, to love concerneth us to add
Her father’s liking; which to bring to pass,
As I before imparted to your worship,
I am to get a man,—whate’er he be
It skills not much; we’ll fit him to our turn,—
And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,
And make assurance here in Padua,
Of greater sums than I have promised.
So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,
And marry sweet Bianca with consent.

LUCENTIO.
Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster
Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,
’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;
Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,
I’ll keep mine own despite of all the world.

TRANIO.
That by degrees we mean to look into,
And watch our vantage in this business.
We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,
The narrow-prying father, Minola,
The quaint musician, amorous Licio;
All for my master’s sake, Lucentio.

Re-enter Gremio.

Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

GREMIO.
As willingly as e’er I came from school.

TRANIO.
And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

GREMIO.
A bridegroom, say you? ’Tis a groom indeed,
A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

TRANIO.
Curster than she? Why, ’tis impossible.

GREMIO.
Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

TRANIO.
Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam.

GREMIO.
Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him.
I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest
Should ask if Katherine should be his wife,
’Ay, by gogs-wouns’ quoth he, and swore so loud
That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book;
And as he stoop’d again to take it up,
The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff
That down fell priest and book, and book and priest:
‘Now take them up,’ quoth he ‘if any list.’

TRANIO.
What said the wench, when he rose again?

GREMIO.
Trembled and shook, for why, he stamp’d and swore
As if the vicar meant to cozen him.
But after many ceremonies done,
He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he, as if
He had been abroad, carousing to his mates
After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel,
And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face,
Having no other reason
But that his beard grew thin and hungerly
And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking.
This done, he took the bride about the neck,
And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack
That at the parting all the church did echo.
And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;
And after me, I know, the rout is coming.
Such a mad marriage never was before.
Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.

[_Music plays._]

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio and
Train.

PETRUCHIO.
Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:
I know you think to dine with me today,
And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer
But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,
And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

BAPTISTA.
Is’t possible you will away tonight?

PETRUCHIO.
I must away today before night come.
Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,
You would entreat me rather go than stay.
And, honest company, I thank you all,
That have beheld me give away myself
To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.
Dine with my father, drink a health to me.
For I must hence; and farewell to you all.

TRANIO.
Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

PETRUCHIO.
It may not be.

GREMIO.
Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO.
It cannot be.

KATHERINA.
Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO.
I am content.

KATHERINA.
Are you content to stay?

PETRUCHIO.
I am content you shall entreat me stay;
But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

KATHERINA.
Now, if you love me, stay.

PETRUCHIO.
Grumio, my horse!

GRUMIO.
Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses.

KATHERINA.
Nay, then,
Do what thou canst, I will not go today;
No, nor tomorrow, not till I please myself.
The door is open, sir; there lies your way;
You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;
For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself.
’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom
That take it on you at the first so roundly.

PETRUCHIO.
O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry.

KATHERINA.
I will be angry: what hast thou to do?
Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

GREMIO.
Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

KATHERINA.
Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:
I see a woman may be made a fool,
If she had not a spirit to resist.

PETRUCHIO.
They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.
Obey the bride, you that attend on her;
Go to the feast, revel and domineer,
Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,
Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:
But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.
Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;
I will be master of what is mine own.
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,
My household stuff, my field, my barn,
My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything;
And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;
I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he
That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,
Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves;
Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.
Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate;
I’ll buckler thee against a million.

[_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Grumio._]

BAPTISTA.
Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

GREMIO.
Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

TRANIO.
Of all mad matches, never was the like.

LUCENTIO.
Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister?

BIANCA.
That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated.

GREMIO.
I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

BAPTISTA.
Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants
For to supply the places at the table,
You know there wants no junkets at the feast.
Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place;
And let Bianca take her sister’s room.

TRANIO.
Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

BAPTISTA.
She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go.

[_Exeunt._]

ACT IV

SCENE I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house.

Enter Grumio.

GRUMIO.
Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was
ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray’d? Was ever man so weary? I am
sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them.
Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to
my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere
I should come by a fire to thaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall
warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will
take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis!

Enter Curtis.

CURTIS.
Who is that calls so coldly?

GRUMIO.
A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to
my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good
Curtis.

CURTIS.
Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

GRUMIO.
O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water.

CURTIS.
Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported?

GRUMIO.
She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou knowest winter tames
man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new
mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis.

CURTIS.
Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.

GRUMIO.
Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the
least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our
mistress, whose hand,—she being now at hand,— thou shalt soon feel, to
thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office?

CURTIS.
I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?

GRUMIO.
A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire. Do
thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress are almost
frozen to death.

CURTIS.
There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news.

GRUMIO.
Why, ‘Jack boy! ho, boy!’ and as much news as wilt thou.

CURTIS.
Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

GRUMIO.
Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook?
Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the
servingmen in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every
officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills
fair without, and carpets laid, and everything in order?

CURTIS.
All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

GRUMIO.
First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out.

CURTIS.
How?

GRUMIO.
Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale.

CURTIS.
Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

GRUMIO.
Lend thine ear.

CURTIS.
Here.

GRUMIO.
[_Striking him._] There.

CURTIS.
This ’tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

GRUMIO.
And therefore ’tis called a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to
knock at your ear and beseech listening. Now I begin: _Imprimis_, we
came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,—

CURTIS.
Both of one horse?

GRUMIO.
What’s that to thee?

CURTIS.
Why, a horse.

GRUMIO.
Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have
heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou shouldst have
heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled; how he left her with
the horse upon her; how he beat me because her horse stumbled; how she
waded through the dirt to pluck him off me: how he swore; how she
prayed, that never prayed before; how I cried; how the horses ran away;
how her bridle was burst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of
worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return
unexperienced to thy grave.

CURTIS.
By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.

GRUMIO.
Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes
home. But what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas,
Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest; let their heads be sleekly
combed, their blue coats brush’d and their garters of an indifferent
knit; let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a
hair of my master’s horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all
ready?

CURTIS.
They are.

GRUMIO.
Call them forth.

CURTIS.
Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance my mistress.

GRUMIO.
Why, she hath a face of her own.

CURTIS.
Who knows not that?

GRUMIO.
Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her.

CURTIS.
I call them forth to credit her.

GRUMIO.
Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

Enter four or five Servants.

NATHANIEL.
Welcome home, Grumio!

PHILIP.
How now, Grumio!

JOSEPH.
What, Grumio!

NICHOLAS.
Fellow Grumio!

NATHANIEL.
How now, old lad!

GRUMIO.
Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you; and thus much for
greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat?

NATHANIEL.
All things is ready. How near is our master?

GRUMIO.
E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,—
Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master.

Enter Petruchio and Katherina.

PETRUCHIO.
Where be these knaves? What! no man at door
To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse?
Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?—

ALL SERVANTS.
Here, here, sir; here, sir.

