BIANCA.
Why, I am past my gamut long ago.
HORTENSIO.
Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.
BIANCA.
Gamut I am, the ground of all accord,
A re, to plead Hortensio’s passion;
B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord,
C fa ut, that loves with all affection:
D sol re, one clef, two notes have I
E la mi, show pity or I die.
Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not:
Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,
To change true rules for odd inventions.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,
And help to dress your sister’s chamber up:
You know tomorrow is the wedding-day.
BIANCA.
Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone.
[Exeunt Bianca and Servant.]
LUCENTIO.
Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.
[Exit.]
HORTENSIO.
But I have cause to pry into this pedant:
Methinks he looks as though he were in love.
Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble
To cast thy wand’ring eyes on every stale,
Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging,
Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.