Padua. A Room in BAPTISTA'S House. |
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Enter LUCENTIO, HORTENSIO, and BIANCA. |
Luc. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir: |
Have you so soon forgot the entertainment |
Her sister Katharine welcom'd you withal? |
Hor. 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. |
Luc. 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. |
Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. |
Bian. 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. |
Hor. You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune? [Retires. |
Luc. That will be never: tune your instrument. |
Bian. Where left we last? |
Luc. Here, madam:— |
Hac ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; |
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis. |
Bian. Construe them. |
Luc. Hac 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. |
Hor. [Returning.] Madam, my instrument's in tune. |
Bian. Let's hear.— [HORTENSIO plays. |
O fie! the treble jars. |
Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. |
Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it: Hac 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. |
Hor. Madam, 'tis now in tune. |
Luc. All but the base. |
Hor. The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars. |
How fiery and forward our pedant is! |
[Aside.] Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: |
Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet. |
Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. |
Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, Æacides |
Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather. |
Bian. 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 masters, take it not unkindly, pray, |
That I have been thus pleasant with you both. |
Hor. [To LUCENTIO.] You may go walk, and give me leave a while: |
My lessons make no music in three parts. |
Luc. Are you so formal, sir? [Aside.] Well, I must wait, |
And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv'd, |
Our fine musician groweth amorous. |
Hor. 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. |
Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. |
Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. |
Bian. '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. |
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Enter a Servant. |
Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books, |
And help to dress your sister's chamber up: |
You know to-morrow is the wedding-day. |
Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both: I must be gone. [Exeunt BIANCA and Servant. |
Luc. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit. |
Hor. 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 wandering eyes on every stale, |
Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, |
Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [Exit. |
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