PETRUCHIO.
Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!
You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms!
What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?
Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

GRUMIO.
Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

PETRUCHIO.
You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge!
Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,
And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

GRUMIO.
Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,
And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel;
There was no link to colour Peter’s hat,
And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing;
There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;
The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;
Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

PETRUCHIO.
Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in.

[_Exeunt some of the Servants._]

Where is the life that late I led?
   Where are those—?  Sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Food, food, food, food!

Re-enter Servants with supper.

Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.—
Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! when?
   It was the friar of orders grey,
   As he forth walked on his way:
Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:

[_Strikes him._]

Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.
Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!
Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence
And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:

[_Exit Servant._]

One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with.
Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?
Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.—

[_Servant lets the ewer fall. Petruchio strikes him._]

You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

KATHERINA.
Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling.

PETRUCHIO.
A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave!
Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.
Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?—
What’s this? Mutton?

FIRST SERVANT.
Ay.

PETRUCHIO.
Who brought it?

PETER.
I.

PETRUCHIO.
’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.
What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?
How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,
And serve it thus to me that love it not?

[_Throws the meat, etc., at them._]

There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all.
You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves!
What! do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight.

KATHERINA.
I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet;
The meat was well, if you were so contented.

PETRUCHIO.
I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away,
And I expressly am forbid to touch it;
For it engenders choler, planteth anger;
And better ’twere that both of us did fast,
Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,
Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.
Be patient; tomorrow ’t shall be mended.
And for this night we’ll fast for company:
Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

[_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Curtis._]

NATHANIEL.
Peter, didst ever see the like?

PETER.
He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter Curtis.

GRUMIO.
Where is he?

CURTIS.
In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
And sits as one new risen from a dream.
Away, away! for he is coming hither.

[_Exeunt._]

Re-enter Petruchio.

PETRUCHIO.
Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
And ’tis my hope to end successfully.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty.
And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d,
For then she never looks upon her lure.
Another way I have to man my haggard,
To make her come, and know her keeper’s call,
That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites
That bate and beat, and will not be obedient.
She eat no meat today, nor none shall eat;
Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not;
As with the meat, some undeserved fault
I’ll find about the making of the bed;
And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets;
Ay, and amid this hurly I intend
That all is done in reverend care of her;
And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night:
And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,
And with the clamour keep her still awake.
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;
And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak; ’tis charity to show.

[_Exit._]

SCENE II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house.

Enter Tranio and Hortensio.

TRANIO.
Is ’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca
Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?
I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

HORTENSIO.
Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,
Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching.

[_They stand aside._]

Enter Bianca and Lucentio.

LUCENTIO.
Now, mistress, profit you in what you read?

BIANCA.
What, master, read you? First resolve me that.

LUCENTIO.
I read that I profess, _The Art to Love_.

BIANCA.
And may you prove, sir, master of your art!

LUCENTIO.
While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart.

[_They retire._]

HORTENSIO.
Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray,
You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca
Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio.

TRANIO.
O despiteful love! unconstant womankind!
I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.

HORTENSIO.
Mistake no more; I am not Licio.
Nor a musician as I seem to be;
But one that scorn to live in this disguise
For such a one as leaves a gentleman
And makes a god of such a cullion:
Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio.

TRANIO.
Signior Hortensio, I have often heard
Of your entire affection to Bianca;
And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,
I will with you, if you be so contented,
Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

HORTENSIO.
See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,
Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow
Never to woo her more, but do forswear her,
As one unworthy all the former favours
That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

TRANIO.
And here I take the like unfeigned oath,
Never to marry with her though she would entreat;
Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him!

HORTENSIO.
Would all the world but he had quite forsworn!
For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,
I will be married to a wealthy widow
Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me
As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard.
And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love; and so I take my leave,
In resolution as I swore before.

[_Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance._]

TRANIO.
Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace
As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case!
Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,
And have forsworn you with Hortensio.

BIANCA.
Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me?

TRANIO.
Mistress, we have.

LUCENTIO.
Then we are rid of Licio.

TRANIO.
I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now,
That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day.

BIANCA.
God give him joy!

TRANIO.
Ay, and he’ll tame her.

BIANCA.
He says so, Tranio.

TRANIO.
Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

BIANCA.
The taming-school! What, is there such a place?

TRANIO.
Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master,
That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,
To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.

Enter Biondello, running.

BIONDELLO.
O master, master! I have watch’d so long
That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied
An ancient angel coming down the hill
Will serve the turn.

TRANIO.
What is he, Biondello?

BIONDELLO.
Master, a mercatante or a pedant,
I know not what; but formal in apparel,
In gait and countenance surely like a father.

LUCENTIO.
And what of him, Tranio?

TRANIO.
If he be credulous and trust my tale,
I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio,
And give assurance to Baptista Minola,
As if he were the right Vincentio.
Take in your love, and then let me alone.

[_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._]

Enter a Pedant.

PEDANT.
God save you, sir!

TRANIO.
And you, sir! you are welcome.
Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?

PEDANT.
Sir, at the farthest for a week or two;
But then up farther, and as far as Rome;
And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.

TRANIO.
What countryman, I pray?

PEDANT.
Of Mantua.

TRANIO.
Of Mantua, sir?  Marry, God forbid,
And come to Padua, careless of your life!

PEDANT.
My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard.

TRANIO.
’Tis death for anyone in Mantua
To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?
Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the Duke,—
For private quarrel ’twixt your Duke and him,—
Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly.
’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come
You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.

PEDANT.
Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so;
For I have bills for money by exchange
From Florence, and must here deliver them.

TRANIO.
Well, sir, to do you courtesy,
This will I do, and this I will advise you:
First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

PEDANT.
Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,
Pisa renowned for grave citizens.

TRANIO.
Among them know you one Vincentio?

PEDANT.
I know him not, but I have heard of him,
A merchant of incomparable wealth.

TRANIO.
He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,
In countenance somewhat doth resemble you.

BIONDELLO.
[_Aside._]  As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one.

TRANIO.
To save your life in this extremity,
This favour will I do you for his sake;
And think it not the worst of all your fortunes
That you are like to Sir Vincentio.
His name and credit shall you undertake,
And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d;
Look that you take upon you as you should!
You understand me, sir; so shall you stay
Till you have done your business in the city.
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.

PEDANT.
O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever
The patron of my life and liberty.

TRANIO.
Then go with me to make the matter good.
This, by the way, I let you understand:
My father is here look’d for every day
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage
’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:
In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you.
Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. A room in Petruchio’s house.

Enter Katherina and Grumio.

GRUMIO.
No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life.

KATHERINA.
The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.
What, did he marry me to famish me?
Beggars that come unto my father’s door
Upon entreaty have a present alms;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity;
But I, who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat,
Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.
And that which spites me more than all these wants,
He does it under name of perfect love;
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat
’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.
I prithee go and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

GRUMIO.
What say you to a neat’s foot?

KATHERINA.
’Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it.

