KATHERINA.
So may you lose your arms:
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why then no arms.
PETRUCHIO.
A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books.
KATHERINA.
What is your crest? a coxcomb?
PETRUCHIO.
A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.
KATHERINA.
No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.
PETRUCHIO.
Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.
KATHERINA.
It is my fashion when I see a crab.
PETRUCHIO.
Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour.
KATHERINA.
There is, there is.
PETRUCHIO.
Then show it me.