“Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:Is this a holiday? what! know you not,Being mechanical, you ought not walkUpon a labouring day without the signOf your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?”

“Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.”

“I read that I profess, the Art of Love.Bianca: And may you prove, sir, master of your art!Lucentio: While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!”

“What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night,So stumblest on my counsel?*Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*”

“You mar our labour: keep your cabins:you do assist the storm[...] What cares these roarers for the name of king?”

“How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!Your eyes do menace me. Why look you pale?Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?”

“Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.”