There lived in Padua a gentleman named Baptista, who had two fair daughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tempered, and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed of marrying her, while her sister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty, and pleasant-spoken, that more than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But Baptista said the elder daughter must marry first.  
So Bianca's suitors decided among themselves to try and get some one to marry Katharine--and then the father could at least be got to listen to their suit for Bianca.
 
A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they thought of, and, half in jest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine, the disagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was just the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich, he himself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered.
 
Petruchio began by asking Baptista's permission to pay court to his gentle daughter Katharine--and Baptista was obliged to own that she was anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in, complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head, because he told her she was not playing correctly.
 
“Never mind,” said Petruchio, “I love her better than ever, and long to have some chat with her.”
 
Please keep photo with html When Katharine came, he said, “Good-morrow, Kate--for that, I hear, is your name.”
 
“You've only heard half,” said Katharine, rudely.
 
“Oh, no,” said Petruchio, “they call you plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the shrew, and so, hearing your mildness praised in every town, and your beauty too, I ask you for my wife.”
 
“Your wife!” cried Kate. “Never!” She said some extremely disagreeable things to him, and, I am sorry to say, ended by boxing his ears.
 
“If you do that again, I'll cuff you,” he said quietly; and still protested, with many compliments, that he would marry none but her.
 
When Baptista came back, he asked at once--
 
“How speed you with my daughter?”
 
“How should I speed but well,” replied Petruchio--“how, but well?”
 
“How now, daughter Katharine?” the father went on.
 
Please keep photo with html “I don't think,” said Katharine, angrily, “you are acting a father's part in wishing me to marry this mad-cap ruffian.”
 
“Ah!” said Petruchio, “you and all the world would talk amiss of her. You should see how kind she is to me when we are alone. In short, I will go off to Venice to buy fine things for our wedding--for--kiss me, Kate! we will be married on Sunday.”
 
With that, Katharine flounced out of the room by one door in a violent temper, and he, laughing, went out by the other. But whether she fell in love with Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to meet a man who was not afraid of her, or whether she was flattered that, in spite of her rough words and spiteful usage, he still desired her for his wife--she did indeed marry him on Sunday, as he had sworn she should.
 
To vex and humble Katharine's naughty, proud spirit, he was late at the wedding, and when he came, came wearing such shabby clothes that she was ashamed to be seen with him. His servant was dressed in the same shabby way, and the horses they rode were the sport of everyone they passed.
 
And, after the marriage, when should have been the wedding breakfast, Petruchio carried his wife away, not allowing her to eat or drink--saying that she was his now, and he could do as he liked with her.
 
And his manner was so violent, and he behaved all through his wedding in so mad and dreadful a manner, that Katharine trembled and went with him. He mounted her on a stumbling, lean, old horse, and they journeyed by rough muddy ways to Petruchio's house, he scolding and snarling all the way.
 
She was terribly tired when she reached her new home, but Petruchio was determined that she should neither eat nor sleep that night, for he had made up his mind to teach his bad-tempered wife a lesson she would never forget.
 
So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when supper was served he found fault with everything--the meat was burnt, he said, and ill-served, and he loved her far too much to let her eat anything but the best. At last Katharine, tired out with her journey, went supperless to bed. Then her husband, still telling her how he loved her, and how anxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled her bed to pieces, throwing the pillows and bedclothes on the floor, so that she could not go to bed at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the servants so that Kate might see how unbeautiful a thing ill-temper was.
 
The next day, too, Katharine's food was all found fault with, and caught away before she could touch a mouthful, and she was sick and giddy for want of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants--
 
“I pray thee go and get me some repast. I care not what.”
 
“What say you to a neat's foot?” said the servant.
 
Katharine said “Yes,” eagerly; but the servant, who was in his master's secret, said he feared it was not good for hasty-tempered people. Would she like tripe?
 
“Bring it me,” said Katharine.
 
“I don't think that is good for hasty-tempered people,” said the servant. “What do you say to a dish of beef and mustard?”
 
“I love it,” said Kate.
 
“But mustard is too hot.”
 
“Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard go,” cried Katharine, who was getting hungrier and hungrier.
 
“No,” said the servant, “you must have the mustard, or you get no beef from me.”
 
“Then,” cried Katharine, losing patience, “let it be both, or one, or anything thou wilt.”
 
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