BAPTISTA. Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray? TRANIO. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. BAPTISTA. A mighty man of Pisa: by report I know him well: you are very welcome, sir. [_To Hortensio_.] Take you the lute, [_To Lucentio_.] and you the set of books; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within! Enter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters, and tell them both These are their tutors: bid them use them well. [_Exeunt Servant with Hortensio, Lucentio and Biondello._] We will go walk a little in the orchard, And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, And so I pray you all to think yourselves. PETRUCHIO. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d: Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, What dowry shall I have with her to wife? BAPTISTA. After my death, the one half of my lands, And in possession twenty thousand crowns. PETRUCHIO. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever. Let specialities be therefore drawn between us, That covenants may be kept on either hand. BAPTISTA. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d, That is, her love; for that is all in all. PETRUCHIO. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded; And where two raging fires meet together, They do consume the thing that feeds their fury: Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all; So I to her, and so she yields to me; For I am rough and woo not like a babe. BAPTISTA. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed! But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. PETRUCHIO. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds, That shake not though they blow perpetually. Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. BAPTISTA. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale? HORTENSIO. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. BAPTISTA. What, will my daughter prove a good musician? HORTENSIO. I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier: Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. BAPTISTA. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? HORTENSIO. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering; When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, ‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she ‘I’ll fume with them’; And with that word she struck me on the head, And through the instrument my pate made way; And there I stood amazed for a while, As on a pillory, looking through the lute; While she did call me rascal fiddler, And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms, As had she studied to misuse me so. PETRUCHIO. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench! I love her ten times more than e’er I did: O! how I long to have some chat with her!