Scene 1 (1.2.34-189)
Sweet friend, what happy gale
Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?
Such wind as scatters young men through the world
To seek their fortunes farther than at home.
Antonio, my father, is deceased,
And so am come abroad to see the world.
Petruchio, shall I then wish thee to a shrewd, ill-favored wife?
I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,
But thou’rt my friend,
And I’ll not wish thee to her.
Hortensio, I come to wive it wealthily in Padua.
Petruchio, I broached in jest.
I can help thee to a wife with wealth enough,
And young and beauteous.
Her only fault is that she is intolerable curst,
And shrewd and froward.
I would not wed her for a mine of gold.
Hortensio, peace. Thou know’st not gold’s effect.
Tell me her father’s name.
Her father is Baptista Minola,
An affable and courteous gentleman.
Her name is Katherina Minola,
Renowned in Padua for her scolding tongue.
I know her father, and he knew my deceasèd father well.
I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her,
And therefore let me be thus bold with you
To give you over at this first encounter,
Unless you will accompany me thither.
Petruchio, I must go with thee,
For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is.
He hath the jewel of my life in hold,
His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca.
Supposing it a thing impossible,
That ever Katherina will be wooed,
This order hath Baptista ta’en,
That none shall have access unto Bianca
Till Katherine the curst have got a husband.
Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,
And offer me disguised in sober robes
To old Baptista as a schoolmaster to instruct Bianca,
That so I may have leave to, unsuspected, court her by herself.
(to Petruchio) It is the rival of my love.
God save you, Signior Gremio.
And you, Signior Hortensio.
I am going to Baptista Minola.
I promised to enquire carefully
About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca,
And by good fortune I have lighted well
On a young man, for learning and behavior fit for her turn.
‘Tis well. And I have met a gentleman
Hath promised me to help me,
A fine musician to instruct fair Bianca, so beloved of me.
Beloved of me, and that my deeds shall prove.
Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love.
Listen, I’ll tell you news good for either.
(presenting Petruchio) Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,
Upon agreement, will undertake to woo curst Katherine,
And to marry her, if her dowry please.
Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?
I know she is an irksome brawling scold.
If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.
No? What countryman?
Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son.
My father dead, my fortune lives for me.
And I do hope good days and long to see.
O sir, such a life with such a wife were strange!
But you shall have me assisting you in all.
Will you woo this wildcat?
Why came I hither but to that intent?
Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?
Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea
Rage like an angry boar?
Have I not heard heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies?
This gentleman is happily arrived,
My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.
I promised we would be contributors
And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.
And so we will, provided that he win her.
Scene 2 (2.1.1-320)
Good sister, what you will command me will I do,
So well I know my duty to my elders.
Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell
Whom thou lovest best.
Believe me, sister, of all the men alive
I never yet beheld that special face
Which I could fancy more than any other.
Minion, thou liest. Is ’t not Hortensio?
If you affect him, sister, here I swear
I’ll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.
Oh, then belike you fancy riches more.
You will have Gremio to keep you fair.
Is it for him you do envy me so?
Nay, and now I well perceive
You have but jested with me all this while.
Untie my hands.
Katherine strikes Bianca.
If that be jest, then all the rest was so.
Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?—
Bianca, stand aside.—Poor girl, she weeps!
(to Bianca) Go, meddle not with her.
(to Katherine) For shame, thou devilish spirit!
Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee?
When did she cross thee with a bitter word?
Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be revenged.
Rushes towards Bianca as if to strike her.
What, in my sight?—Bianca, get thee in.
What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see
She is your treasure, she must have a husband,
I must dance barefoot on her wedding day
Talk not to me. I will go sit and weep
Till I can find occasion of revenge.
Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I?
But who comes here?
Enter Petruchio and Hortensio (in disguise).
God save you, gentlemen!
And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter
Called Katherina, fair and virtuous?
I have a daughter, sir, called Katherina.
