As she had studied to misuse me so.
Her masters have not learned true mastery,
And he, her latest would-be teacher, turns
Too prompt and pusillanimous a back
Upon his wilful pupil, beaten off
Quicker than buffeted Hortensio
In poor, poltroonish, post-deserting flight;
Leaving the lute whose harmonies his hand
Should have bowed hers to, broken and unstrung,
In the shrew's angry and outrageous grasp: