Imagens da página

Cath. Fie! fie ! unknit that threatning unkind brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy Lord, thy King, thy Governor.
It blots thy beauty, as frofts bite the meads ;
Confounds thy fame, aš whirlwinds shake fair buds ;
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A Woman moy'd is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-feeming, thick, bereft of beauty ;
And while it is so, none fo dry or thirsty
Well dain to fip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy Husband is thy Lord, thy Life, thy Keeper,
Thy Head, thy Sovereign ; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance : commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land ;
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou ly'ft 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.
Such duty as the Subject owes the Prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband :
And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sower,
And not obedient to his honest will ;
What is she but a foul contending Rebel,
And graceless Traitor to her loving Lord ?
I am alham'd, that Women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace ;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts ?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms,
My mind hath been as big as one of

My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bardy word for word, and frown for frown ;
But, now I see, our launces are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness pait compare ;


[merged small][ocr errors]

That seeming to be moit, which we indeed least are.
Then vale your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your Husband's foot :
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready, may it do him ease.
Pet. Why, there's a wench : come on, and kiss me,

Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha't.
Vin. 'Tis a good hearing, when children are toward.
Luc. But a harsh hearing, when women are froward.

Pet. Come, Kate, we'll to bed ;
We three are married, but you two are sped.
'Twas I won the wager, tho' you hit the white ;
And being a winner, God give you good night.

[Exeunt Petruchio and Catharina. Hor. Now go thy ways, thou haft tam'd a curft

Shrew. Luc. 'Tis a wonder, by your leave, the will be tam'd 'so.

[Exeunt omnes. Enter two fervants bearing Sly in his own apparel, and

leaving him on the Stage. Then enter a Tapiter. Sly awaking.] Sim, give's some more wine -- what, all the Players gone ? am not I a Lord ?

Tap. Å Lord, with a murrain! come, art thou drunk Aill?

Sly. Who's this Tapster! oh, I have bad the braves dream that ever thou beardsl in all thy life.

Tap. Yea, marry, but thou hads beff get thee home, for your Wife will course you for dreaming here all night.

Sly. Will she ? I know how to tame a Shrew. I dreamt upon it all this night, and thou hast wak'd me out of the best dream that ever I had. But I'll to my Wife and tame ber too, if fose anger me.

The End of the Second Volume.

[merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors]
[merged small][ocr errors]
« AnteriorContinuar »