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I am no breeching scholar in the schools,

I’ll not be tied to hours, nor ’pointed times,

But learn my lessons as I please myself.

And to cut off all strife, here sit we down:

Take you your instrument, play you the whiles,

His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d.

Hor.

You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

Luc.

That will be never, tune your instrument.

Bian.

Where left we last?

Luc.

Here, madam:

“Hic ibat Simois; hic est [Sigeia] tellus;

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.”

Bian.

Conster them.

Luc. “Hic ibat,” as I told you before, “Simois,” I am Lucentio, “hic est,” son unto Vincentio of Pisa, “[Sigeia] tellus,” disguis’d thus to get your love, “Hic steterat,” and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, “Priami,” is my man Tranio, “regia,” bearing my port, “celsa senis,” that we might beguile the old pantaloon.

Hor. Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

Bian. Let’s hear. O fie, the treble jars.

Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Bian. Now let me see if I can conster it: “Hic ibat Simois,” I know you not, “hic est [Sigeia] tellus,” I trust you not, “Hic steterat Priami,” take heed he hear us not, “regia,” presume not, “celsa senis,” despair not.