LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      

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