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khaled123
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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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LUCENTIO:
Here, madam:
'Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.'
BIANCA:
Construe them.
LUCENTIO:
'Hic ibat,' as I told you before, 'Simois,' I am
Lucentio, 'hic est,' son unto Vincentio of Pisa,
'Sigeia tellus,' disguised thus to get your love;
'Hic steterat,' and that Lucentio that comes
a-wooing, 'Priami,' is my man Tranio, 'regia,'
bearing my port, 'celsa senis,' that we might
beguile the old pantaloon.
HORTENSIO:
Madam, my instrument's in tune.
BIANCA:
Let's hear. O fie! the treble jars.
LUCENTIO:
Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.
BIANCA:
Now let me see if I can construe it: 'Hic ibat
Simois,' I know you not, 'hic est Sigeia tellus,' I
trust you not; 'Hic steterat Priami,' take heed
he hear us not, 'regia,' presume not, 'celsa senis,'
despair not.
HORTENSIO:
Madam, 'tis now in tune.
LUCENTIO:
All but the base.
HORTENSIO:
The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.
How fiery and forward our pedant is!
Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:
Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.
BIANCA:
In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.
LUCENTIO:
Mistrust it not: for, sure, AEacides
Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather.
BIANCA:
I must believe my master; else, I promise you,
I should be arguing still upon that doubt:
But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you:
Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,
That I have been thus pleasant with you both.
HORTENSIO:
You may go walk, and give me leave a while:
My lessons make no music in three parts.
LUCENTIO:
Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait,
And watch withal; for, but I be deceived,
Our fine musician groweth amorous.
HORTENSIO:
Madam, before you touch the instrument,
To learn the order of my fingering,
I must begin with rudiments of art;
To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,
More pleasant, pithy and effectual,
Than hath been taught by any of my trade:
And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.
BIANCA:
Why, I am past my gamut long ago.
HORTENSIO:
Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.
BIANCA:
Servant:
Mistress, your father prays you leave your books
And help to dress your sister's chamber up:
You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.
BIANCA:
Farewell, sweet masters both; I must be gone.
LUCENTIO:
Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.
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