Peter. No, Anthony,

Not any thing, I take it, nor that thing
We travel to discover, like a new island;
I'll give 'em warning.

Ant. Come, come, all will be mended: This invisible woman,

Of infinite report for shape and beauty,
That bred all trouble to no purpose,

They are determin'd now no more to think on.
Peter. Were there ever

Men known to run mad with report before?
Or wander after that, they knew not where

To find; or, if found, how to enjoy? Are men's brains

Made now-a-days with malt, that their affections
Are never sober?

I do believe,

That men in love are ever drunk, as drunken men
Are ever loving.

Ant. Pr'ythee be thou sober,

And know that they are none of those, not guilty
Of the least vanity of love; only a doubt
Fame might too far report, or rather, flatter
The graces of this woman, made them curious
To find the truth; which, since they find so
Lock'd up from their searches, they are now resolv'd
To give the wonder over.

Peter. 'Would they were resolv'd

To give me some new shoes too! for I'll be sworn,
These are e'en worn out to the reasonable soles,
In their good worships' business: And some sleep
Would not do much amiss, unless they mean
To make a watchman of me: here there come!

Enter DON JOHN and FREDErick.

[Exeunt.

John. I would we could have seen her though: for

sure

She must be some rare creature, or report lies:
All men's reports too.

Fred. I could well wish I had seen Constantia :
But since she is so conceal'd, plac'd where
No knowledge can come near her, so guarded
As 'twere impossible, though known, to reach her,
I have made up my belief.

John. Hang me, from this hour,

If I more think upon her!

But as she came a strange report unto me,
So the next beauteous fame shall lose her.
Fred. 'Tis the next way;

But whither are you walking?

John. My old round,

After

my supper, and then to bed. Fred. Your servant then

John. Will not you stir ?
Fred. I have a little business.
John. I'd lay my life, this lady still-
Fred. Then you would lose it.
John. Pray let's walk together.
Fred. Now I cannot.

John. I have something to impart.
Fred. An hour hence,

I will not miss to meet you.

John. Where?

Fred. I'th' High Street:

For, not to lie, I have a few devotions

To do first, and then I am yours, Don John.

John. Devotions, Frederick! well, I leave you to

them:

Speed you well-but remember

Fred. I will not fail.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Street.

Enter PETRUCHIO, ANTONIO, SANCHIO, and BAPTISTA.

Ant. Cut his windpipe, I say!

San. Fie, Antonio!

Ant. Or knock his brains out first, and then forgive him:

If you do thrust, be sure it be to th' hilts,

A surgeon may see through him.

San. You are too violent.

Bapt. Too open-indiscreet.

Petr. Am I not ruined?

The honour of my house crack'd? my blood poison'd?

My credit and my name?

Bapt. Be sure it be so,

Before you use this violence. Let not doubt,

And a suspecting anger, so much sway you;

Your wisdom may be question'd.

Ant. I say, kill him,

And then dispute the cause.

Bapt. Hang up a true man,

Because 'tis possible he may be thievish?

Is this good justice?

Petr. I know, as certain

As day must come again, as clear as truth,

And open as belief can lay it to me,

That I am basely wrong'd, wrong'd above recompense, Maliciously abus'd, blasted for ever

In name and honour, lost to all remembrance,

But what is smear'd and shameful: I must kill him, Necessity compels me.

San. But think better.

Petr. There's no other cure left; yet, witness with

me,

All, that is fair in man, all, that is noble,

I am not greedy of his life I seek for,

Nor thirst to shed man's blood; and 'would 'twere possible,—

I wish it from my soul,

My sword should only kill his crimes: no, 'tis Honour-honour, my noble friends, that idol, honour, That all the world now worships, not Petruchio, Must do this justice.

Ant. Let it once be done,

And 'tis no matter, whether you, or honour,
Or both, be accessary.

Bapt. Do you weigh, Petruchio,

The value of the person, power, and greatness,
And what this spark may kindle?

Petr. To perform it,

So much I am tied to reputation,

And credit of my house, let it raise wild-fires,
And storms, that toss me into everlasting ruin,
Yet, I must through; if you dare side me.
Ant. Dare!

Say we were all sure to die in this venture,
As I am confident against it! is there any
Amongst us of so fat a sense, so pamper'd,
Would chuse luxuriously to lie a-bed,
And purge away his spirit? send his soul out
In sugar sops, and syrups? give me dying,
As dying ought to be, upon my enemy;
Let them be all the world, and bring along
Cain's envy with them—I will on.

San. We'll follow.

Petr. You're friends, indeed!

C

Here is none will fly from you;

Do it in what design you please, we'll back you.
Petr. That's spoken heartily.

Ant. And he, that flinches,
May he die, lousy, in a ditch!

San. Is the cause so mortal? nothing but his life!
Petr. Believe me,

A less offence has been the desolation

Of a whole name.

San. No other way to purge it?

Petr. There is, but never to be hop❜d for.

Bapt. Think an hour more,

And if then you find no safer road to guide you,
We'll set our rest too.

Ant. Mine's up already,

And hang him, for my part, goes less than life.

Enter DON JOHN.

John. The civil order of this city, Naples,
Makes it belov'd and honour'd of all travellers,
As a most safe retirement in all troubles;
Beside the wholesome seat, and noble temper
Of those minds that inhabit it, safely wise,
And to all strangers courteous.
But I see
My admiration has drawn night upon me,
And longer to expect my friend, may pull me
Into suspicion of too late a stirrer,

[Exeunt.

Which all good governments are jealous of.
I'll home, and think at liberty: yet certain,
"Tis not so far night as I thought; for see,
A fair house yet stands open, yet all about it
Are close, and no lights stirring; there may be foul
play:

I'll venture to look in. If there be knaves,
I may do a good office.