Æge.
Proceed, Solinus ^note, to procure my fall,
And by the doom of death end woes and all.

Duke.
Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more;
I am not partial to infringe our laws:
The enmity and discord which of late
Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,
Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives,
Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,
Excludes all pity from our threatening looks ^note.
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,
Both by the Syracusians ^note and ourselves,
To admit no traffic to our adverse towns:

Nay, more,
If any born at Ephesus be seen
At any ^{note note} Syracusian marts and fairs;
Again: if any Syracusian born
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose;
Unless a thousand marks be levied,
To quit the penalty and to ransom ^note him.
Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
Therefore by law thou art condemn'd to die.

Æge.
Yet this ^note my comfort: when your words are done,
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Duke.
Well, Syracusian, say, in brief, the cause
Why thou departed'st from thy native home,
And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.

Æge.
A heavier task could not have been imposed.
Than I to speak my griefs ^note unspeakable:
Yet, that the world may witness that my end
Was wrought by nature ^note, not by vile offence,
I'll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.
In Syracusa was I born; and wed
Unto a woman, happy but for me,
And by me ^note, had not our hap been bad.
With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased
By prosperous voyages I often made
To Epidamnum ^note; till my factor's death,
And the ^note great care of goods at random ^note left ^note,
Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:
From whom my absence was not six months old,
Before herself, almost at fainting under

The pleasing punishment that women bear,
Had made provision for her following me,
And soon and safe arrived where I was.
There had she ^note not been long but she became
A joyful mother of two goodly sons;
And, which was strange, the one so like the other
As could not be distinguish'd but by names.
That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
A meaner ^note woman was delivered
Of such a burden, male twins ^note, both alike:
Those, for their parents were exceeding poor,
I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.
My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,
Made daily motions for our home return: ^note
Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon ^note
We came aboard.
A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd,
Before the always-wind-obeying deep
Gave any tragic instance of our harm:
But longer did we not retain much hope;
For what obscured light the heavens did grant
Did but convey unto our fearful minds
A doubtful warrant of immediate death;
Which though myself would gladly ^note have embraced,
Yet the incessant weepings ^note of my wife,
Weeping before for what she saw must come,
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,
That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear,
Forced me to seek delays for them and me.
And this ^note it was, for other means was none:
The sailors sought for safety by our boat,
And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:
My wife, more careful for the latter- ^note born,

Had fasten'd him unto a small spare mast,
Such as seafaring men provide for storms;
To him one of the other twins was bound,
Whilst I had been like heedful of the other:
The children thus disposed, my wife and I,
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd,
Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast ^note;
And floating straight, obedient to the stream,
Was ^note carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
Dispersed those vapours that offended us;
And, by the benefit of his wished ^note light,
The seas wax'd ^note calm, and we discovered
Two ships from far making amain to us,
Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus ^note this:
But ere they came,—O, let me say no more!
Gather the sequel by that went before.

Duke.
Nay, forward, old man; do not break off so;
For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Æge.
O, had the gods done so, I had not now
Worthily term'd them merciless to us!
For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,
We were encounter'd by a mighty rock;
Which being violently borne upon ^note,
Our helpful ^note ship was splitted in the midst;
So that, in this unjust divorce of us,
Fortune had left to both of us alike
What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened
With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,
Was carried with more speed before the wind;
And in our sight they three were taken up
By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.

At length, another ^note ship had seized on us;
And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,
Gave healthful ^note welcome to their shipwreck'd guests;
And would have reft the fishers of their prey,
Had not their bark ^note been very slow of sail;
And therefore homeward did they bend their course.
Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;
That ^note by misfortunes was my life prolong'd,
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

Duke.
And, for the sake ^note of them thou sorrowest for,
Do me the favour to dilate at full
What hath befall'n of ^note them and thee ^note till now.

Æge.
My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother: and importuned me
That his attendant—so ^note his case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name—
Might bear him company in the ^note quest of him:
Whom whilst I labour'd of a ^note love to see,
I hazarded the loss of whom I loved.
Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus;
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
Or that, or any place that harbours men.
But here must end the story of my life;
And happy were I in my timely death,
Could all my travels warrant me they live.

