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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 jointer.

      What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

       Gre.

      Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

       Aside.

      My land amounts not to so much in all.—

      That she shall have, besides an argosy

      That now is lying in Marsellis road.

      What, have I chok’d you with an argosy?

       Tra.

      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, what e’er thou off’rest next.

       Gre.

      Nay, I have off’red 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.

       Tra.

      Why then the maid is mine from all the world,

      By your firm promise; Gremio is outvied.

       Bap.

      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?

       Tra.

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

       Gre.

      And may not young men die as well as old?

       Bap.

      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.

       Exit.

       Gre.

      Adieu, good neighbor. 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.

       Tra.

      A vengeance on your crafty withered 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]

       Enter Lucentio [as Cambio], Hortensio [as Litio], and Bianca.

       Luc.

      Fiddler, forbear, you grow too forward, sir.

      Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

      Her sister Katherine 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?

       Luc.

      That will be never, tune your instrument.

       Bian.

      Where left we last?

       Luc.

      Here, madam:

      “Hic ibat Simois; hic est [Sigeia] tellus;

      Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.”

       Bian.

      Conster them.

      Luc. “Hic ibat,” as I told you before, “Simois,” I am Lucentio, “hic est,” son unto Vincentio of Pisa, “[Sigeia] tellus,” disguis’d 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. Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

      Bian. Let’s hear. O fie, the treble jars.

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

      Bian. Now let me see if I can conster 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

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