TWELFTH-NIGHT : OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

163

TAMING OF THE SHREW.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
A Lord.
CHRISTOPHER SLY, a

Persons HORTENŠIO,} suitors to Bianca. Tinker.

in the

TRANIO, Servants to LuHostess, Page, Players,

In- BIONDELLO, centio. Huntsmen, and Ser

duction. GRUMIO, Servants to Petruchio. vants.

CURTIS, BAPTISTA, a rich Gentleman of The Pedant.

Padua. VINCENTIO, an old Gentleman of KATHARINA, Daughters to BapPisa.

BIANCA,

tista. LUCENTIO, Son to Vincentio.

Widow. PETRUCHIO, a Gentleman of Ve

rona.

Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio. SCENE, sometimes in Padua; and sometimes in Petruchio's

House in the Country.

INDUCTION.

SCENE I.
Before an Alehouse on a Heath. ,

Enter Hostess and SLY.
Sly. I'll pheese you, in faith.
Host. A pair of stocks, you rogue!

Sly. Y' are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles, we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!

Host. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

Sly. No, not a denier. Go by, S. Jeronimy: Go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. Host. I know my remedy: I must go fetch the head-borough.

[Exit. Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law. I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.

[Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep. Wind Horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and

Servants.
Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd,
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach.
Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault?
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

1 Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
He cried upon it at the merest loss,
And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

Lord. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such.
But sup them well, and look unto them all:
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

| Hun. I will, my lord.
Lord. What 's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he

breathe? 2 Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

Lord. O, monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies.
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,
Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his bed,

a