KATHERINA.
Had I a glass I would.
PETRUCHIO.
What, you mean my face?
KATHERINA.
Well aim’d of such a young one.
PETRUCHIO.
Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.
KATHERINA.
Yet you are wither’d.
PETRUCHIO.
’Tis with cares.
KATHERINA.
I care not.
PETRUCHIO.
Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so.
KATHERINA.
I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go.
PETRUCHIO.
No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle.
’Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,
And now I find report a very liar;
For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,
But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers.
Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,
Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,
Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;
But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers;
With gentle conference, soft and affable.
Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?
O sland’rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig
Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue
As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.
O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.