A Lord, before whom the Play is fuppos'd to be play'd.

Hoftefs.

Christopher Sly, a drunken Tinker.

Page, Players, Huntfmen, and other Servants attending on the Lord.

The Perfons of the Play it felf are,

Baptifta, Father to Katharina and Biancha, very rich.

Vincentio, an old gentleman of Pifa.

Lucentio, Son to Vincentio, in love with Biancha.

Petruchio, a Gentleman of Verona, a fuitor to Katharina.
Gremio,

Hortenfio,

Tranio,

Biondello,

} Pretenders to Biancha.

Servants to Lucentio.

Grumio, Servant to Petruchio.

Pedant, an old fellow fet up to perfonate Vincentio.

Katharina, the Shrew.

Biancha, her Sifter.

Widow.

Taylor, Haberdashers, with Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio.

SCENE, fometimes in Padua, and fometimes in Petruchio's House in the Country.

THE

THE

TAMING of the SHRE W.

INDUCTION.

SCENE I.

Enter Hoftefs and Sly.

SLY.

'LL pheeze you, in faith.

Hoft. A pair of stocks, you rogue.

Sly. Y'are a baggage; the Slies are no rogues. Look in the Chronicles, we came in with Richard Conqueror; therefore paucus pallabris, let the world flide: Seffa.

Hoft. You will not pay for the glaffes you have burst ? Sly. No, not a deniere: go by S. Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Hoft. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the headborough.

[Exit.

Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law; I'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly. [Falls afleep.

Wind borns. Enter a Lord from bunting with a train.

Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee tender well my hounds, + Brach Merriman, the poor cur is imbost;

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd Brach.
Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
At the hedge corner in the coldest fault?
I would not lofe the dog for twenty pound.
Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
He cried upon it at the meerest loss,"
And twice to-day pick'd out the dulleft fcent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

Lord. Thou art a fool; if Eccho were as fleet,

I would esteem him worth a dozen fuch.

But fup them well, and look unto them all,
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

Hun. I will, my Lord.

Lord. What's here? one dead, or drunk? fee doth he breathe?

2 Hun. He breathes, my Lord.

ale,

Were he not warm'd with

This were a bed but cold, to fleep fo foundly.

Lord. O monftrous beaft! how like a fwine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.

What think you if he were convey'd to bed,

Wrapt in sweet cloaths; rings put upon his fingers;
A most delicious banquet by his bed,

And brave attendants near him when he wakes;
Would not the beggar then forget himself?

1 Hun. Believe me, Lord, I think he cannot chufe.
2 Hun. It would feem ftrange unto him when he wak'd.

Lord.

Brach, a bound.