Nor never needed that I should entreat,
Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed.
And that which spites me more than all these wants,
He does it under name of perfect love;
As who should say, if I should sleep or eat
‘Twere deadly sickness, or else present death.
I prithee go and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.
GRUMIO.
What say you to a neat’s foot?
KATHERINA.
‘Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it.
GRUMIO.
I fear it is too choleric a meat.
How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d?
KATHERINA.
I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me.
GRUMIO.
I cannot tell; I fear ‘tis choleric.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
KATHERINA.
A dish that I do love to feed upon.
GRUMIO.
Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.
KATHERINA.
Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest.
GRUMIO.
Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.
KATHERINA.
Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.
GRUMIO.
Why then the mustard without the beef.
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.
KATHERINA.
I pray you, let it stand.
PETRUCHIO.
The poorest service is repaid with thanks;
And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.
KATHERINA.
I thank you, sir.
HORTENSIO.
Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.
Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company.
PETRUCHIO.
[Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.
Much good do it unto thy gentle heart!
Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love,
Will we return unto thy father’s house
And revel it as bravely as the best,
With silken coats and caps, and golden rings,
With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;
With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery.
What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure,
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.
[Enter TAILOR.]
Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;
Lay forth the gown.—
[Enter HABERDASHER.]
What news with you, sir?
HABERDASHER.
Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.
PETRUCHIO.
Why, this was moulded on a porringer;
A velvet dish: fie, fie! ‘tis lewd and filthy:
Why, ‘tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:
Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.
KATHERINA.
I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the time,
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.
PETRUCHIO.
When you are gentle, you shall have one too,
And not till then.
HORTENSIO.
[Aside] That will not be in haste.
KATHERINA.
Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;
And speak I will. I am no child, no babe.
Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break;
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
PETRUCHIO.
Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap,
A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie;
I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not.
KATHERINA.
Love me or love me not, I like the cap;
And it I will have, or I will have none.
[Exit HABERDASHER.]
PETRUCHIO.
Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t.
O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here?
What’s this? A sleeve? ‘Tis like a demi-cannon.
What, up and down, carv’d like an appletart?
Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber’s shop.
Why, what i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this?
HORTENSIO.
[Aside]