Master, master, news! And such old news as you never heard of!
Master, master, news! And such old
news as you never heard of!
Is it new and old too? How may that be?
Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming?
Is he come?
Why, no, sir.
He is coming.
When will he be here?
When he stands where I am, and sees you there.
Tranio, as Lucentio
But say, what to thine old news?
Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and
an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned,
a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one
buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en
out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and
chapeless; with two broken points; his horse
hipped, with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no
kindred, besides possessed with the glanders and
like to mose in the chine, troubled with the lampass,
infected with the fashions, full of windgalls,
sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure
of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn
with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten,
near-legged before, and with a half-checked
bit and a headstall of sheep’s leather,
which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling,
hath been often burst, and now repaired with
knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s
crupper of velour, which hath two letters for her
name fairly set down in studs, and here and there
pieced with packthread.
Who comes with him?
Oh, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned
like the horse: with a linen stock on one leg
and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with
a red and blue list; an old hat, and the humor of
forty fancies pricked in ’t for a feather. A monster,
a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian
footboy or a gentleman’s lackey.
Tranio, as Lucentio
’Tis some odd humor pricks him to this fashion,
Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-appareled.
I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes.
Why, sir, he comes not.
Didst thou not say he comes?
Who? That Petruchio came?
Ay, that Petruchio came!
No, sir, I say his horse comes with him on
Why, that’s all one.
Nay, by Saint Jamy.
I hold you a penny,
A horse and a man
Is more than one,
And yet not many.