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Pet.

Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,

That [shake] not, though they blow perpetually.

Enter Hortensio [as Litio] with his head broke.

Bap.

How now, my friend, why dost thou look so pale?

Hor.

For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

Bap.

What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

Hor.

I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier,

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Bap.

Why then thou canst not break her to the lute?

Hor.

Why no, for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,

“Frets, call you these?” quoth she, “I’ll fume with them.”

And with that word she strook me on the head,

And through the instrument my pate made way,

And there I stood amazed for a while,

As on a pillory, looking through the lute,

While she did call me rascal fiddler

And twangling Jack, with twenty such vild terms,

As had she studied to misuse me so.

Pet.

Now by the world, it is a lusty wench!