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WITTIE and PLEASANT

COMEDIE

CALLED

The Taming of the SHREW.

As it was acted

By his MAIESTIES Seruants at the Blacke Friers and the Globe.

Written by WILL. SHAKESPEARE.

LONDON, Printed by W. S. for Iohn Smethwicke, and are to be fold at his Shop in Saint Dunftones Church-yard

vnder the Diall.

1631.

There was an Edition of this by V. S. for Nich. Ling, 1607.

Comedy printed
There is scarce a

Line of this the fame with the prefent Play, yet

the Plot and Scenery fcarce differ at all from it.

Vide Warburton's Tables.

The Taming of the Shrew.

I'

Actus primus. Scœna prima.

Enter Begger and Hoftes, Chriftophero Sly.

Le pheeze you infaith.

Begger.

Hoft. A paire of stockes you rogue.

Beg. Y'are a baggage, the Slies are no rogues. Looke in the Chronicles, wee came in with Richard Conqueror : therefore Paucas pallabris, let the world flide: Seffa..

Hoft. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst ? Beg. No, not a deniere: goe by Ieronimie, goe to thy cold bed, and warme thee.

Hoft. I know my remedie, I must goe fetch the headborough.

Beg. Third, or fourth, or fift borough, Ile anfwere him by law. Ile not budge an inch boy: let him come and kindly. Falles afleepe.

Winde hornes. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his traine.

Lo. Huntsman I charge thee, tender well my hounds,

Brach Meriman, the poor curre is imboft.

And couple Clowder with the deepe mouth'd brach,
Saw'st thou not boy how Siluer made it good,
At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault,
I would not loose the dogge for twentie pound.

Huntf. Why Belman is as good as he my lord,
He cried vpon it at the meerest losse,

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And twice to day pick'd out the dulleft fent,
Trust me, I take him for the dogge.

Lord.

Thou art a foole, if Eccho were as fleete,

I would esteeme him worth a dozen fuch:

But fup them well, and looke vnto them all.

To-morrow I intend to hunt againe.

Hunts. I will my lord.

Lord. What's heere? One dead, or drunke? See doth he breath?

2 Hun. He breath's my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, this were a bed but cold to fleepe fo foundly.

Lord. Oh mounftrous beaft, how like a fwine he lyes.
Grimme death how foule and loathfome is thine image:
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What thinke you, if he were conuey'd to bed,
Wrap'd in sweet cloathes: rings put vpon his fingers:
A moft delicious banquet by his bed,

And braue attendants neere him when he wakes,
Would not the begger then forget himfelfe?

1 Huntf. Belegue me lord, I thinke hee cannot choose. 2 Huntf. It would feeme ftrange unto him when he wak’d. Lord. Euen as a flat ring dreame, or worthles fancie. Then take him vp, and manage well the ieft:

Carrie him gently to my faireft chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures.
Balme his foule head in warme diftilled waters,
And burne sweet wood to make the lodging fweete:
Procure me muficke readie when he wakes,
To make a dulcet and a heauenly found:
And if he chance to fpeake, be ready straight
(And with a low fubmiffiue reuerence)
Say, what is it your honor will command:
Let one attend him with a filuer bafon

Full of rofe-water, and beftrew'd with flowers,

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