GRUMIO.
I fear it is too choleric a meat.
How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d?

KATHERINA.
I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me.

GRUMIO.
I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

KATHERINA.
A dish that I do love to feed upon.

GRUMIO.
Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

KATHERINA.
Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

GRUMIO.
Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

KATHERINA.
Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

GRUMIO.
Why then the mustard without the beef.

KATHERINA.
Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

[_Beats him._]

That feed’st me with the very name of meat.
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you
That triumph thus upon my misery!
Go, get thee gone, I say.

Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio.

PETRUCHIO.
How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

HORTENSIO.
Mistress, what cheer?

KATHERINA.
Faith, as cold as can be.

PETRUCHIO.
Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee:

[_Sets the dish on a table._]

I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov’st it not,
And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
Here, take away this dish.

KATHERINA.
I pray you, let it stand.

PETRUCHIO.
The poorest service is repaid with thanks;
And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

KATHERINA.
I thank you, sir.

HORTENSIO.
Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.
Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company.

PETRUCHIO.
[_Aside._]  Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.
Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!
Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love,
Will we return unto thy father’s house
And revel it as bravely as the best,
With silken coats and caps, and golden rings,
With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;
With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery.
What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure,
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;
Lay forth the gown.—

Enter Haberdasher.

What news with you, sir?

HABERDASHER.
Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, this was moulded on a porringer;
A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy:
Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:
Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.

KATHERINA.
I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the time,
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

PETRUCHIO.
When you are gentle, you shall have one too,
And not till then.

HORTENSIO.
[_Aside_] That will not be in haste.

KATHERINA.
Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;
And speak I will. I am no child, no babe.
Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break;
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap,
A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie;
I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not.

KATHERINA.
Love me or love me not, I like the cap;
And it I will have, or I will have none.

[_Exit Haberdasher._]

PETRUCHIO.
Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t.
O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?
What’s this? A sleeve? ’Tis like a demi-cannon.
What, up and down, carv’d like an apple tart?
Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber’s shop.
Why, what i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this?

HORTENSIO.
[_Aside_] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown.

TAILOR.
You bid me make it orderly and well,
According to the fashion and the time.

PETRUCHIO.
Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d,
I did not bid you mar it to the time.
Go, hop me over every kennel home,
For you shall hop without my custom, sir.
I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it.

KATHERINA.
I never saw a better fashion’d gown,
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable;
Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee.

TAILOR.
She says your worship means to make a puppet of her.

PETRUCHIO.
O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,
Thou thimble,
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou!
Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread!
Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st!
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown.

TAILOR.
Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made
Just as my master had direction.
Grumio gave order how it should be done.

GRUMIO.
I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.

TAILOR.
But how did you desire it should be made?

GRUMIO.
Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

TAILOR.
But did you not request to have it cut?

GRUMIO.
Thou hast faced many things.

TAILOR.
I have.

GRUMIO.
Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be
fac’d nor brav’d. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown;
but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest.

TAILOR.
Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.

PETRUCHIO.
Read it.

GRUMIO.
The note lies in ’s throat, if he say I said so.

TAILOR.
’Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.’

GRUMIO.
Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it
and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread; I said, a gown.

PETRUCHIO.
Proceed.

TAILOR.
‘With a small compassed cape.’

GRUMIO.
I confess the cape.

TAILOR.
‘With a trunk sleeve.’

GRUMIO.
I confess two sleeves.

TAILOR.
‘The sleeves curiously cut.’

PETRUCHIO.
Ay, there’s the villainy.

GRUMIO.
Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves
should be cut out, and sew’d up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee,
though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

TAILOR.
This is true that I say; and I had thee in place where thou shouldst
know it.

GRUMIO.
I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and
spare not me.

HORTENSIO.
God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds.

PETRUCHIO.
Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.

GRUMIO.
You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my mistress.

PETRUCHIO.
Go, take it up unto thy master’s use.

GRUMIO.
Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress’ gown for thy master’s
use!

PETRUCHIO.
Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that?

GRUMIO.
O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for.
Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use!
O fie, fie, fie!

PETRUCHIO.
[_Aside_]  Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.
[_To Tailor._] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

HORTENSIO.
[_Aside to Tailor._] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow;
Take no unkindness of his hasty words.
Away, I say! commend me to thy master.

[_Exit Tailor._]

PETRUCHIO.
Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s
Even in these honest mean habiliments.
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor
For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What, is the jay more precious than the lark
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array.
If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me;
And therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith,
To feast and sport us at thy father’s house.
Go call my men, and let us straight to him;
And bring our horses unto Long-lane end;
There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.
Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock,
And well we may come there by dinner-time.

KATHERINA.
I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two,
And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there.

PETRUCHIO.
It shall be seven ere I go to horse.
Look what I speak, or do, or think to do,
You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone:
I will not go today; and ere I do,
It shall be what o’clock I say it is.

HORTENSIO.
Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE IV. Padua. Before Baptista’s house.

Enter Tranio and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio

TRANIO.
Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call?

PEDANT.
Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,
Signior Baptista may remember me,
Near twenty years ago in Genoa,
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

TRANIO.
’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,
With such austerity as ’longeth to a father.

PEDANT.
I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;
’Twere good he were school’d.

Enter Biondello.

TRANIO.
Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you.
Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio.

BIONDELLO.
Tut! fear not me.

TRANIO.
But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

BIONDELLO.
I told him that your father was at Venice,
And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

TRANIO.
Th’art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink.
Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.

Enter Baptista and Lucentio.

Signior Baptista, you are happily met.
[_To the Pedant_] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of;
I pray you stand good father to me now;
Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

PEDANT.
Soft, son!
Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua
To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio
Made me acquainted with a weighty cause
Of love between your daughter and himself:
And,—for the good report I hear of you,
And for the love he beareth to your daughter,
And she to him,—to stay him not too long,
I am content, in a good father’s care,
To have him match’d; and, if you please to like
No worse than I, upon some agreement
Me shall you find ready and willing
With one consent to have her so bestow’d;
For curious I cannot be with you,
Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

BAPTISTA.
Sir, pardon me in what I have to say.
Your plainness and your shortness please me well.
Right true it is your son Lucentio here
Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him,
Or both dissemble deeply their affections;
And therefore, if you say no more than this,
That like a father you will deal with him,
And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,
The match is made, and all is done:
Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

TRANIO.
I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best
We be affied, and such assurance ta’en
As shall with either part’s agreement stand?

BAPTISTA.
Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know
Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants;
Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,
And happily we might be interrupted.

TRANIO.
Then at my lodging, and it like you:
There doth my father lie; and there this night
We’ll pass the business privately and well.
Send for your daughter by your servant here;
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.
The worst is this, that at so slender warning
You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.

BAPTISTA.
It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,
And bid Bianca make her ready straight;
And, if you will, tell what hath happened:
Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua,
And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife.

