BAPTISTA.
How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?
HORTENSIO.
For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.
BAPTISTA.
What, will my daughter prove a good musician?
HORTENSIO.
I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier:
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.
BAPTISTA.
Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?
HORTENSIO.
Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she ‘I’ll fume with them’;
And with that word she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way;
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute;
While she did call me rascal fiddler,
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.
PETRUCHIO.
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!
I love her ten times more than e’er I did:
O! how I long to have some chat with her!
BAPTISTA.
[To Hortensio.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;
She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,
Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?
PETRUCHIO.
I pray you do.
[Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio.]