T

PROLOGU

various things the ftage has been compar'd, As apt ideas frike each humorous bard:

This night, for want of better fimile,

Let this our theatre a tavern be;

The poets vintners, and the waiters we.

So, as the cant and cuftom of the trade is,

E.

You're welcome, gem'min'; kindly welcome, ladies."
To draw in customers, our bills are spread;
You cannot miss the fign, 'tis Shakespeare's head.

From

From this fame head, this fountain-head divine,
For different palates fprings a different wine!
In which no tricks, to strengthen or to thin 'em-
Neat as imported no French brandy in 'em
Hence, for the choiceft fpirits, flows Champaign;
Whofe fparkling atoms shoot thro' every vein,
Then mount in magic vapours to th' enraptur'd brain!
Hence flow, for martial minds, potations ftrong;
And fweet love-potions, for the fair and young.

For you, my hearts of oak, for your regale, [To the upper gallery.
There's good old English ftingo, mild and ftale.
For high, luxurious fouls, with luscious fmack,
There's Sir John Falftaff, is a butt of sack :
And if the fronger liquors more invite ye,
Bardolph is gin, and Pistol aqua vitæ.

But fhou'd you call for Falstaff, where to find him;
He's gone-nor left one cup of fack behind him.
Sunk in his elbow-chair, no more he'll roam;

No more, with merry wags, to Eastcheape come:
He's gone to jeft and laugh and give his fack at home.
As for the learned critics, grave and deep,

Who catch at words, and catching fall asleep;
Who in the storms of paffion-hum-aud haw!
For fuch our mafter will no liquor draw-

So blindly thoughtful, and fo darkly read,

They take Tom Durffy's for the Shakespeare's head.
A vintner once acquir'd both praise and gain,
And fold much perry for the best champaign.
Some rakes, this precious ftuff did fo allure,

They drank whole nights-what's that-when wine is pure?
"Come fill a bumper, Jack-I will, my lord-

"Here's cream!-damn'd fine!-immenfe! upon my word!"*
Sir William, what fay you?-The beft, believe me→
In this eh Jack!-the devil can't deceive me.

Thus the wife critic, too, miftakes his wine,

Cries out with lifted hands, 'tis great!-divine!

Then jogs his neighbour, as the wonders strike him;

This Shakespeare! Shakespeare!-oh there's nothing like him! In this night's various and inchanted cup,

Some little perry's mixt for filling up.

The five long acts, from which our three are taken,
Stretch'd out to † fixteen years, lay by, forfaken.

Left then this precious liquor run to waste,
'Tis now confin'd and bottled for your taste.
'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan,
To lofe no drop of that immortal man!

The action of the Winter's Tale, as written by Shakespeare, comprehends fixteen years. [N. B. This prologue was fpoken to the dramatic pa ftoral, called the Winter's Tale, and to this comedy, both of which are altered from Shakespeare, and were performed the fame night.]

ACT I.

SCENE, Baptifta's Houfe.

Enter BAPTISTA, PETRUCHIO, and GRUMIO."
BAPTISTA.

T

HUS have 1, 'gainft my own felf-interest,
Repeated all the worst you are t'expect

From my fhrewd daughter, Cath'rine; if you'll venture,
Maugre my plain and honeft declaration,

You have my free confent, win her, and wed her.
Pet. Signior Baptifta, thus it stands with me:
Anthonio, my father, is deceased;

You knew him well, and knowing him know me,
Left folely heir to all his lands and goods;

Which I have better'd, rather than decreas'd.'
And I have thrust myself into the world,
Haply to wive and thrive as beft I may:
My bufinefs afketh hafle, old Signior;
And ev'ry day I cannot come to woo.
Let fpecialties be therefore drawn between us,
That cov'nants may be kept on either hand.

Bap. Yes, when the special thing is well obtain'd,

My daughter's love; for that is all in all.