LUCENTIO.
I pray the gods she may, with all my heart!

TRANIO.
Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?
Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer;
Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

BAPTISTA.
I follow you.

[_Exeunt Tranio, Pedant and Baptista._]

BIONDELLO.
Cambio!

LUCENTIO.
What say’st thou, Biondello?

BIONDELLO.
You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?

LUCENTIO.
Biondello, what of that?

BIONDELLO.
Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound the meaning or
moral of his signs and tokens.

LUCENTIO.
I pray thee moralize them.

BIONDELLO.
Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a
deceitful son.

LUCENTIO.
And what of him?

BIONDELLO.
His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.

LUCENTIO.
And then?

BIONDELLO.
The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours.

LUCENTIO.
And what of all this?

BIONDELLO.
I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance.
Take your assurance of her, _cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum_; to
the church! take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest
witnesses. If this be not that you look for, I have more to say, But
bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

[_Going._]

LUCENTIO.
Hear’st thou, Biondello?

BIONDELLO.
I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to
the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so
adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s to bid
the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix.

[_Exit._]

LUCENTIO.
I may, and will, if she be so contented.
She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt?
Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her;
It shall go hard if Cambio go without her:

[_Exit._]

SCENE V. A public road.

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Servants.

PETRUCHIO.
Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s.
Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

KATHERINA.
The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now.

PETRUCHIO.
I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

KATHERINA.
I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

PETRUCHIO.
Now by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,
Or ere I journey to your father’s house.
Go on and fetch our horses back again.
Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d!

HORTENSIO.
Say as he says, or we shall never go.

KATHERINA.
Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;
And if you please to call it a rush-candle,
Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

PETRUCHIO.
I say it is the moon.

KATHERINA.
I know it is the moon.

PETRUCHIO.
Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

KATHERINA.
Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun;
But sun it is not when you say it is not,
And the moon changes even as your mind.
What you will have it nam’d, even that it is,
And so it shall be so for Katherine.

HORTENSIO.
Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

PETRUCHIO.
Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,
And not unluckily against the bias.
But, soft! Company is coming here.

Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress.

[_To Vincentio_] Good morrow, gentle mistress; where away?
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty
As those two eyes become that heavenly face?
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.

HORTENSIO.
A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.

KATHERINA.
Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,
Whither away, or where is thy abode?
Happy the parents of so fair a child;
Happier the man whom favourable stars
Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad:
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,
And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.

KATHERINA.
Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,
That have been so bedazzled with the sun
That everything I look on seemeth green:
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father;
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

PETRUCHIO.
Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known
Which way thou travellest: if along with us,
We shall be joyful of thy company.

VINCENTIO.
Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,
That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me,
My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa;
And bound I am to Padua, there to visit
A son of mine, which long I have not seen.

PETRUCHIO.
What is his name?

VINCENTIO.
Lucentio, gentle sir.

PETRUCHIO.
Happily met; the happier for thy son.
And now by law, as well as reverend age,
I may entitle thee my loving father:
The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,
Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,
Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem,
Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;
Beside, so qualified as may beseem
The spouse of any noble gentleman.
Let me embrace with old Vincentio;
And wander we to see thy honest son,
Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

VINCENTIO.
But is this true? or is it else your pleasure,
Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest
Upon the company you overtake?

HORTENSIO.
I do assure thee, father, so it is.

PETRUCHIO.
Come, go along, and see the truth hereof;
For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

[_Exeunt all but Hortensio._]

HORTENSIO.
Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart.
Have to my widow! and if she be froward,
Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.

[_Exit._]

ACT V

SCENE I. Padua. Before Lucentio’s house.

Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio and Bianca; Gremio walking on
other side.

BIONDELLO.
Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready.

LUCENTIO.
I fly, Biondello; but they may chance to need thee at home, therefore
leave us.

BIONDELLO.
Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my
master’s as soon as I can.

[_Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca and Biondello._]

GREMIO.
I marvel Cambio comes not all this while.

Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Vincentio and Attendants.

PETRUCHIO.
Sir, here’s the door; this is Lucentio’s house:
My father’s bears more toward the market-place;
Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

VINCENTIO.
You shall not choose but drink before you go.
I think I shall command your welcome here,
And by all likelihood some cheer is toward.

[_Knocks._]

GREMIO.
They’re busy within; you were best knock louder.

Enter Pedant above, at a window.

PEDANT.
What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?

VINCENTIO.
Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

PEDANT.
He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.

VINCENTIO.
What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two to make merry withal?

PEDANT.
Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I
live.

PETRUCHIO.
Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir?
To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell Signior Lucentio that
his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with
him.

PEDANT.
Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the
window.

VINCENTIO.
Art thou his father?

PEDANT.
Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

PETRUCHIO.
[_To Vincentio_]  Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery to
take upon you another man’s name.

PEDANT.
Lay hands on the villain: I believe a means to cozen somebody in this
city under my countenance.

Re-enter Biondello.

BIONDELLO.
I have seen them in the church together: God send ’em good shipping!
But who is here? Mine old master, Vincentio! Now we are undone and
brought to nothing.

VINCENTIO.
[_Seeing Biondello._] Come hither, crack-hemp.

BIONDELLO.
I hope I may choose, sir.

VINCENTIO.
Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me?

BIONDELLO.
Forgot you! No, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before
in all my life.

VINCENTIO.
What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thy master’s father,
Vincentio?

BIONDELLO.
What, my old worshipful old master? Yes, marry, sir; see where he looks
out of the window.

VINCENTIO.
Is’t so, indeed?

[_He beats Biondello._]

BIONDELLO.
Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me.

[_Exit._]

PEDANT.
Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!

[_Exit from the window._]

PETRUCHIO.
Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside and see the end of this controversy.

[_They retire._]

Re-enter Pedant, below; Baptista, Tranio and Servants.

TRANIO.
Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant?

VINCENTIO.
What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine
villain! A silken doublet, a velvet hose, a scarlet cloak, and a
copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! While I play the good
husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university.

TRANIO.
How now! what’s the matter?

BAPTISTA.
What, is the man lunatic?

TRANIO.
Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words
show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and
gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

VINCENTIO.
Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo.

BAPTISTA.
You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his
name?

VINCENTIO.
His name! As if I knew not his name! I have brought him up ever since
he was three years old, and his name is Tranio.

PEDANT.
Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and
heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.

VINCENTIO.
Lucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge
you, in the Duke’s name. O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain,
where is my son, Lucentio?

TRANIO.
Call forth an officer.

Enter one with an Officer.

Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see
that he be forthcoming.

VINCENTIO.
Carry me to the gaol!

GREMIO.
Stay, officer; he shall not go to prison.

BAPTISTA.
Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he shall go to prison.

GREMIO.
Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business;
I dare swear this is the right Vincentio.

PEDANT.
Swear if thou darest.

GREMIO.
Nay, I dare not swear it.

TRANIO.
Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio.

GREMIO.
Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.

