Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all:
So I to her and so she yields to me;
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.
Bap. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!
But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.
Pet. Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,
That [shake] not, though they blow perpetually.
[Re-enter] Hortensio, with his head broke.
Bap. How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?