Ægeon.
Proceed, Salinus, to procure my fall,
And by the doom of death end woes and all.

Duke.
Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more;
I am not partial to infringe our laws:
The enmity, and discord, which of late
Sprung from the ranc'rous outrage of your Duke,
To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,
(Who, wanting gilders to redeem their lives,
Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods)
Excludes all pity from our threatning looks.
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,

Both by the Syracusans and ourselves,
T'admit no traffick to our adverse towns.
Nay, more; if any born at Ephesus
Be seen at Syracusan marts and fairs,
Again, if any Syracusan 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 ransom him.
Thy substance, valu'd at the highest rate,
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
Therefore, by law thou art condemn'd to die.

Ægeon.
Yet this my comfort, when your words are done,
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

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

Ægeon.
A heavier task could not have been impos'd,
Than I to speak my grief unspeakable:
Yet that the world may witness, that my end
^{1 note}Was wrought by nature, 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 too, had not our hap been bad:
With her I liv'd in joy; our wealth increas'd,

By prosperous voyages I often made
To Epidamnum; 'till my factor's death,
And the great care of goods at random left,
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 she had 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 poor mean woman was delivered
Of such a burthen, male-twins 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:
Unwilling, I agreed; alas, too soon!
We came aboard.
A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd,
Before the always-wind-obeying deep
Gave any tragick instance of our harm;
But longer did we not retain much hope:
For what obscured light the heav'ns did grant,
Did but convey unto our fearful minds
A doubtful warrant of immediate death;
Which, tho' myself would gladly have embrac'd,
Yet the incessant weeping 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,
Forc'd me to seek delays for them and me:
And this it was; (for other means were none.)
The sailors sought for safety by our boat,

And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us;
My wife, more careful for the elder born,
Had fasten'd him unto a small spare mast,
Such as sea-faring 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 dispos'd, my wife and I,
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fixt,
Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast;
And floating straight, obedient to the stream,
Were carry'd towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
Dispers'd those vapours that offended us;
And, by the benefit of his wish'd light,
The seas waxt calm; and we discovered
Two ships from far making amain to us,
Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this;
But ere they came—oh, 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, tho' not pardon thee.

Ægeon.
Oh, 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 encountered by a mighty rock;
Which being violently borne upon,
Our helpless 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 carry'd 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 ship had seiz'd on us;
And knowing whom it was their hap to save,

Gave helpful welcome to their shipwreckt guests;
And would have rest the fishers of their prey,
Had not their bark been very slow of sail;
And therefore homeward did they bend their course.—
Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;
That by misfortunes was my life prolong'd,
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

Duke.
And, for the sakes of them thou sorrow'st for,
Do me the favour to dilate at full
What hath befall'n of them, and thee, 'till now.

Ægeon.
My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and importun'd me,
That his attendant, (for his case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name,)
Might bear him company in quest of him:
Whom whilst I labour'd of a love to see,
I hazarded the loss of whom I lov'd.
Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece,
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
And coasting homeward, came to Ephesus:
Hopeless to find, yet loth 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 markt
To bear th' extremity of dire mishap;
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,
(Which Princes, would they, may not disannul;)
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,
My soul should sue as advocate for thee.
But, tho' 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;
I therefore, merchant, limit thee this day,

To seek thy life by beneficial help:
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus,
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
And live; if not, then thou art doom'd to die.
Jailor, take him to thy custody. [Exeunt Duke, and Train.

Jail.
I will, my Lord.

Ægeon.
Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [Exeunt Ægeon, and Jailor. SCENE II. Changes to the Street. Enter Antipholis of Syracuse, a Merchant, and Dromio.

Mer.
Therefore give out, you are of Epidamnum,
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
This very day, a Syracusan merchant
Is apprehended for arrival 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 mony, that I had to keep.

Ant.
Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
And stay there, Dromio, 'till I come to thee:
Within this hour it will be dinner time;
'Till that 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.
Many a man would take you at your word,
And go indeed, having so good a means. [Exit Dromio.

Ant.
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 the inn and dine with me?

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 you 'till bed-time:
My present business calls me from you now.

Ant.
Farewel 'till then; I will go lose myself,
And wander up and down to view the city.

Mer.
Sir, I commend you to your own content. [Exit Merchant. SCENE III.

Ant.
He that commends me to my 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 there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen inquisitive, confounds himself:
So I, to find a mother and a brother,
In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. Enter Dromio of Ephesus.
Here comes the almanack of my true date.
What now? how chance, thou art return'd so soon?

E. Dro.
Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late:
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock has 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.
Stop in your wind, Sir; tell me this, I pray,
Where you have left the mony that I gave you?

E Dro.
Oh,—six-pence, that I had a Wednesday last,
To pay the sadler for my mistress' crupper?
The sadler had it, Sir; I kept it not,

Ant.
I am not in a sportive humour now;
Tell me and dally not, where is the mony?
We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust
So great a charge from thine own custody?

E. Dro.
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 your fault upon my pate:
Methinks, your maw, like mine, should be your clock;
And strike you home without a messenger.

Ant.
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?

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

Ant.
Come on, Sir knave, have done your foolishness;
And tell me, how thou hast dispos'd thy charge?

E. Dro.
My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
Home to your house, the Phœnix, Sir, to dinner;
My mistress and her sister stay for you.

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

E. Dro.
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 not bear them patiently.

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

E. Dro.
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.
What wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
Being forbid? there take you that, Sir knave.

E. Dro.
What mean you, Sir? for God's sake, hold your hands;
Nay, an you will not, Sir, I'll take my heels. [Exit Dromio.

Ant.
Upon my life, by some device or other,
The villain is o'er-wrought of all my mony.
^{2 note}They say, this town is full of couzenage;
^{3 note}

Drug-working sorcerers, that change the mind;
Soul-killing witches, that deform the body;
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
And many such like libertines 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 mony is not safe. [Exit.

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