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KATHARINA:
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I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.
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GRUMIO:
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I cannot tell; I fear 'tis choleric.
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What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
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KATHARINA:
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A dish that I do love to feed upon.
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GRUMIO:
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Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.
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KATHARINA:
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Why then, the beef, and let the mustard rest.
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GRUMIO:
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Nay then, I will not: you shall have the mustard,
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Or else you get no beef of Grumio.
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KATHARINA:
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Then both, or one, or any thing thou wilt.
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GRUMIO:
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Why then, the mustard without the beef.
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KATHARINA:
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Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,
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That feed'st me with the very name of meat:
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Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,
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That triumph thus upon my misery!
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Go, get thee gone, I say.
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PETRUCHIO:
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How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?
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HORTENSIO:
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Mistress, what cheer?
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KATHARINA:
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Faith, as cold as can be.
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PETRUCHIO:
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Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
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Here love; thou see'st how diligent I am
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To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee:
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I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
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What, not a word? Nay, then thou lovest it not;
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And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
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Here, take away this dish.
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KATHARINA:
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I pray you, let it stand.
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PETRUCHIO:
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The poorest service is repaid with thanks;
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And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.
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KATHARINA:
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I thank you, sir.
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HORTENSIO:
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Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame.
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Come, mistress Kate, I'll bear you company.
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PETRUCHIO:
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Haberdasher:
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Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.
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PETRUCHIO:
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Why, this was moulded on a porringer;
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A velvet dish: fie, fie! 'tis lewd and filthy:
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Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,
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A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap:
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Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.
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KATHARINA:
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I'll have no bigger: this doth fit the time,
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And gentlewomen wear such caps as these
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PETRUCHIO:
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When you are gentle, you shall have one too,
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And not till then.
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HORTENSIO:
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KATHARINA:
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Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;
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And speak I will; I am no child, no babe:
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Your betters have endured me say my mind,
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And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
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My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,
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Or else my heart concealing it will break,
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And rather than it shall, I will be free
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Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
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PETRUCHIO:
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Why, thou say'st true; it is a paltry cap,
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