Ægeon.
Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:
Haply, I see a friend, will save my life;
And pay the sum that may deliver me.

Duke.
Speak freely, Syracusan, what thou wilt.

Ægeon.
Is not your name, Sir, call'd Antipholis?
And is not that your bond-man Dromio?

E. Dro.
Within this hour I was his bond-man, Sir,
But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords;
Now am I Dromio, and his man unbound.

Ægeon.
I am sure, you both of you remember me.

E. Dro.
Ourselves we do remember, Sir, by you;
For lately we were bound, as you are now.
You are not Pinch's patient, are you, Sir?

Ægeon.
Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

E. Ant.
I never saw you in my life, 'till now.

Ægeon.
Oh! grief hath chang'd me, since you saw me last;
And careful hours with time's deformed hand
Have written ^{2 note}strange defeatures in my face;
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

E. Ant.

Neither.

Ægeon.

Dromio, nor thou?

E. Dro.

No, trust me, Sir, nor I.

Ægeon.

I am sure, thou dost.

E. Dro.

I, Sir? but I am sure, I do not: and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

Ægeon.
Not know my voice! oh, time's extremity!
Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue
In seven short years, that here my only son
Knows not my feeble key of untun'd cares?
Tho' now this grained face of mine be hid
In sap-consuming winter's drizled snow,
And all the conduits of my blood froze up;
Yet hath my night of life some memory;
My wasting lamp some fading glimmer left,
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:
^{3 note}

E. Ant.
I never saw my father in my life.

Ægeon.
But seven years since, in Syracusa-bay,
Thou know'st, we parted; but, perhaps, my son,
Thou sham'st t'acknowledge me in misery.

E. Ant.
The Duke, and all that know me in the city,
Can witness with me that it is not so:
I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life.

Duke.
I tell thee, Syracusan, twenty years
Have I been Patron to Antipholis,
During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa:
I see, thy age and dangers make thee doat.

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