Duke.
Hapless Ægeon, whom the fates have mark'd
To bear the extremity of dire mishap!
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, ^note
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,

Which princes, would they, may ^note not disannul,
My soul should sue as advocate for thee.
But, though thou art adjudged to the death,
And passed sentence may not be recall'd
But to our honour's great disparagement,
Yet will I favour thee in what I can.
Therefore, merchant, I'll ^note limit thee this day
To seek thy help by ^note beneficial help ^note:
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
And live; if no ^note, then thou art doom'd to die.
Gaoler, ^note take him to thy custody.

Gaol.
I will, my lord.

Æge.
Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless ^note end. [Exeunt. ^note Scene II. [Footnote: The Mart. ^note Enter ^note Antipholus of Syracuse, Dromio of Syracuse, and First Merchant.

First Mer.
Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum,
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
This very day a Syracusian merchant
Is apprehended for arrival ^note here;
And, not being able to buy out his life,
According to the statute of the town,
Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.
There is your money that I had to keep.

Ant. S.
Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
And stay there, Dromio, till ^note I come to thee. ^note
Within this hour it will be dinner-time:
Till that ^note, I'll view the manners of the town,
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,
And then return, and sleep within mine inn;
For with long travel I am stiff and weary.
Get thee away.

Dro. S.
Many a man would take you at your word,
And go indeed, having so good a mean ^note. [Exit.

Ant. S.
A trusty villain, sir; that very oft,
When I am dull with care and melancholy,
Lightens my humour with his merry jests.
What, will you walk with me about the town,
And then go to my ^note inn, and dine with me?

First Mer.
I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,
Of whom I hope to make much benefit;
I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock,
Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart,
And afterward consort ^note you till bed-time:
My present business calls me from you now.

Ant. S.
Farewell till then: I will go lose myself ^note,
And wander up and down to view the city.

First Mer.
Sir, I commend you to your own content. [Exit. ^note

Ant. S.
He that commends me to mine ^note own content
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
I to the world am like a drop of water,
That in the ocean seeks another drop;
Who, falling ^note there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen, ^{note note} inquisitive, ^note confounds himself:

So I, to find a mother and a brother,
In quest of them ^note, unhappy, ^note lose myself. Enter Dromio of Ephesus.
Here comes the almanac of my true date.
What now? how chance thou art return'd so soon?

Dro. E.
Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late:
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit;
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
She is so hot, because the meat is cold;
The meat is cold, because you come not home;
You come not home, because you have no stomach;
You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.

Ant. S.
Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:
Where have you left the money that I gave you?

Dro. E.
O,—sixpence, that I had o' Wednesday last
To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper?
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

Ant. S.
I am not in a sportive humour now:
Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?
We being strangers here, how darest thou trust
So great a charge from thine own custody?

Dro. E.
I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner:
I from my mistress come to you in post;
If I return, I shall be post indeed,
For she will score ^note your fault upon my pate.
Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock ^note,
And strike you home without a messenger.

Ant. S.
Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;
Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

Dro. E.
To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.

Ant. S.
Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,
And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge.

Dro. E.
My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
Home to your house, the Phœnix, sir, to dinner:
My mistress and her sister stays ^note for you.

Ant. S.
Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,
In what safe place you have bestow'd my money;
Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours,
That stands on tricks when I am undisposed:
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

Dro. E.
I have some marks of yours upon my pate,
Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders;
But not a thousand marks between you both.
If I should pay your worship those again,
Perchance you will ^note not bear them patiently.

Ant. S.
Thy mistress' marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou?

Dro. E.
Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phœnix;
She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,
And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

Ant. S.
What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

Dro. E.
What mean you, sir? for God's ^note sake, hold your hands!
Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels. [Exit.

Ant. S.
Upon my life, by some device or other
The villain is o'er-raught ^note of all my money.
They say this town is full of cozenage;
As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
Dark-working ^note sorcerers that change the mind,
Soul-killing ^{note note} witches that deform the body,
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,

And many such-like liberties ^note of sin:
If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
I'll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave:
I greatly fear my money is not safe. [Exit.

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