The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.
What, did he marry me to famish me?
Pluck up thy spirits, look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love, thou seest how diligent I am,
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee.
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
What, not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not,
And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
Here, take away this dish
Your worship is deceiv'd; the gown is made
Just as my master had direction
Grumio gave order how it should be done.
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