Hort. You may go walk, and giue me leaue a while,
My Lessons make no musicke in three parts

Luc. Are you so formall sir, well I must waite
And watch withall, for but I be deceiu'd,
Our fine Musitian groweth amorous

Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument,
To learne the order of my fingering,
I must begin with rudiments of Art,
To teach you gamoth in a briefer sort,
More pleasant, pithy, and effectuall,
Then hath beene taught by any of my trade,
And there it is in writing fairely drawne

Bian. Why, I am past my gamouth long agoe

Hor. Yet read the gamouth of Hortentio

Bian. Gamouth I am, the ground of all accord:
Are, to plead Hortensio's passion:
Beeme, Bianca take him for thy Lord
Cfavt, that loues with all affection:
D sol re, one Cliffe, two notes haue I,
Ela mi, show pitty or I die,
Call you this gamouth? tut I like it not,
Old fashions please me best, I am not so nice
To charge true rules for old inuentions.
Enter a Messenger.