KATHERINA.
Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,
[Beats him.]
That feed’st me with the very name of meat.
Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you
That triumph thus upon my misery!
Go, get thee gone, I say.
Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio.
PETRUCHIO.
How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?
HORTENSIO.
Mistress, what cheer?
KATHERINA.
Faith, as cold as can be.
PETRUCHIO.
Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee:
[Sets the dish on a table.]
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov’st it not,
And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
Here, take away this dish.