LUCENTIO.
That will be never: tune your instrument.
BIANCA.
Where left we last?
LUCENTIO.
Here, madam:—
Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.
BIANCA.
Construe them.
LUCENTIO.
Hic ibat, as I told you before, Simois, I am Lucentio, hic est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, Sigeia tellus, disguised thus to get your love, Hic steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, Priami, is my man Tranio, regia, bearing my port, celsa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon.
HORTENSIO. [Returning.]
Madam, my instrument’s in tune.
BIANCA.
Let’s hear.—
[Hortensio plays.]
O fie! the treble jars.
LUCENTIO.
Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.