I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,
That hearing of her beauty and her wit,
Her wondrous qualities and mild behavior,
Am bold to show myself a forward guest
Within your house, to make mine eye the witness
Of that report which I so oft have heard.
And I do present you with a man of mine,
(presenting Hortensio, in disguise)
Cunning in music and the mathematics.
Accept him, or else you do me wrong.
You’re welcome, sir, and he for your good sake.
But for my daughter Katherine, this I know,
She is not for your turn, the more my grief.
I see you do not mean to part with her,
Or else you like not of my company.
Mistake me not. I speak but as I find.
Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name?
Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son,
A man well known throughout all Italy.
I know him well.
(to Hortensio) Take you the lute, go see your pupil.
(To Petruchio) We will go walk a little in the orchard,
And then to dinner.
you knew my father well, and in him me,
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,
Which I have bettered rather than decreased.
Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love,
What dowry shall I have with her to wife?
After my death, the one half of my lands,
And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns.
And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of
Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,
Ay, when the special thing is well obtained,
That is, her love, for that is all in all.
Why, that is nothing.
So she yields to me,
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.
Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed.
But be thou armed for some unhappy words.
Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,
That shakes not, though they blow perpetually
Enter Hortensio, with his head cut and bleeding
How now, my friend, why dost thou look so pale?
For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.
What, will my daughter prove a good musician?
I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier.
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.
Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?
Why, no, for she hath broke the lute to me.
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bowed her hand to teach her fingering,
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
“’Frets’ call you these?” quoth she. “I’ll fume with them!”
And with that word she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way,
And there I stood amazèd for a while
While she did call me “rascal fiddler”
And “twangling Jack”; with twenty such vile terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench.
I love her ten times more than e’er I did.
Oh, how I long to have some chat with her!
Signior Petruchio, shall I send my daughter Kate to you?
I pray you do.
Petruchio stays; everyone else exits.
I’ll attend her here
And woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Say that she rail; then I’ll tell her
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.
Say she be mute and will not speak a word;
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
But here she comes—and now, Petruchio, speak.
Good morrow, Kate—for that’s your name, I hear.
Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing.
They call me Katherine that do talk of me.
You lie, in faith, for you are called plain Kate,
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst,
But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,
Take this of me: hearing thy mildness praised in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded—
Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.
“Moved,” in good time. Let him that moved you hither
Remove you hence. I knew you at the first
You were a moveable.
Why, what’s a moveable?
A joint stool.
Thou hast hit it. Come, sit on me.
Asses are made to bear, and so are you.
Women are made to bear, and so are you.
No such jade as you, if me you mean.
Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee,
For knowing thee to be but young and light—
Too light for such a swain as you to catch,
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.
“Should be”—should buzz!
Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.
O slow-winged turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?
Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.
Come, come, you wasp. You are too angry.
If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
My remedy is then to pluck it out.
Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.
Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?
In his tail.
In his tongue.
Yours, if you talk of tales. And so farewell.
What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,
Good Kate. I am a gentleman.
That I’ll try.
She strikes him.
I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again.
So may you lose your arms.
If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
And if no gentleman, why then no arms.
Nay, come, Kate, come. You must not look so sour.
It is my fashion, when I see a crab.
Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour.
There is, there is.
Then show it me.
Had I a glass, I would.
What, you mean my face?
Well aimed of such a young one.
I am too young for you.
Yet you are withered.
’Tis with cares.
I care not.
Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth you ’scape not so.
I chafe you, if I tarry. Let me go.
No, not a whit. I find you passing gentle.
‘Twas told you were rough and coy and sullen,
And now I find thou are pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous.
O slanderous world! Kate like the hazel-twig
Is straight and slender.
Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command.
in plain terms: your father hath consented
That you shall be my wife, your dowry ‘greed on,
And I will marry you.
For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,
Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,
Thou must be married to no man but me.
For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,
And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
Conformable as other household Kates.
Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?
How but well, sir? How but well?
It were impossible I should speed amiss.
