E. Antipholis.
Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us;
My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours;
Say, that I linger'd with you at your shop
To see the making of her † ^note carkanet,
And that to-morrow you will bring it home.
But here's a villain that would face me down
He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,
And charg'd him with a thousand marks in gold;
And that I did deny my wife and house:
Thou drunkard thou, what didst thou mean by this?* ^note





I think thou art an ass.

E. Dro.
Marry, so it doth appear
By the wrongs I suffer, and the blows I bear;
I should kick being kickt; and being at that pass,
You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass.

E. Ant.
Y'are sad, Signior Balthazar. Pray God our cheer

May answer my good will, and your good welcome.* ^note











But soft; my door is lockt; go bid them let us in.

E. Dro.
Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cisly, Gillian!

S. Dro. within.
Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch,
Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch:
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such store,
When one is one too many? go, get thee from the door.* ^note

Adr. within.
Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?

S. Dro.
By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys.

E. Ant.
Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

Adr.
Your wife, Sir knave! go get you from the gate.* ^note

E. Ant.
Go, get thee gone, fetch me an iron crow.

Bal.
Have patience, Sir: oh let it not be thus.
Herein you war against your Reputation,
And draw within the compass of suspect
Th' unviolated honour of your wife.
Once this; your long experience of her wisdom,
Her sober virtue, years and modesty,
Plead on her part some cause to you unknown;
And doubt not, Sir, but she will well excuse
Why at this time the doors are barr'd against you.
Be rul'd by me, depart in patience,
And let us to the Tyger all to dinner,

And about evening come your self alone,
To know the reason of this strange restraint.
If by strong hand you offer to break in
Now in the stirring passage of the day,
A vulgar comment will be made of it;
And that supposed by the common rout,
Against your yet ungalled estimation,
That may with foul intrusion enter in,
And dwell upon your grave when you are dead:
For slander lives upon succession,
For ever hous'd where it once gets possession.

E. Ant.
You have prevail'd; I will depart in quiet,
And in despight of mirth mean to be merry.
I know a wench of excellent discourse,
Pretty and witty, wild, and yet too, gentle;
There will we dine: this woman that I mean,
My wife (but I protest without desert)
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal;
To her will we to dinner. Get you home,
And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made;
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine;
For there's the house: that chain I will bestow,
(Be it for nothing but to spight my wife,)
Upon mine hostess there. Good Sir, make haste:
Since my own doors refuse to entertain me,
I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.

Ang.
I'll meet you at that place, some hour, Sir, hence.

E. Ant.
Do so; this jest shall cost me some expence. [Exe.

SCENE II. The House of Antipholis of Ephesus. Enter Luciana, with Antipholis of Syracuse.

Luc.
And may it be, that you have quite forgot
A husband's office? shall, Antipholis,
Ev'n in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
Shall love in buildings grow so ruinate?
If you did wed my sister for her wealth,
  Then for her wealth's-sake use her with more kindness;
Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth,
  Muffle your false love with some shew of blindness;
Let not my sister read it in your eye;
  Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;
Look sweet, speak fair; become disloyalty:
  Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;
Bear a fair presence, tho' your heart be tainted;
  Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
Be secret false: what need she be acquainted?
  What simple thief brags of his own attaint?
'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed,
  And let her read it in thy looks at board:
Shame hath a bastard-fame, well managed;
  Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word:
Alas poor women, make us not believe
  (Being compact of credit) that you love us;
Tho' others have the arm, shew us the sleeve:
  We in your motion turn, and you may move us.
Then, gentle brother, get you in again;
  Comfort my sister, chear her, call her wife:

'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain,
  When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

S. Ant.
Sweet mistress; what your name is else I know not,
  Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine:
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not,
  Than our earth's wonder, more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
  Lay open to my earthy gross conceit,
Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
  The foulded meaning of your words deceit;
Against my soul's pure truth why labour you,
  To make it wander in an unknown field?
Are you a God? would you create me new?
  Transform me then, and to your pow'r I'll yield.
But if that I am I, then well I know
  Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
Nor to her bed a homage do I owe;
  Far more, far more to you do I decline:
Oh train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
  To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears;
Sing Siren for thy self, and I will dote;
  Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take thee, and there lye:
  And in that glorious supposition think
He gains by death that hath such means to die;
  Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink.

Luc.
What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

S. Ant.
Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

Luc.
It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

S. Ant.
For gazing on your beams, fair sun being by.

Luc.
Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

S. Ant.
As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

Luc.
Why call you me, love? call my sister so.

S. Ant.
Thy sister's sister.

Luc.
That's my sister.

