I fear for your daughter and her music.
I think she will sooner prove a soldier,
Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.
It seems I cannot break her to the lute
For she hath broke the lute to me—
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;
When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
“Frets, call you these?” quoth she, “I’ll fume with them.”
And with that word she strook me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way,
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute,
While she did call me rascal fiddler
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vild terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.