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Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catching!

Gru. Why, therefore fire, for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimm’d, rushes strew’d, cobwebs swept, the servingmen in their new fustian, [their] white stockings, and every officer his wedding garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Gills fair without, the carpets laid, and every thing in order?

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

Gru. First, know my horse is tir’d, my master and mistress fall’n out.

Curt. How?

Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt, and thereby hangs a tale.

Curt. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio.

Gru. Lend thine ear.

Curt. Here.

Gru. There.

[Strikes him.]

Curt. This ’tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

Gru. And therefore ’tis call’d a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech list’ning. Now I begin: Inprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress—

Curt. Both of one horse?

Gru. What’s that to thee?

Curt. Why, a horse.