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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.
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 Katharine shall be fine.

BAP. I know not what to say; but give me your hands. God send you joy, Petruchio! 'tis a match.

PET. 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.

ACT IV.

Scene III.-A Room in PETRUCHIO'S House.
Enter KATHARINA and GRUMIO.

GRU. No, no, forsooth; I dare not, for my life.
KATH. The more my wrong the more his spite appears.
What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars, that come unto my father's door,

Upon entreaty have a present alms;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:
But I, who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed,

And that which spites me more than all these wants,
He does it under name of perfect love;

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat
'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.
I prithee go and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.
GRU. What say you to a neat's foot?

KATH. 'Tis passing good: I prithee let me have it.
GRU. I fear it is too choleric a meat.

How say you to a fat tripe finely broil'd?

KATH. I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.
GRU. I cannot tell: I fear 'tis choleric.

What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
KATH. A dish that I do love to feed upon.

GRU. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.
KATH. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest,
GRU. Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

KATH. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.
GRU. Why then, the mustard without the beef.
KATH. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

Thou feed'st me with the very name of meat.
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,

That triumph thus upon my misery!

Go, get thee gone, I say.

[Beats him:

Enter PETRUCHIO with a dish of meat; and HORTENSIO. PET. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort ? Pluck up thy spirits;

The tailor stays thy leisure,

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;

Lay forth the gown.—

Enter Haberdasher.

What news with you, sir?

HAB. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.
PET. Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,

A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap:

Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.

KATH. I'll have no bigger: this doth fit the time,

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

PET. When you are gentle, you shall have one too; And not till then.

KATH. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, And speak I will; I am no child, no babe :

Your betters have endur'd me say my mind,

And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
PET. Why, thou sayst true; it is a paltry cap,

I love thee well in that thou lik'st it not.

KATH. Love me or love me not, I like the cap, And it I will have, or I will have none.

[Exit Haberdasher.

PET. Thy gown? why, ay: come, tailor, let us see 't. What's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi-cannon:

What! up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart?
Here's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,

Like to a censer in a barber's shop.

Why, what, i' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?
TAI. You bid me make it orderly and well,

According to the fashion and the time.

S.R.

E

PET. Marry, and did; but if you be remember'd,

I did not bid you mar it to the time.

I'll none of it: hence! make your best of it.

KATH. I never saw a better-fashioned gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable. Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

PET. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. TAI. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. PET. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, Thou thimble,

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!
Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,

I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.
TAI. Your worship is deceiv'd: the gown is made
Just as my master had direction.

PET. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. (To Tailor.) Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more. [Exit Tailor. PET. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's, Even in these honest mean habiliments.

And therefore frolic: we will hence forthwith,

To feast and sport us at thy father's house.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!
KATH. The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.
PET. I say it is the moon that shines so bright.
KATH. I know it is the sun that shines so bright.
PET. Now, by my mother's son, and that's myself,
It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,

Or ere I journey to your father's house.

KATH. Oh be it moon, or sun, or what you please. An if you please to call it a rush-candle,

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

PET. I say it is the moon.
KATH.

I know it is the moon.

PET. Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun.

KATH. Then God be bless'd it is the blessed sun;

But sun it is not when you say it is not,

And the moon changes even as your mind.

What you will have it nam'd, even that it is ;

And so, it shall be so for Katharine.

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

ACT I.

Scene V.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter VIOLA and Attendants.

VIO. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? OLI. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will? VIO. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

:

OLI. Whence came you, sir?

VIO. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

OLI. Are you a comedian ?

VIO. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house ?

OLI. If I do not usurp myself, I am.

But this

VIO. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for, what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

OLI. Come to what is important in 't: I forgive you the praise.

VIO. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical. OLI. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approacher rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief : Speak your office.

VIO. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as full of peace as matter.

OLI. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would

you?

VIO. The rudeness that hath appear'd in me have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are secret; to your ears-divinity; to any other's, -profanation.

OLI. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. (Exit MARIA and Attendants.) Now, sir; what is your text? VIO. Most sweet lady,

OLI. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

VIO. In Orsino's bosom.

OLI. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom ? VIO. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. OLI. O! I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIO. Good madam, let me see your face.

OLI. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. (Unveiling). Look you, sir, such a one I was as this present: is 't not well done? VIO. Excellently done, if God did all.

OLI. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather. VIO. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:

Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,

If you will lead these graces to the grave

And leave the world no copy.

OLI. O! sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as Item, Two lips, indifferent red; Item, Two grey eyes, with lids to them; Item, One neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

VIO. I see you what you are: you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you: O! such love

Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty.

OLI.

How does he love me?

VIO. With adorations, with fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

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