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Kyudan
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Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet or amiable.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks and true obedience;
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband's foot:
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready; may it do him ease.
PETRUCHIO:
Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
LUCENTIO:
Well, go thy ways, old lad; for thou shalt ha't.
VINCENTIO:
'Tis a good hearing when children are toward.
LUCENTIO:
But a harsh hearing when women are froward.
PETRUCHIO:
Come, Kate, we'll to bed.
We three are married, but you two are sped.
'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white;
And, being a winner, God give you good night!
HORTENSIO:
Now, go thy ways; thou hast tamed a curst shrew.
LUCENTIO:
'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so.
Master:
Boatswain!
Boatswain:
Here, master: what cheer?
Master:
Good, speak to the mariners: fall to't, yarely,
or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.
Boatswain:
Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!
yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the
master's whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind,
if room enough!
ALONSO:
Good boatswain, have care. Where's the master?
Play the men.
Boatswain:
I pray now, keep below.
ANTONIO:
Where is the master, boatswain?
Boatswain:
Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your
cabins: you do assist the storm.
GONZALO:
Nay, good, be patient.
Boatswain:
When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers