Bian. Am I your Bird, I meane to shift my bush,
And then pursue me as you draw your Bow.
You are welcome all.
Exit Bianca.
Petr. She hath preuented me, here signior Tranio,
This bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not,
Therefore a health to all that shot and mist
Tri. Oh sir, Lucentio slipt me like his Gray-hound,
Which runs himselfe, and catches for his Master
Petr. A good swift simile, but something currish
Tra. 'Tis well sir that you hunted for your selfe:
'Tis thought your Deere does hold you at a baie
Bap. Oh, oh Petruchio, Tranio hits you now
Luc. I thanke thee for that gird good Tranio
Hor. Confesse, confesse, hath he not hit you here?
Petr. A has a little gald me I confesse:
And as the Iest did glaunce awaie from me,
'Tis ten to one it maim'd you too out right
Bap. Now in good sadnesse sonne Petruchio,
I thinke thou hast the veriest shrew of all