BAPTISTA.
Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him!

VINCENTIO.
Thus strangers may be haled and abus’d: O monstrous villain!

Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca.

BIONDELLO.
O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we
are all undone.

LUCENTIO.
[_Kneeling._] Pardon, sweet father.

VINCENTIO.
Lives my sweetest son?

[_Biondello, Tranio and Pedant run out._]

BIANCA.
[_Kneeling._] Pardon, dear father.

BAPTISTA.
How hast thou offended?
Where is Lucentio?

LUCENTIO.
Here’s Lucentio,
Right son to the right Vincentio;
That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,
While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne.

GREMIO.
Here ’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!

VINCENTIO.
Where is that damned villain, Tranio,
That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so?

BAPTISTA.
Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

BIANCA.
Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio.

LUCENTIO.
Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love
Made me exchange my state with Tranio,
While he did bear my countenance in the town;
And happily I have arriv’d at the last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss.
What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to;
Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

VINCENTIO.
I’ll slit the villain’s nose that would have sent me to the gaol.

BAPTISTA.
[_To Lucentio._] But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter
without asking my good will?

VINCENTIO.
Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be
revenged for this villainy.

[_Exit._]

BAPTISTA.
And I to sound the depth of this knavery.

[_Exit._]

LUCENTIO.
Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown.

[_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._]

GREMIO.
My cake is dough, but I’ll in among the rest;
Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.

[_Exit._]

Petruchio and Katherina advance.

KATHERINA.
Husband, let’s follow to see the end of this ado.

PETRUCHIO.
First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

KATHERINA.
What! in the midst of the street?

PETRUCHIO.
What! art thou ashamed of me?

KATHERINA.
No, sir; God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, then, let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away.

KATHERINA.
Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

PETRUCHIO.
Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:
Better once than never, for never too late.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. A room in Lucentio’s house.

Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca,
Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Widow. Tranio, Biondello and Grumio
and Others, attending.

LUCENTIO.
At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:
And time it is when raging war is done,
To smile at ’scapes and perils overblown.
My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,
While I with self-same kindness welcome thine.
Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina,
And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,
Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:
My banquet is to close our stomachs up,
After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;
For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

[_They sit at table._]

PETRUCHIO.
Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!

BAPTISTA.
Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.

PETRUCHIO.
Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

HORTENSIO.
For both our sakes I would that word were true.

PETRUCHIO.
Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.

WIDOW.
Then never trust me if I be afeard.

PETRUCHIO.
You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:
I mean Hortensio is afeard of you.

WIDOW.
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

PETRUCHIO.
Roundly replied.

KATHERINA.
Mistress, how mean you that?

WIDOW.
Thus I conceive by him.

PETRUCHIO.
Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that?

HORTENSIO.
My widow says thus she conceives her tale.

PETRUCHIO.
Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

KATHERINA.
’He that is giddy thinks the world turns round’:
I pray you tell me what you meant by that.

WIDOW.
Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,
Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe;
And now you know my meaning.

KATHERINA.
A very mean meaning.

WIDOW.
Right, I mean you.

KATHERINA.
And I am mean, indeed, respecting you.

PETRUCHIO.
To her, Kate!

HORTENSIO.
To her, widow!

PETRUCHIO.
A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

HORTENSIO.
That’s my office.

PETRUCHIO.
Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad.

[_Drinks to Hortensio._]

BAPTISTA.
How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

GREMIO.
Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

BIANCA.
Head and butt! An hasty-witted body
Would say your head and butt were head and horn.

VINCENTIO.
Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you?

BIANCA.
Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again.

PETRUCHIO.
Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun,
Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

BIANCA.
Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush,
And then pursue me as you draw your bow.
You are welcome all.

[_Exeunt Bianca, Katherina and Widow._]

PETRUCHIO.
She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio;
This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not:
Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d.

TRANIO.
O, sir! Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound,
Which runs himself, and catches for his master.

PETRUCHIO.
A good swift simile, but something currish.

TRANIO.
’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:
’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

BAPTISTA.
O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

LUCENTIO.
I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

HORTENSIO.
Confess, confess; hath he not hit you here?

PETRUCHIO.
A has a little gall’d me, I confess;
And as the jest did glance away from me,
’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright.

BAPTISTA.
Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,
I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.

PETRUCHIO.
Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance,
Let’s each one send unto his wife,
And he whose wife is most obedient,
To come at first when he doth send for her,
Shall win the wager which we will propose.

HORTENSIO.
Content. What’s the wager?

LUCENTIO.
Twenty crowns.

PETRUCHIO.
Twenty crowns!
I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound,
But twenty times so much upon my wife.

LUCENTIO.
A hundred then.

HORTENSIO.
Content.

PETRUCHIO.
A match! ’tis done.

HORTENSIO.
Who shall begin?

LUCENTIO.
That will I.
Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.

BIONDELLO.
I go.

[_Exit._]

BAPTISTA.
Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes.

LUCENTIO.
I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter Biondello.

How now! what news?

BIONDELLO.
Sir, my mistress sends you word
That she is busy and she cannot come.

PETRUCHIO.
How! She’s busy, and she cannot come!
Is that an answer?

GREMIO.
Ay, and a kind one too:
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.

PETRUCHIO.
I hope better.

HORTENSIO.
Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife
To come to me forthwith.

[_Exit Biondello._]

PETRUCHIO.
O, ho! entreat her!
Nay, then she must needs come.

HORTENSIO.
I am afraid, sir,
Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter Biondello.

Now, where’s my wife?

BIONDELLO.
She says you have some goodly jest in hand:
She will not come; she bids you come to her.

PETRUCHIO.
Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,
Intolerable, not to be endur’d!
Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress,
Say I command her come to me.

[_Exit Grumio._]

HORTENSIO.
I know her answer.

PETRUCHIO.
What?

HORTENSIO.
She will not.

PETRUCHIO.
The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

Re-enter Katherina.

BAPTISTA.
Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina!

KATHERINA.
What is your will sir, that you send for me?

PETRUCHIO.
Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?

KATHERINA.
They sit conferring by the parlour fire.

PETRUCHIO.
Go fetch them hither; if they deny to come,
Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.
Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

[_Exit Katherina._]

LUCENTIO.
Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

HORTENSIO.
And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.

PETRUCHIO.
Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,
An awful rule, and right supremacy;
And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy.

BAPTISTA.
Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!
The wager thou hast won; and I will add
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;
Another dowry to another daughter,
For she is chang’d, as she had never been.

PETRUCHIO.
Nay, I will win my wager better yet,
And show more sign of her obedience,
Her new-built virtue and obedience.
See where she comes, and brings your froward wives
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.

Re-enter Katherina with Bianca and Widow.

Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not:
Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.

[_Katherina pulls off her cap and throws it down._]

WIDOW.
Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh
Till I be brought to such a silly pass!

BIANCA.
Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?

