I will attend her here,
And woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Say that she rail; why, then I’ll tell her plain
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:
Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:
Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:
If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks,
As though she bid me stay by her a week:
If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day
When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.
But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.
Enter Katherina.
Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear.
KATHERINA.
Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:
They call me Katherine that do talk of me.
PETRUCHIO.
You lie, in faith, for you are call’d plain Kate,
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;
But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,
Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,
For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;
Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,—
Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,—
Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.
KATHERINA.
Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither
Remove you hence. I knew you at the first,
You were a moveable.
PETRUCHIO.
Why, what’s a moveable?
KATHERINA.
A joint-stool.
PETRUCHIO.
Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.
KATHERINA.
Asses are made to bear, and so are you.