Why, how now, daughter Katherine? In your dumps?
Call you me daughter? Now, I promise you
You have showed a tender fatherly regard
To wish me wed to one half lunatic.
Father, yourself and all the world
have talked amiss of her.
If she be curst, it is for policy,
For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove.
She is not hot, but temperate as the morn.
We have ‘greed so well together,
That upon Sunday is the wedding day.
I’ll see thee hanged on Sunday first.
’Tis incredible to believe how much she loves me.
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss
That in a wink she won me to her love.
I will buy apparel ‘gainst the wedding day.
Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests.
I know not what to say, but give me your hands.
God send you joy, Petruchio. ‘Tis a match.
Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.
We will have rings, and things, and fine array,
And kiss me, Kate. We will be married o’ Sunday.
Katherine and Petruchio exit in opposite directions.
Scene 3 (3.2.1-120)
Signior Lucentio, this is the ‘pointed day
And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.
What will be said? What mockery will it be,
To want the bridegroom when the priest attends
To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage?
What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?
No shame but mine. I must, forsooth, be forced
To give my hand, opposed against my heart,
Unto a mad-brain rudesby,
Who wooed in haste and means to wed at leisure.
I told you he was a frantic fool,
Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behavior.
Now must the world point at poor Katherine
And say, “Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife,
If it would please him come and marry her!”
Patience, upon my life, Petruchio means but well,
Whatever fortune stays him from his word.
Would Katherine had never seen him, though!
She exits, weeping.
I cannot blame thee now to weep,
For such an injury would vex a very saint,
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humor.
Come, where be these gallants? Who’s at home?
You are welcome, sir.
And yet I come not well.
And yet you halt not.
Not so well appareled as I wish you were.
Were it better I should rush in thus—
But where is Kate? Where is my love?
Gentles, methinks you frown.
Why, sir, you know this is your wedding day.
First were we sad, fearing you would not come,
Now sadder that you come so unprovided.
An eyesore to our solemn festival.
And tell us what occasion of import
Hath all so long detained you from your wife
And sent you hither so unlike yourself.
Tedious it were to tell and harsh to hear.
Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,
Where is Kate? The morning wears.
‘Tis time we were at church.
See not your bride in these unreverent robes.
Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.
Not I, believe me. Thus I’ll visit her.
But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.
Even thus. To me she’s married, not unto my clothes.
I should bid good morrow to my bride
And seal the title with a lovely kiss!
Petruchio hurries off.
He hath some meaning in his mad attire.
We will persuade him
To put on better ere he go to church.
Baptista and Lucentio exit.
Scene 4 (3.2.179-240)
Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains.
I know you think to dine with me today
And have prepared great store of wedding cheer,
But my haste doth call me hence,
And therefore I mean to take my leave.
You will away tonight?
I must away today, before night come.
If you knew my business,
you would entreat me rather go than stay.
I thank you all, that have beheld me give away myself
To this most patient, sweet and virtuous wife.
Farewell to you all.
Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.
It may not be.
Let me entreat you.
It cannot be.
Let me entreat you.
I am content.
I am content you shall entreat me stay,
But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.
Now, if you love me, stay.
Grumio, my horse.
Ay, sir, they be ready.
Nay, then, I will not go today, nor tomorrow.
The door is open, sir. There lies your way.
For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself.
O Kate, prithee, be not angry.
I will be angry. What hast thou to do?—
Ay, now it begins.
Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner.
I see a woman may be made a fool
If she had not a spirit to resist.
They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.—
Obey the bride, go to the feast, revel and be merry.
But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.
I will be master of what is mine own.
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,
My household stuff, my field, my barn,
My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything.
Touch her whoever dare.
Grumio, draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves.
Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee, Kate.
I’ll buckler thee against a million.
Katherine, Petruchio, and Grumio exit.
A couple of quiet ones.
Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.
Of all mad matches never was the like.