Pet. Why, that is nothing: for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as fhe proud-minded; And where two raging fires meet together, They do confume the thing that feeds their fury. Tho' little fire grows great with little wind,

6

Yet extreme gufts will blow out fire and all;'

So I to her, and fo the yields to me;

For I am rough, and woo not like a babe.

Grum. Nay, look you, Sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet, or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head. Tho' fhe had as many difeafes as two-and-fifty horfes; why nothing comes amifs, fo money comes 'withal.'

Bap. As I have show'd you, Sir, the coarser fide, Now let me tell you fhe is young and beauteous, Brought up as beft becomes a gentlewoman; Her only fault (and that is fault enough)

Is, that she is intolerably froward;

If that you can away with, she is your's.

Grum. I pray you, Sir, let her fee him while the humour lafts. O' my word an' fhe knew him as well as I do, she would think fcolding would do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a score knaves, or fo; why, that's nothing; an' he begin once, she'll • find her match. I'll tell you what, Sir, an' fhe ftand • him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and fo disfigure her with it, that fhe fhall have no more eyes to fee withal than a cat-You know him not, Sir.

Bap. And you will woo her, Sir?'

Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent?
Think you a little din can daunt my ears?
Have I not, in my time, heard lions roar?
• Have I not heard the sea puff'd up with winds?
• Have I not heard great ord'nance in the field,
And heav'n's artillery thunder in the fkies?'
Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud 'larums, neighing fteeds, and trumpets clang?
And do you tell me of a woman's tongue,
That gives not half fo great a blow to hear,
As will a chefnut in a farmer's fare?
Tufh, tufh! fcare boys with bugs!.
Bap. Then thou'rt the man;

The man of Cath'rine, and her father too:
That fhall fhe know, and know my mind at once.
I'll portion her above her gentler fifter,.

New-married to Hortenfio:

And if with fcurril taunt, and fqueamish pride,
She make a mouth, and will not taste her fortune,

I'll turn her forth to seek it in the world;

Nor henceforth fhall fhe know her father's doors.

Pet. Say'ft thou me fo? then as your daughter, Signior,, Is rich enough to be Petruchio's wife;

Be fhe as curft as Socrates' Zantippe,

She moves me not a whit

were fhe as rough,

• As are the fwelling Adriatic feas,'

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

Bap. Well may'ft thou woo, and happy be thy speed';; But be thou arm'd for fome unhappy words.

Pet. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds, • That shake not, tho' they blow perpetually.' Catharine and the Mufic-mafter make a noife within. Mufic-maft. [within] Help! help!

Cath. [within] Out of the house, you scraping fool. Pet. What noise is that?

Bap. Oh, nothing; this is nothing

My daughter Catharine, and her mufic-mafter;
This is the third I've had within this month:
She is an enemy to harmony.

Enter Mufic-mafter.

How now, friend, why doft look fo pale?

Mufic-maft. For fear, I promise you, if I do look pale. Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good musician? Mufic-maft. I think she'll sooner prove a soldier; Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Bap. Why, then, thou canst not break her to the lute? Mufic-maft. Why, no; for fhe hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her the miftook her frets,

fool's cap:

And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering,
When with a moft impatient devilish fpirit,
Frets call you them? quoth fhe, I'll fret your
And with that word, the ftruck me on the head,
And through the inftrument my pate made way;
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute:
While the did call me rafcal-fidler,

And twangling Jack, with twenty fuch vile terms,
As the hath ftudied to mifufe me fo.

Pet. Now by the world, it is a lufty wench,

I love her ten times more than e'er I did:

Oh how I long to have a grapple with her!

Mufic-maft. I wou'd not make another trial with her, To purchase Padua: for what is past,

I'm paid fufficiently: if at your leifure,

You think my broken fortunes, head and lute,
Deferye fome reparation, you know where
T'inquire for me; and fo, good gentlemen,
I am your much disorder'd humble fervant.
Bap. No yet mov'd, Petruchio? do you
Pet. I am more and more impatient, Sir; and long

To be a partner in thefe favourite pleafures.

flinch?

[Exit.

Bap.