LUCENTIO.
I would your duty were as foolish too;
The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,
Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time!

BIANCA.
The more fool you for laying on my duty.

PETRUCHIO.
Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women
What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

WIDOW.
Come, come, you’re mocking; we will have no telling.

PETRUCHIO.
Come on, I say; and first begin with her.

WIDOW.
She shall not.

PETRUCHIO.
I say she shall: and first begin with her.

KATHERINA.
Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,
Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?—
I am asham’d that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace,
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband’s foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.

PETRUCHIO.
Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

LUCENTIO.
Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t.

VINCENTIO.
’Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

LUCENTIO.
But a harsh hearing when women are froward.

PETRUCHIO.
Come, Kate, we’ll to bed.
We three are married, but you two are sped.
’Twas I won the wager,
[_To Lucentio._] though you hit the white;
And being a winner, God give you good night!

[_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina._]

HORTENSIO.
Now go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew.

LUCENTIO.
’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so.

[_Exeunt._]

THE TEMPEST

Contents

ACT I
Scene I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning
heard.
Scene II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero.

ACT II
Scene I. Another part of the island.
Scene II. Another part of the island.

ACT III
Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell.
Scene II. Another part of the island.
Scene III. Another part of the island.

ACT IV
Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell.

ACT V
Scene I. Before the cell of Prospero.
Epilogue.

Dramatis Personæ

ALONSO, King of Naples
SEBASTIAN, his brother
PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan
ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan
FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples
GONZALO, an honest old counsellor
ADRIAN, Lord
FRANCISCO, Lord
CALIBAN, a savage and deformed slave
TRINCULO, a jester
STEPHANO, a drunken butler
MASTER OF A SHIP
BOATSWAIN
MARINERS

MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero

ARIEL, an airy Spirit

IRIS, presented by Spirits
CERES, presented by Spirits
JUNO, presented by Spirits
NYMPHS, presented by Spirits
REAPERS, presented by Spirits

Other Spirits attending on Prospero

SCENE: The sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island.

ACT I

SCENE I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning
heard.

 Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally.

MASTER.
Boatswain!

BOATSWAIN.
Here, master: what cheer?

MASTER.
Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to ’t yarely, or we run ourselves
aground: bestir, bestir.

 [_Exit._]

 Enter Mariners.

BOATSWAIN.
Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the
topsail. Tend to th’ master’s whistle. Blow till thou burst thy wind,
if room enough.

 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo and others.

ALONSO.
Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master?
Play the men.

BOATSWAIN.
I pray now, keep below.

ANTONIO.
Where is the master, boson?

BOATSWAIN.
Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do
assist the storm.

GONZALO.
Nay, good, be patient.

BOATSWAIN.
When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king?
To cabin! silence! Trouble us not.

GONZALO.
Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.

BOATSWAIN.
None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can
command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present,
we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give
thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin
for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out
of our way, I say.

 [_Exit._]

GONZALO.
I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning
mark upon him. His complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good
Fate, to his hanging! Make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our
own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang’d, our case is
miserable.

 [_Exeunt._]

 Re-enter Boatswain.

BOATSWAIN.
Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi’ th’
maincourse.

 [_A cry within._]

 A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our
 office.

 Enter Sebastian, Antonio and Gonzalo.

Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a
mind to sink?

SEBASTIAN.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

BOATSWAIN.
Work you, then.

ANTONIO.
Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid
to be drowned than thou art.

GONZALO.
I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a
nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.

BOATSWAIN.
Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her
off.

 Enter Mariners, wet.

MARINERS.
All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

 [_Exeunt._]

BOATSWAIN.
What, must our mouths be cold?

GONZALO.
The King and Prince at prayers! Let’s assist them,
For our case is as theirs.

SEBASTIAN.
I am out of patience.

ANTONIO.
We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards.
This wide-chapp’d rascal—would thou might’st lie drowning
The washing of ten tides!

GONZALO.
He’ll be hang’d yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it,
And gape at wid’st to glut him.

_A confused noise within: _“Mercy on us!”—
“We split, we split!”—“Farewell, my wife and children!”—
“Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!”

ANTONIO.
Let’s all sink wi’ th’ King.

 [_Exit._]

SEBASTIAN.
Let’s take leave of him.

 [_Exit._]

GONZALO.
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren
ground. Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but
I would fain die a dry death.

 [_Exit._]

SCENE II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero.

 Enter Prospero and Miranda.

MIRANDA.
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow’d and
The fraughting souls within her.

PROSPERO.
Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There’s no harm done.

MIRANDA.
O, woe the day!

PROSPERO.
No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

MIRANDA.
More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.

PROSPERO.
’Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me.—So:

 [_Lays down his mantle._]

Lie there my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered that there is no soul—
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.

MIRANDA.
You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d,
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding “Stay; not yet.”

PROSPERO.
The hour’s now come,
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?
I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not
Out three years old.

MIRANDA.
Certainly, sir, I can.

PROSPERO.
By what? By any other house, or person?
Of anything the image, tell me, that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.

MIRANDA.
’Tis far off,
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?

PROSPERO.
Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
If thou rememb’rest aught ere thou cam’st here,
How thou cam’st here, thou mayst.

MIRANDA.
But that I do not.

PROSPERO.
Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.

MIRANDA.
Sir, are not you my father?

PROSPERO.
Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said thou wast my daughter. And thy father
Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir
And princess, no worse issued.

MIRANDA.
O, the heavens!
What foul play had we that we came from thence?
Or blessed was’t we did?

PROSPERO.
Both, both, my girl.
By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence;
But blessedly holp hither.

MIRANDA.
O, my heart bleeds
To think o’ th’ teen that I have turn’d you to,
Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther.

PROSPERO.
My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio—
I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should
Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself
Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put
The manage of my state; as at that time
Through all the signories it was the first,
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity, and for the liberal arts,
Without a parallel: those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother,
And to my state grew stranger, being transported
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—
Dost thou attend me?

MIRANDA.
Sir, most heedfully.

PROSPERO.
Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em,
Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ state
To what tune pleas’d his ear: that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck’d my verdure out on ’t. Thou attend’st not.

MIRANDA.
O, good sir! I do.

PROSPERO.
I pray thee, mark me.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retir’d,
O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother
Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie, he did believe
He was indeed the Duke; out o’ the substitution,
And executing th’ outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative. Hence his ambition growing—
Dost thou hear?

MIRANDA.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

PROSPERO.
To have no screen between this part he play’d
And him he play’d it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties
He thinks me now incapable; confederates,
So dry he was for sway, wi’ th’ King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow’d—alas, poor Milan!—
To most ignoble stooping.

MIRANDA.
O the heavens!

PROSPERO.
Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.

MIRANDA.
I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.

PROSPERO.
Now the condition.
This King of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o’ th’ premises
Of homage and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to th’ purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i’ th’ dead of darkness,
The ministers for th’ purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.

