There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?
Kath. I pray you, sir, is it your [will]
To make a stale of me amongst [these] mates?
Hor. Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for [you,]
Unless you were of gentler, milder [mould.]
Kath. I'faith, sir, you shall never need to fear:
[I wis] it is not half way to her heart;
But if it were, doubt not her care [should] be
To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool
And paint your face and use you like a fool.