Ege.
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 gilders to redeem their lives,
Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,—
Excludes all pity from our threat'ning 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,
To admit no traffick to our adverse towns:
Nay, more, If any, born at Ephesus,

Be seen at Syracusan ^note 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 to ransom ^note him:
Thy substance, valu'd at the highest rate,
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
Therefore, by law thou art condemn'd to dye.

Ege.
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.

Ege.
A heavier task14Q0128 could not have been impos'd,
Than I to speak my griefs ^note unspeakable:
Yet, that the world may witness, that my end
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 ^note, 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 he great store of goods at random ^note leaving ^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 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 ^note 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 heavens did grant
Did but convey unto our fearful minds
A doubtful warrant of immediate death;
Which though myself would gladly have embrac'd,
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,
Forc'd me to seek delays for them and me.
And this 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 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: ^note
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;
Which floating ^note straight, obedient to the stream,
Was carry'd towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun ^note, gazing upon the earth,
Dispers'd those vapours that offended us;
And, by the benefit of his wish'd light,
The seas waxt ^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.

Ege.
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 born upon ^{note note},
Our helpful ship14Q0129 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 ^note ship had seiz'd on us;

And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,
Gave helpful welcome ^note to their shipwreckt 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 bind ^note 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 mine own mishaps.

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

Ege.
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 ^note case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name)
Might bear him company in the 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 Egeon, whom the fates have mark'd
To bear the extremity of dire mishap!
Now, trust me,14Q0130 were it not against our laws,
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,
Which princes, would they, may 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:
I'll therefore, ^note merchant, ^note limit thee this day
To seek thy help by beneficial help:
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
And live; if not, ^note then thou art doom'd to dye:—
So, jailer, take him to thy custody.

Jai.
I will, my lord.

Ege.
Hopeless, and helpless, doth Egeon ^note wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The same. Enter Antiphilus Syracusan, Dromio Syracusan, and a Merchant.

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 ^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 &dagger2; your money, that I had to keep.

A. S.
Go, bear it &dagger2; to the centaur, where we host;
And stay there, Dromio, 'till I come to thee.
Within this hour ^note 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.

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

A. 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 inn ^note, 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.

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

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

A. S.
He that commends me to mine own ^note 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 ^note, unhappy, lose myself. Enter Dromio Ephesian.
Here comes the almanack of my true date.—
What now? How chance, thou art return'd so soon?

D. 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 stomack;
You have no stomack, having broke your fast;
But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.

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

D. E.
O, sixpence, that I had o' we'nsday last,
To pay the sadler for my mistress' crupper;—
The sadler had it, sir, I kept it not.

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

D. 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 your fault upon my pate.
Methinks, your maw, like mine, should be your clock ^note, ^note
And strike you home without a messenger.

A. 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?

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

A. S.
Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,
And tell me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge.

D. E.
My charge was but to bring you from the mart
Home to your house, the phœnix, sir, to dinner;

My mistress, and her sister, stays ^note for you.

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

D. 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 not bear them patiently.

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

D. 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 hye you home to dinner.

A. S.
What, will you flout me thus unto my face,
Being forbid? There, take you † that, sir knave.

D. E.
What mean you, sir? for god's sake, hold your hands:
Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels. [Exit Dromio.

A. S.
Upon my life, by some device, or other,
The villain is o'er-raught ^note of all my money.
They say, this town14Q0131 is full of cozenage;
As nimble juglers that deceive the eye,
Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,
Soul-killing witches that deform the body,
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
And many such like liberties 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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