MIRANDA.
Alack, for pity!
I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to ’t.

PROSPERO.
Hear a little further,
And then I’ll bring thee to the present business
Which now’s upon us; without the which this story
Were most impertinent.

MIRANDA.
Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?

PROSPERO.
Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg’d,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us,
To cry to th’ sea, that roar’d to us; to sigh
To th’ winds, whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.

MIRANDA.
Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!

PROSPERO.
O, a cherubin
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt,
Under my burden groan’d: which rais’d in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.

MIRANDA.
How came we ashore?

PROSPERO.
By Providence divine.
Some food we had and some fresh water that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, who being then appointed
Master of this design, did give us, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much: so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me
From mine own library with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.

MIRANDA.
Would I might
But ever see that man!

PROSPERO.
Now I arise.
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arriv’d; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princes can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

MIRANDA.
Heavens thank you for ’t! And now, I pray you, sir,
For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?

PROSPERO.
Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions;
Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’tis a good dulness,
And give it way. I know thou canst not choose.

 [_Miranda sleeps._]

Come away, servant, come! I am ready now.
Approach, my Ariel. Come!

 Enter Ariel.

ARIEL.
All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality.

PROSPERO.
Hast thou, spirit,
Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?

ARIEL.
To every article.
I boarded the King’s ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flam’d amazement; sometime I’d divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,
Then meet and join. Jove’s lightning, the precursors
O’ th’ dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble,
Yea, his dread trident shake.

PROSPERO.
My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?

ARIEL.
Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners
Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the King’s son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring—then like reeds, not hair—
Was the first man that leapt; cried “Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here.”

PROSPERO.
Why, that’s my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?

ARIEL.
Close by, my master.

PROSPERO.
But are they, Ariel, safe?

ARIEL.
Not a hair perish’d;
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before: and, as thou bad’st me,
In troops I have dispers’d them ’bout the isle.
The King’s son have I landed by himself,
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.

PROSPERO.
Of the King’s ship
The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d,
And all the rest o’ th’ fleet?

ARIEL.
Safely in harbour
Is the King’s ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex’d Bermoothes; there she’s hid:
The mariners all under hatches stowed;
Who, with a charm join’d to their suff’red labour,
I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ th’ fleet,
Which I dispers’d, they all have met again,
And are upon the Mediterranean flote
Bound sadly home for Naples,
Supposing that they saw the King’s ship wrack’d,
And his great person perish.

PROSPERO.
Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform’d; but there’s more work.
What is the time o’ th’ day?

ARIEL.
Past the mid season.

PROSPERO.
At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now
Must by us both be spent most preciously.

ARIEL.
Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d,
Which is not yet perform’d me.

PROSPERO.
How now! moody?
What is’t thou canst demand?

ARIEL.
My liberty.

PROSPERO.
Before the time be out? No more!

ARIEL.
I prithee,
Remember I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.

PROSPERO.
Dost thou forget
From what a torment I did free thee?

ARIEL.
No.

PROSPERO.
Thou dost, and think’st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north,
To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth
When it is bak’d with frost.

ARIEL.
I do not, sir.

PROSPERO.
Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her?

ARIEL.
No, sir.

PROSPERO.
Thou hast. Where was she born? Speak; tell me.

ARIEL.
Sir, in Argier.

PROSPERO.
O, was she so? I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did
They would not take her life. Is not this true?

ARIEL.
Ay, sir.

PROSPERO.
This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with child,
And here was left by th’ sailors. Thou, my slave,
As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands,
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers,
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died,
And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island—
Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckl’d whelp, hag-born—not honour’d with
A human shape.

ARIEL.
Yes, Caliban her son.

PROSPERO.
Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban,
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax
Could not again undo; it was mine art,
When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.

ARIEL.
I thank thee, master.

PROSPERO.
If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak
And peg thee in his knotty entrails till
Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.

ARIEL.
Pardon, master:
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spriting gently.

PROSPERO.
Do so; and after two days
I will discharge thee.

ARIEL.
That’s my noble master!
What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do?

PROSPERO.
Go make thyself like a nymph o’ th’ sea. Be subject
To no sight but thine and mine; invisible
To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape,
And hither come in ’t. Go, hence with diligence!

 [_Exit Ariel._]

Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;
Awake!

MIRANDA.
[_Waking._] The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.

PROSPERO.
Shake it off. Come on;
We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.

MIRANDA.
’Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.

PROSPERO.
But as ’tis,
We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices
That profit us. What ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! Speak.

CALIBAN.
[_Within._] There’s wood enough within.

PROSPERO.
Come forth, I say; there’s other business for thee.
Come, thou tortoise! when?

 Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph.

Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.

ARIEL.
My lord, it shall be done.

 [_Exit._]

PROSPERO.
Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth!

 Enter Caliban.

CALIBAN.
As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye,
And blister you all o’er!

PROSPERO.
For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall forth at vast of night that they may work
All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinch’d
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.

CALIBAN.
I must eat my dinner.
This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first,
Thou strok’st me and made much of me; wouldst give me
Water with berries in ’t; and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee,
And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile.
Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own King; and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o’ th’ island.

PROSPERO.
Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us’d thee,
Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg’d thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.

CALIBAN.
Oh ho! Oh ho! Would ’t had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.

PROSPERO.
Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in ’t which good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou
Deservedly confin’d into this rock,
Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison.

CALIBAN.
You taught me language, and my profit on ’t
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you,
For learning me your language!

PROSPERO.
Hag-seed, hence!
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best,
To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice?
If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar,
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

CALIBAN.
No, pray thee.
[_Aside._] I must obey. His art is of such power,
It would control my dam’s god, Setebos,
And make a vassal of him.

PROSPERO.
So, slave, hence!

 [_Exit Caliban._]

 Re-enter Ariel, playing and singing; Ferdinand following.

ARIEL’S SONG.

_Come unto these yellow sands,
    And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d
    The wild waves whist.
Foot it featly here and there,
    And sweet sprites bear
The burden. Hark, hark!_
    Burden dispersedly. _Bow-wow.
The watch dogs bark._
    [Burden dispersedly.] _Bow-wow.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
    Cry cock-a-diddle-dow._

FERDINAND.
Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth?
It sounds no more; and sure it waits upon
Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the King my father’s wrack,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it,
Or it hath drawn me rather,—but ’tis gone.
No, it begins again.

ARIEL.
[_Sings._]
_Full fathom five thy father lies.
    Of his bones are coral made.
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
    Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:_
    Burden: _Ding-dong.
Hark! now I hear them: ding-dong, bell._

FERDINAND.
The ditty does remember my drown’d father.
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me.

PROSPERO.
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And say what thou seest yond.

MIRANDA.
What is’t? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.