Scene 5 (4.1.96-188)
What, no attendance? No regard? No duty?
Where is the foolish knave I sent before?
Grumio and a servant enter.
Here, sir, as foolish as I was before.
You peasant swain!
Go, and fetch my supper in.
Sit down, Kate, and welcome.—
Grumio enters with dinner.
Off with my boots, you rogue!
The servant tries to take off Petruchio’s boots.
Out, you rogue! You pluck my foot awry.
Be merry, Kate.—Some water, here!
Shall I have some water?—
The servant brings water.
You whoreson villain! You let it fall!
Patience, I pray you! ‘Twas a fault unwilling.
A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-eared knave!—
Come, Kate, sit down.
What’s this? Mutton?
‘Tis burnt, and so is all the meat.
How durst you, villain, serve it thus to me?
There, take it, trenchers, cups, and all!
Throws the dinner all around.
You heedless jolthead and unmannered slave!
What, do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight.
I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet.
The meat was well, if you were so contented.
I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away.
Better that both of us fast.
Be patient, tomorrow ’t shall be mended,
And, for this night, we’ll fast.
Come, to thy bridal chamber.
They exit. The servant enters.
Ever see the like?
He kills her in her own humor.
He is in her chamber,
Making a sermon to her,
And rails and swears and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
And sits as one new-risen from a dream.
Away, away, for he is coming hither!
Petruchio returns; they rush out.
Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
And ’tis my hope to end successfully.
My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,
I must make her come and know her keeper’s call.
She ate no meat today, nor none shall eat.
Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not.
As with the meat, some undeserved fault
I’ll find about the making of the bed,
And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets.
And amid this hurly, I intend
That all is done in reverend care of her.
And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,
And with the clamor keep her still awake.
This is a way to kill a wife with kindness,
And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humor.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak; ’tis charity to show.
Scene 6 (5.2.56-163)
Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,
I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.
Well, for assurance, let’s each one send unto his wife;
And he whose wife is most obedient
Shall win the wager which we will propose.
Content. What’s the wager?
I’ll venture twenty times so much upon my wife.
A hundred then.
A match! ‘Tis done.
Who shall begin?
That will I.
Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.
Son, I’ll be your half Bianca comes.
I’ll have no halves. I’ll bear it all myself.
How now, what news?
Sir, my mistress sends you word
That she is busy, and cannot come.
How! “She’s busy, and she cannot come!”
Is that an answer?
Ay, and a kind one too.
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.
I hope better.
Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife
To come to me forthwith.
O, ho, entreat her!
Nay, then she must come.
I am afraid, sir, do what you can, yours will not be entreated.
Now, where’s my wife?
She says you have some goodly jest in hand.
She will not come. She bids you come to her.
Worse and worse. O vile, intolerable, not to be endured!—
Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress,
Say I command her to come to me.
I know her answer.
She will not.
Here comes Katherina!
What is your will, sir, that you send for me?
Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife?
They sit conferring by the parlor fire.
Go fetch them hither straight.
Here is a wonder.
And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.
Peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,
And awful rule, and right supremacy,
And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy?
Good Petruchio, the wager thou hast won,
and I will add twenty thousand crowns,
Another dowry to another daughter,
For she is changed as she had never been.
Nay, I will win my wager better yet,
And show more sign of her new-built virtue.
Katherine, Bianca, and the Widow enter.
Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not.
Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.
Katherine removes the cap quickly.
What a foolish duty call you this?
I would your duty were as foolish too.
The wisdom of your duty hath cost me an hundred crowns since suppertime.
The more fool you.
Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women
what duty they owe their lords and husbands.
Come, come, you’re mocking.
Come on, I say, and begin with her.
Unknit that threat’ning unkind brow
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes
To wound thy lord.
It blots thy beauty, confounds thy fame,
And in no sense is amiable.
A woman moved is like a fountain muddy,
And none so dry or thirsty will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
One that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labor both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks and true obedience—
Too little payment for so great a debt.