1 Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.
2 Now go thy ways; thou hast tam'd a curst shrew.
3 Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be fac'd nor brav'd.
4 Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo.
5 Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.
6 See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst; Anon I'll give thee more instructions.
7 Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord: Thou hast a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age.
8 No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc'd To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart, Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen; Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure.
9 Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: I know you think to dine with me today, And have prepar'd great store of wedding cheer But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, And therefore here I mean to take my leave.
10 Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk; But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers; With gentle conference, soft and affable.