HORTENSIO.
You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune?
[Retires.]
LUCENTIO.
That will be never: tune your instrument.
BIANCA.
Where left we last?
LUCENTIO.
Here, madam: —
Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.
BIANCA.
Construe them.
LUCENTIO.
'Hic ibat,' as I told you before, 'Simois,' I am Lucentio, 'hic
est,' son unto Vincentio of Pisa, 'Sigeia tellus,' disguised 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.
HORTENSIO. {Returning.]
Madam, my instrument's in tune.
BIANCA.
Let's hear. —
[HORTENSIO plays.]
O fie! the treble jars.
LUCENTIO.
Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.
BIANCA.
Now let me see if I can construe 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.
