The Taming of the Shrew. Уильям Шекспир

as a flatt’ring dream or worthless fancy.

      Then take him up, and manage well the jest:

      Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;

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      Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters,

      And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet;

      Procure me music ready when he wakes,

      To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight,

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      And with a low submissive reverence

      Say ‘What is it your honour will command?’

      Let one attend him with a silver basin

      Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers;

Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,

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      And say ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your hands?’

      Some one be ready with a costly suit,

      And ask him what apparel he will wear;

      Another tell him of his hounds and horse,

And that his lady mourns at his disease;

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      Persuade him that he hath been lunatic,

      And, when he says he is, say that he dreams,

      For he is nothing but a mighty lord.

      This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs;

It will be pastime passing excellent,

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      If it be husbanded with modesty.

      1 Huntsman

      My lord, I warrant you we will play our part

      As he shall think by our true diligence

      He is no less than what we say he is.

       Lord

Take him up gently, and to bed with him;

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      And each one to his office when he wakes.

      [SLY is carried out. A trumpet sounds.]

      Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds –

       [Exit Servant.]

      Belike some noble gentleman that means,

      Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

       [Re-enter a Servant.]

      How now! who is it?

       Servant

An’t please your honour, players

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      That offer service to your lordship.

       Lord

      Bid them come near.

       [Enter Players.]

      Now, fellows, you are welcome.

       Players

      We thank your honour.

       Lord

      Do you intend to stay with me to-night?

       Player

So please your lordship to accept our duty.

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       Lord

      With all my heart. This fellow I remember

      Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son;

      ’Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well.

      I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part

Was aptly fitted and naturally perform’d.

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       Player

      I think ’twas Soto that your honour means.

       Lord

      ’Tis very true; thou didst it excellent.

      Well, you are come to me in a happy time,

      The rather for I have some sport in hand

Wherein your cunning can assist me much.

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      There is a lord will hear you play to-night;

      But I am doubtful of your modesties,

      Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,

      For yet his honour never heard a play,

You break into some merry passion

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      And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,

      If you should smile, he grows impatient.

       Player

      Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,

      Were he the veriest antic in the world.

       Lord

Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,

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      And give them friendly welcome every one;

      Let them want nothing that my house affords.

       [Exit one with the Players.]

      Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page,

      And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady;

That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber,

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      And call him ‘madam’, do him obeisance.

      Tell him from me – as he will win my love –

      He bear himself with honourable action,

      Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished;

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      Such duty to the drunkard let him do,

      With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,

      And say ‘What is’t your honour will command,

      Wherein your lady and your humble wife

May show her duty and make known her love?’

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      And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

      And with declining head into his bosom,

      Bid him shed tears, as being overjoyed

      To see her noble lord restor’d to health,

Who for this seven years hath esteemed him

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      No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

      And if the boy have not a woman’s gift

      To rain a shower of commanded