LITMIR.BIZ

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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 needle-work;

       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 any one

       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 awooing, ‘Priami,’ is my man Tranio, ‘regia,’ bearing my port, ‘celsa senis,’

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