In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
And sits as one new-risen from a dream.
Away, away! for he is coming hither.

I call them forth to credit her.

Who knows not that?

Do you hear, ho? you must meet my master to
countenance my mistress.

They are.

By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.

Why, a horse.

Both of one horse?

This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

Here.

Let's ha't, good Grumio.

How?

All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

Come, you are so full of cony-catching!

There's fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news.

I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?

Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.

Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported?

Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

Who is that calls so coldly?