fortune stays him from his word: Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise; Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest. Would Katharina had never seen him though! Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep; For such an injury would vex a very saint, Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Master, master! news, old news, and such news as you never heard of! Is it new and old too? how may that be? Why, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio's coming? Is he come? Why, no, sir. What then? He is coming. When will he be here? When he stands where I am and sees you there. But say, what to thine old news? Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced, an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town-armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of wingdalls, sped with spavins, rayed with yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before and with, a half-chequed bit and a head-stall of sheeps leather which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth six time pieced and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. Who comes with him? O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat and 'the humour of forty fancies' pricked in't for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman's lackey. 'Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell'd. I am glad he's come, howsoe'er he comes. Why, sir, he comes not. Didst thou not say he comes? Who? that Petruchio came? Ay, that Petruchio came. No, sir, I say his horse comes, with him on his back. Why, that's all one. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I