The Bodleian First Folio

A digital facsimile of the First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Bodleian Arch. G c.7.

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Here you can read a digital edition of each play in various views.

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Reference: S3r - Comedies, p. 209

Left Column

The Taming of the Shrew. Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd. Sincklo. I thinke 'twas Soto that your honor meanes. Lord.
'Tis verie true, thou didst it excellent: Well you are come to me in happie time, The rather for I haue some sport in hand, Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a Lord will heare you play to night;
But I am doubtfull of your modesties, Least (ouer‑eying of his odde behauiour, For yet his honor neuer heard a play) You breake into some merrie passion, And so offend him: for I tell you sirs,
If you should smile, he growes impatient.
Plai. Feare not my Lord, we can contain our selues, Were he the veriest anticke in the world. Lord. Go sirra, take them to the Butterie, And giue them friendly welcome euerie one,
Let them want nothing that my house affoords. Exit one with the Players. Sirra go you to Bartholmew my Page, And see him drest in all suites like a Ladie: That done, conduct him to the drunkards chamber, And call him Madam, do him obeisance:
Tell him from me (as he will win my loue) He beare himselfe with honourable action, Such as he hath obseru'd in noble Ladies Vnto their Lords, by them accomplished, Such dutie to the drunkard let him do:
With soft lowe tongue, and lowly curtesie, And say: What is't your Honor will command, Wherein your Ladie, and your humble wife, May shew her dutie, and make knowne her loue. And then with kinde embracements, tempting kisses,
And with declining head into his bosome Bid him shed teares, as being ouer‑ioyed To see her noble Lord restor'd to health, Who for this seuen yeares hath esteemed him No better then a poore and loathsome begger:
And if the boy haue not a womans guift To raine a shower of commanded teares, An Onion wil do well for such a shift, Which in a Napkin (being close conuei'd) Shall in despight enforce a waterie eie:
See this dispatch'd with all the hast thou canst, Anon Ile giue thee more instructions. Exit a seruingman. I know the boy will wel vsurpe the grace, Voice, gate, and action of a Gentlewoman: I long to heare him call the drunkard husband,
And how my men will stay themselues from laughter, When they do homage to this simple peasant, Ile in to counsell them: haply my presence May well abate the ouer‑merrie spleene, Which otherwise would grow into extreames.
[Prologue, Scene 2] Enter aloft the drunkard with attendants, some with apparel, Bason and Ewer, & other appurtenances, & Lord. Beg.

For Gods sake a pot of small Ale.

1. Ser. Wilt please your Lord drink a cup of sacke? 2. Ser. Wilt please your Honor taste of these Con­ serues ? 3. Ser. What raiment wil your honor weare to day. Beg.

I am Christophero Sly, call not mee Honour nor


Lordship: I ne're drank sacke in my life: and if you giue

me any Conserues, giue me conserues of Beefe: nere ask

me what raiment Ile weare, for I haue no more doub­

Right Column

lets then backes: no more stockings then legges: nor

no more shooes then feet, nay sometime more feete then


shooes, or such shooes as my toes looke through the o­


Lord. Heauen cease this idle humor in your Honor. Oh that a mightie man of such discent, Of such possessions, and so high esteeme
Should be infused with so foule a spirit.

What would you make me mad? Am not I Chri­ stopher Slie , old Sies sonne of Burton‑heath, by byrth a

Pedler, by education a Cardmaker, by transmutation a

Beare‑heard, and now by present profession a Tinker.


Aske Marrian Hacket the fat Alewife of Wincot, if shee

know me not: if she say I am not xiiii.d. on the score for

sheere Ale, score me vp for the lyingst knaue in Christen

dome. What I am not bestraught: here's⸺

3. Man. Oh this it is that makes your Ladie mourne. 2. Man.
Oh this is it that makes your seruants droop.
Lord. Hence comes it, that your kindred shuns your (house As beaten hence by your strange Lunacie. Oh Noble Lord, bethinke thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,
And banish hence these abiect lowlie dreames: Looke how thy seruants do attend on thee, Each in his office readie at thy becke. Wilt thou haue Musicke? Harke Apollo plaies, Musick And twentie caged Nightingales do sing.
Or wilt thou sleepe? Wee'l haue thee to a Couch, Softer and sweeter then the lustfull bed On purpose trim'd vp for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walke: we wil bestrow the ground. Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shal be trap'd,
Their harnesse studded all with Gold and Pearle. Dost thou loue hawking? Thou hast hawkes will soare Aboue the morning Larke. Or wilt thou hunt, Thy hounds shall make the Welkin answer them And fetch shrill ecchoes from the hollow earth.
1 Man.
Say thou wilt course, thy gray‑hounds are as (swift As breathed Stags: I fleeter then the Roe.
2 M. Dost thou loue pictures ? we wil fetch thee strait Adonis painted by a running brooke, And Citherea all in sedges hid,
Which seeme to moue and wanton with her breath, Euen as the wauing sedges play with winde.
Lord. Wee'l shew thee Io as she was a Maid, And how she was beguiled and surpriz'd, As liuelie painted, as the deede was done. 3. Man.
Or Daphne roming through a thornie wood, Scratching her legs, that one shal sweare she bleeds, And at that sight shal sad Apollo weepe, So workmanlie the blood and teares are drawne.
Lord. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord:
Thou hast a Ladie farre more Beautifull, Then any woman in this waining age.
1 Man. And til the teares that she hath shed for thee, Like enuious flouds ore‑run her louely face, She was the fairest creature in the world,
And yet shee is inferiour to none.
Beg. Am I a Lord, and haue I such a Ladie? Or do I dreame? Or haue I dream'd till now? I do not sleepe: I see, I heare, I speake: I smel sweet sauours, and I feele soft things:
Vpon my life I am a Lord indeede, And not a Tinker, nor Christopher Slie. Well, bring our Ladie hither to our sight, And once againe a pot o'th smallest Ale.
S3 2. Man

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