Jaq. My Master forsooth.
Mar. Oh how does thy Master? prethee commend me to him.
Jaq. How's this? my Master stays forsooth.
Mar. Why let him stay, who hinders him forsooth?
Jaq. The Revel's ended now,
To visit you.
Mar. I am not sick.
Jaq. I mean to see his chamber forsooth.
Mar. Am I his Groom? where lay he last night forsooth?
[Ja[q].] In the low matted Parlour.
Mar. There lies his way by the long Gallery.
Jaq. I mean your chamber: y'are very merry Mistriss.
Mar. 'Tis a good sign I am sound hearted Jaques:
But if you'll know where I lie, follow me;
And what thou seest, deliver to thy Master.
Bya. Do gentle Jaques. [Exeunt.
Ja. Ha, is the wind in that door?
By'r Lady we shall have foul weather then:
I do not like the shuffling of these women,
They are mad beasts, when they knock their heads together:
I have observ'd them all this day; their whispers,
One in anothers ear, their signs and pinches,
And breaking often into violent laughters:
As if the end they purpos'd were their own.
Call you this weddings? Sure this is a knavery,
A very trick, and dainty knavery,
Marvellous finely carried, that's the comfort:
What would these women do in ways of honor?
That are such Masters this way? Well, my Sir
Has been as good at finding out these toys,
As any living; if he lose it now,
At his own peril be it. I must follow. [Exit.
Scæna Tertia.
Enter Servants with Lights, Petruchio, Petronius, Moroso, Tranio, and Sophocles.
Pet. You that are married, Gentlemen; [have at] ye
For a round wager now.
Soph. Of this nights Stage?
Petru. Yes.
Soph. I am your first man, a pair of Gloves of twenty shillings.
Petru. Done: who takes me up next? I am for all bets.
Mor. Well lusty Lawrence, were but my night now,
Old as I am, I would make you clap on Spurs,
But I would reach you, and bring you to your trot too:
I would Gallants.
Petru. Well said good Will; but where's the staff boy, ha?
Old father Time, your hour-glass is empty.
Tra. A good tough train would break thee all to pieces;
Thou hast not breath enough to say thy prayers.
Petron. See how these boys despise us. Will you to bed son?
This pride will have a fall.
Petru. Upon your daughter;
But I shall rise again, if there be truth
In Eggs, and butter'd Parsnips.
Petro. Will you to bed son, and leave talking?
To morrow morning we shall have you look,
For all your great words, like St. George at Kingston,
Running a foot-back from the furious Dragon,
That with her angry tail belabours him
For being lazie.
Tra. His courage quench'd, and so far quench'd—
Petru. 'Tis well Sir.
What then?
Soph. Fly, fly, quoth then the fearful dwarfe;
Here is no place for living man.
Petru. Well my masters, if I do sink under my business, as I find 'tis very possible, I am not the first that has miscarried; So that's my comfort, what may be done without impeach or waste, I can and will do.
Enter Jaques.
How now, is my fair Bride a bed?
Jaq. No truly, Sir.
Petron. Not a bed yet? body o' me: we'll up and rifle her: here's a coil with a Maiden-head, 'tis not intail'd, is it?
Petru. If it be, I'll try all the Law i'th' Land, but I'll cut it off: let's up, let's up, come.