S. Ant.
No;
It is thy self, mine own self's better part:
Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,
My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim,
My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

Luc.
All this my sister is, or else should be.

S. Ant.
Call thy self sister, sweet; for I mean thee:
Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life.
Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife;
Give me thy hand.

Luc.
Oh soft, Sir, hold you still;
I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will. [Exit Luc. SCENE III. Enter Dromio of Syracuse.

S. Ant.

Why how now, Dromio, where runn'st thou so fast?

S. Dro.

Do you know me, Sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I my self?

S. Ant.

Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thy self.

S. Dro.

I am an ass, I am a woman's man and besides my self.

S. Ant.

What woman's man? and how besides thy self?

S. Dro.

Marry, Sir, besides my self, I am due to a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.

S. Ant.

What claim lays she to thee?

S. Dro.

Marry, Sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that I being a beast she would have me, but that she being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

S. Ant.

What is she?

S. Dro.

A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may

not speak of, without he say, Sir reverence: I have but lean luck in the match; and yet is she a wond'rous fat marriage.

S. Ant.

How dost thou mean, a fat marriage?

S. Dro.

Marry, Sir, she's the kitchen-wench, and all grease, and I know not what use to put her to, but to make a lamp of her, and run from her by her own light. I warrant her rags, and the tallow in them, will burn a Poland winter: if she lives 'till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

S. Ant.

What complection is she of?

S. Dro.

Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept; for why? she sweats, a man may go over-shoes in the grime of it.

S. Ant.

That's a fault that water will mend.

S. Dro.

No, Sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.

S. Ant.

What's her name?

S. Dro.

Nell, Sir; but her name is three quarters; that is, an ell and three quarters will not measure her from hip to hip.

S. Ant.

Then she bears some breadth?

S. Dro.

No longer from head to foot, than from hip to hip; she is spherical, like a globe: I could find out countries in her.

S. Ant.

In what part of her body stands Ireland?

S. Dro.

Marry, Sir, in her buttocks; I found it out by the bogs.

S. Ant.

Where Scotland?

S. Dro.

I found it by the barrenness, hard in the palm of her hand.

S. Ant.

Where France?

S. Dro.

In her forehead, arm'd and reverted, making war against her hair.

S. Ant.

Where England?

S. Dro.

I look'd for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no

whiteness in them; but I guess, it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

S. Ant.

Where Spain?

S. Dro.

Faith, I saw it not, but I felt it hot in her breath.

S. Ant.

Where America, the Indies?

S. Dro.

Oh Sir, upon her nose, all o'er embellish'd with rubies, carbuncles, saphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole armadoes of carracts to be ballast at her nose.

S. Ant.

Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

S. Dro.

Oh, Sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me, call'd me Dromio, swore I was assur'd to her, told me what privy marks I had about me, as the marks of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I amaz'd, ran from her as a witch. And I think, if my breast had not been made of faith, and my heart of steel, she had transform'd me to a curtal dog, and made me turn i'th' wheel.

S. Ant.
Go hie thee presently; post to the road;
And if the wind blow any way from shore,
I will not harbour in this town to-night.
If any bark put forth, come to the mart;
Where I will walk 'till thou return to me:
If every one knows us, and we know none,
'Tis time I think to trudge, pack and be gone.

S. Dro.
As from a bear a man would run for life,
So fly I from her that would be my wife. [Exit. SCENE IV.

S. Ant.
There's none but witches do inhabit here;
And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence:

She that doth call me husband, even my soul
Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,
Possest with such a gentle sovereign grace,
Of such inchanting presence and discourse,
Hath almost made me traitor to my self:
But lest my self be guilty of self-wrong,
I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. Enter Angelo with a chain.

Ang.
Master Antipholis.

S. Ant.
Ay, that's my name.

Ang.
I know it well, Sir, lo, here is the chain;
I thought t' have tane you at the Porcupine;
The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.

S. Ant.
What is your will that I shall do with this?

Ang.
What please your self, Sir; I have made it for you.

S. Ant.
Made it for me, Sir! I bespoke it not.

Ang.
Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have:
Go home with it, and please your wife withal;
And soon at supper-time I'll visit you,
And then receive my mony for the chain.

S. Ant.
I pray you, Sir, receive the mony now,
For fear you ne'er see chain nor mony more.

Ang.
You are a merry man, Sir; fare you well. [Exit.

S. Ant.
What I should think of this, I cannot tell:
But this I think, there's no man is so vain
That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.
I see a man here needs not live by shifts,
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts:
I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay;
If any ship put out, then strait away. [Exit.

Previous section

Next section