|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmflv
 

entio 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 bass.
HORTENSIO. The bass is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.
[Aside] 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 master, take it not unkindly, pray,
That I have been thus pleasant with you both.
HORTENSIO. [To LUCENTIO] You mayilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmebf