Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear.
Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:
They call me Katherine that do talk of me.
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 cates: 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.
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.
Why, what's a moveable?
Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.
Asses are made to bear, and so are you.
Women are made to bear, and so are you.
No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.
Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;
For, knowing thee to be but young and light,--
Too light for such a swain as you to catch;
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.
Should be! should buz!
KATHERINA. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.
O, slow-wing'd turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?
Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.
Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
My remedy is, then, to pluck it out.
Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.
Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?
In his tail.
In his tongue.
PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue?
Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell.
What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,
Good Kate; I am a gentleman.
That I'll try.
I swear I'll cuff you if you strike again.
So may you lose your arms:
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why then no arms.
A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.
What is your crest? a coxcomb?
A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.
No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.
Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.
It is my fashion when I see a crab.
Why, here's no crab, and therefore look not sour.
There is, there is.
Then show it me.
Had I a glass I would.
What, you mean my face?
Well aim'd of such a young one.
Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.
Yet you are wither'd.
'Tis with cares.
I care not.
Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you 'scape not so.
I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.
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.
Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.
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!
Where did you study all this goodly speech?
It is extempore, from my mother-wit.
A witty mother! witless else her son.
Am I not wise?
Yes; keep you warm.
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.
Here comes your father. Never make denial;
I must and will have Katherine to my wife.
[Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO.]
Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?
How but well, sir? how but well?
It were impossible I should speed amiss.
Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps?
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.
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.
I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.
Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee hang'd first.
Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part!
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.
I know not what to say; but give me your hands.
God send you joy, Petruchio! 'Tis a match.
Amen, say we; we will be witnesses.
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.]