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to [hear] of Petruchio’s coming?

      Bap. Is he come?

      Bion. Why, no, sir.

      Bap. What then?

      Bion. He is coming.

      Bap. When will he be here?

      Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees you there.

      Tra. But say, what to thine old news?

      Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turn’d; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another lac’d; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points; his horse hipp’d, with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possess’d with the glanders and like to mose in the chine, troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, ray’d with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoil’d with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, [sway’d] in the back, and shoulder-shotten, near-legg’d before, and with a half-cheek’d bit and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which being restrain’d to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repair’d with knots; one girth six times piec’d, and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there piec’d with packthread.

      Bap. Who comes with him?

      Bion. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparison’d like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gart’red with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the humor of forty fancies prick’d in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.

       Tra.

      ’Tis some odd humor pricks him to this fashion;

      Yet oftentimes he goes but mean apparell’d.

       Bap.

      I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes.

       Bion.

      Why, sir, he comes not.

       Bap.

      Didst thou not say he comes?

       Bion.

      Who? that Petruchio came?

       Bap.

      Ay, that Petruchio came.

       Bion.

      No, sir, I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

       Bap.

      Why, that’s all one.

       Bion.

      Nay, by Saint Jamy,

      I hold you a penny,

      A horse and a man

      Is more than one,

      And yet not many.

       Enter Petruchio and Grumio.

       Pet.

      Come, where be these gallants? Who’s at home?

       Bap.

      You are welcome, sir.

       Pet.

      And yet I come not well.

       Bap.

      And yet you halt not.

       Tra.

      Not so well apparell’d

      As I wish you were.

       Pet.

      Were it better I should rush in thus:

       [Pretends great excitement.]

      But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?

      How does my father?—Gentles, methinks you frown,

      And wherefore gaze this goodly company,

      As if they saw some wondrous monument,

      Some comet or unusual prodigy?

       Bap.

      Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day.

      First were we sad, fearing you would not come,

      Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.

      Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate,

      An eye-sore to our solemn festival!

       Tra.

      And tell us what occasion of import

      Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,

      And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

       Pet.

      Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear—

      Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,

      Though in some part enforced to digress,

      Which at more leisure I will so excuse

      As you shall well be satisfied with all.

      But where is Kate? I stay too long from her.

      The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church.

       Tra.

      See not your bride in these unreverent robes,

      Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.

       Pet.

      Not I, believe me, thus I’ll visit her.

       Bap.

      But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

       Pet.

      Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words;

      To me she’s married, not unto my clothes.

      Could I repair what she will wear in me,

      As I can change these poor accoutrements,

      ’Twere well for Kate, and better for myself.

      But what a fool am I to chat with you,

      When I should bid good morrow to my bride,

      And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

       Exit [with Grumio].

       Tra.

      He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

      We will persuade him, be it possible,

      To put on better ere he go to church.

       Bap.

      I’ll after him, and see the event of this.

       Exit [with Gremio and Attendants].

       Tra.

      But, sir, love concerneth us to add

      Her father’s liking, which to bring to pass,

      As before imparted to your worship,

      I am to get a man—what e’er he be,

      It skills not much, we’ll fit him

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