PROSPERO.
No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest
Was in the wrack; and, but he’s something stain’d
With grief,—that’s beauty’s canker,—thou mightst call him
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows
And strays about to find ’em.

MIRANDA.
I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.

PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee
Within two days for this.

FERDINAND.
Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?

MIRANDA.
No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.

FERDINAND.
My language! Heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where ’tis spoken.

PROSPERO.
How! the best?
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?

FERDINAND.
A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples,
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld
The King my father wrack’d.

MIRANDA.
Alack, for mercy!

FERDINAND.
Yes, faith, and all his lords, the Duke of Milan,
And his brave son being twain.

PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] The Duke of Milan
And his more braver daughter could control thee,
If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,
I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Ferdinand._] A word, good sir.
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.

MIRANDA.
Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first
That e’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father
To be inclin’d my way!

FERDINAND.
O! if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you
The Queen of Naples.

PROSPERO.
Soft, sir; one word more.
[_Aside._] They are both in either’s powers. But this swift business
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning
Make the prize light. [_To Ferdinand._] One word more. I charge thee
That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp
The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it
From me, the lord on ’t.

FERDINAND.
No, as I am a man.

MIRANDA.
There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with ’t.

PROSPERO.
[_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.—
[_To Miranda._] Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor.
[_To Ferdinand._] Come;
I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together:
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook mussels, wither’d roots, and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.

FERDINAND.
No;
I will resist such entertainment till
Mine enemy has more power.

 [_He draws, and is charmed from moving._]

MIRANDA.
O dear father!
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He’s gentle, and not fearful.

PROSPERO.
What! I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience
Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.

MIRANDA.
Beseech you, father!

PROSPERO.
Hence! Hang not on my garments.

MIRANDA.
Sir, have pity;
I’ll be his surety.

PROSPERO.
Silence! One word more
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor? hush!
Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To th’ most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.

MIRANDA.
My affections
Are then most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.

PROSPERO.
[_To Ferdinand._] Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.

FERDINAND.
So they are:
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wrack of all my friends, nor this man’s threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.

PROSPERO.
[_Aside._] It works. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on.
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.
[_To Ariel._] Hark what thou else shalt do me.

MIRANDA.
Be of comfort;
My father’s of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted
Which now came from him.

PROSPERO.
Thou shalt be as free
As mountain winds; but then exactly do
All points of my command.

ARIEL.
To th’ syllable.

PROSPERO.
[_To Ferdinand._] Come, follow. Speak not for him.

 [_Exeunt._]

ACT II

SCENE I. Another part of the island.

 Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco and
 others.

GONZALO.
Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,
So have we all, of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe
Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife,
The masters of some merchant and the merchant,
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.

ALONSO.
Prithee, peace.

SEBASTIAN.
He receives comfort like cold porridge.

ANTONIO.
The visitor will not give him o’er so.

SEBASTIAN.
Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.

GONZALO.
Sir,—

SEBASTIAN.
One: tell.

GONZALO.
When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d,
Comes to the entertainer—

SEBASTIAN.
A dollar.

GONZALO.
Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed.

SEBASTIAN.
You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.

GONZALO.
Therefore, my lord,—

ANTONIO.
Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!

ALONSO.
I prithee, spare.

GONZALO.
Well, I have done: but yet—

SEBASTIAN.
He will be talking.

ANTONIO.
Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow?

SEBASTIAN.
The old cock.

ANTONIO.
The cockerel.

SEBASTIAN.
Done. The wager?

ANTONIO.
A laughter.

SEBASTIAN.
A match!

ADRIAN.
Though this island seem to be desert,—

ANTONIO.
Ha, ha, ha!

SEBASTIAN.
So. You’re paid.

ADRIAN.
Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—

SEBASTIAN.
Yet—

ADRIAN.
Yet—

ANTONIO.
He could not miss ’t.

ADRIAN.
It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance.

ANTONIO.
Temperance was a delicate wench.

SEBASTIAN.
Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.

ADRIAN.
The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.

SEBASTIAN.
As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.

ANTONIO.
Or, as ’twere perfum’d by a fen.

GONZALO.
Here is everything advantageous to life.

ANTONIO.
True; save means to live.

SEBASTIAN.
Of that there’s none, or little.

GONZALO.
How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!

ANTONIO.
The ground indeed is tawny.

SEBASTIAN.
With an eye of green in’t.

ANTONIO.
He misses not much.

SEBASTIAN.
No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.

GONZALO.
But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,—

SEBASTIAN.
As many vouch’d rarities are.

GONZALO.
That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold
notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than
stained with salt water.

ANTONIO.
If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?

SEBASTIAN.
Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.

GONZALO.
Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in
Afric, at the marriage of the King’s fair daughter Claribel to the King
of Tunis.

SEBASTIAN.
’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.

ADRIAN.
Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their Queen.

GONZALO.
Not since widow Dido’s time.

ANTONIO.
Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido!

SEBASTIAN.
What if he had said, widower Aeneas too?
Good Lord, how you take it!

ADRIAN.
Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of Carthage,
not of Tunis.

GONZALO.
This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

ADRIAN.
Carthage?

GONZALO.
I assure you, Carthage.

ANTONIO.
His word is more than the miraculous harp.

SEBASTIAN.
He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too.

ANTONIO.
What impossible matter will he make easy next?

SEBASTIAN.
I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his
son for an apple.

ANTONIO.
And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.

ALONSO.
Ay.

ANTONIO.
Why, in good time.

GONZALO.
[_To Alonso._] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh
as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now
Queen.

ANTONIO.
And the rarest that e’er came there.

SEBASTIAN.
Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.

ANTONIO.
O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido.

GONZALO.
Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in
a sort.

ANTONIO.
That sort was well fish’d for.

GONZALO.
When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?

ALONSO.
You cram these words into mine ears against
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too,
Who is so far from Italy removed,
I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?

FRANCISCO.
Sir, he may live:
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs. He trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him. His bold head
’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To th’ shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bowed,
As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt
He came alive to land.

ALONSO.
No, no, he’s gone.

SEBASTIAN.
Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on ’t.

ALONSO.
Prithee, peace.

SEBASTIAN.
You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at
Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have lost your son,
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them of this business’ making,
Than we bring men to comfort them.
The fault’s your own.

ALONSO.
So is the dear’st o’ th’ loss.

GONZALO.
My lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness
And time to speak it in. You rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.

SEBASTIAN.
Very well.

ANTONIO.
And most chirurgeonly.

GONZALO.
It is foul weather in us all, good sir,
When you are cloudy.

SEBASTIAN.
Foul weather?

ANTONIO.
Very foul.

GONZALO.
Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—

ANTONIO.
He’d sow ’t with nettle-seed.

SEBASTIAN.
Or docks, or mallows.

GONZALO.
And were the King on’t, what would I do?

SEBASTIAN.
’Scape being drunk for want of wine.

GONZALO.
I’ th’ commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;