William Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew in the complete original text.
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The Taming of the Shrew

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Induction. Scene II.

Scene II.—A Bedchamber in the Lord's House.

SLY is discovered in a rich nightgown, with
Attendants: some with apparel, others with
basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and
Lord, dressed like a servant.

Sly. For God's sake! a pot of small ale.
First Serv. Will't please your lordship drink
a cup of sack?
Sec. Serv. Will't please your honour taste of
these conserves?
Third Serv. What raiment will your honour
wear to-day?
Sly. I am Christophero Sly; call not me ho-
nour, nor lordship: I ne'er drank sack in my
life; and if you give me any conserves, give me
conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment
I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than
backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more
shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than
shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the
Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your
O, that a mighty man, of such descent,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit!
Sly. What! would you make me mad? Am
not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son, of Burton-
heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a card-
maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now
by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian
Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know
me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence on
the score for sheer ale, score me up for the
lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am
not bestraught: here's—
First Serv. O! this it is that makes your lady
Sec. Serv. O! this it is that makes your ser-
vants droop.
Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred
shuns your house,
As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,
And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
Look how thy servants do attend on thee,
Each in his office ready at thy beck:
Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,
And twenty caged nightingales do sing:
Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.
Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground:
Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd,
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will
Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.
First Serv. Say thou wilt course; thy grey-
hounds are as swift
As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.
Sec. Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will
fetch thee straight
Adonis painted by a running brook,
And Cytherea all in sedges hid,
Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,
Even as the waving sedges play with wind.
Lord. We'll show thee Io as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surpris'd,
As lively painted as the deed was done.
Third Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a
thorny wood,
Scratching her legs that one shall swear she
And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,
So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.
Lord. Thou art a lord and nothing but a lord:
Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waning age.
First Serv. And till the tears that she hath
shed for thee
Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face,
She was the fairest creature in the world;
And yet she is inferior to none.
Sly. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?
Or do I dream? or have I dream'd till now?
I do not sleep; I see, I hear, I speak;
I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;
And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly.
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;
And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.
Sec. Serv. Will't please your mightiness to
wash your hands?
[Servants present a ewer, basin, and
O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd!
O, that once more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream,
Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept.
Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly
But did I never speak of all that time?
First Serv. O! yes, my lord, but very idle
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door,
And rail upon the hostess of the house,
And say you would present her at the leet,
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house.
Third Serv. Why, sir, you know no house,
nor no such maid,
Nor no such men as you have reckoned up,
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,
And twenty more such names and men as these,
Which never were nor no man ever saw.
Sly. Now, Lord be thanked for my good
All. Amen.
Sly. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.
Page. How fares my noble lord?
Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer
Where is my wife?
Page. Here, noble lord: what is thy will with
Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me
My men should call me lord: I am your good-
Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and
I am your wife in all obedience.
Sly. I know it well. What must I call her?
Lord. Madam.
Sly. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam?
Lord. Madam, and nothing else: so lords call
Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd
And slept above some fifteen year or more.
Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,
Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.
Sly. 'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her
Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.
Page. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you
To pardon me yet for a night or two,
Or, if not so, until the sun be set:
For your physicians have expressly charg'd,
In peril to incur your former malady,
That I should yet absent me from your bed:
I hope this reason stands for my excuse.
Sly. Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry
so long; but I would be loath to fall into my
dreams again: I will therefore tarry, in spite of
the flesh and the blood.

Enter a Servant.
Serv. Your honour's players, hearing your
Are come to play a pleasant comedy;
For so your doctors hold it very meet,
Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:
Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,
Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
Sly. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not
a commonty a Christmas gambold or a tum-
Page. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing
Sly. What! household stuff?
Page. It is a kind of history.
Sly. Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife,
sit by my side,
And let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.
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