Act V. Scene I.


A public Place near the City Gate.
   
 
MARIANA, veiled, ISABELLA, and FRIAR PETER, at their stand. Enter DUKE, VARRIUS, Lords, ANGELO, ESCALUS, LUCIO, PROVOST, Officers, and Citizens at several doors.
   
  Duke.  My very worthy cousin, fairly met!   
Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.      4
  Ang.
Escal.  Happy return be to your royal Grace!   
  Duke.  Many and hearty thankings to you both.   
We have made inquiry of you; and we hear   
Such goodness of your justice, that our soul      8
Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks,   
Forerunning more requital.   
  Ang.  You make my bonds still greater.   
  Duke.  O! your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,     12
To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,   
When it deserves, with characters of brass,   
A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time   
And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand,     16
And let the subject see, to make them know   
That outward courtesies would fain proclaim   
Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus,   
You must walk by us on our other hand;     20
And good supporters are you.   
 
FRIAR PETER and ISABELLA come forward.
   
  F. Peter.  Now is your time: speak loud and kneel before him.   
  Isab.  Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard     24
Upon a wrong’d, I’d fain have said, a maid!   
O worthy prince! dishonour not your eye   
By throwing it on any other object   
Till you have heard me in my true complaint     28
And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!   
  Duke.  Relate your wrongs: in what? by whom? Be brief;   
Here is Lord Angelo, shall give you justice:   
Reveal yourself to him.     32
  Isab.        O worthy duke!   
You bid me seek redemption of the devil.   
Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak   
Must either punish me, not being believ’d,     36
Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here!   
  Ang.  My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm:   
She hath been a suitor to me for her brother   
Cut off by course of justice,—     40
  Isab.        By course of justice!   
  Ang.  And she will speak most bitterly and strange.   
  Isab.  Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak.   
That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange?     44
That Angelo’s a murderer, is’t not strange?   
That Angelo is an adulterous thief,   
A hypocrite, a virgin-violator;   
Is it not strange, and strange?     48
  Duke.        Nay, it is ten times strange.   
  Isab.  It is not truer he is Angelo   
Than this is all as true as it is strange;   
Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth     52
To the end of reckoning.   
  Duke.        Away with her! poor soul,   
She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.   
  Isab.  O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ’st     56
There is another comfort than this world,   
That thou neglect me not, with that opinion   
That I am touch’d with madness. Make not impossible   
That which but seems unlike. ’Tis not impossible     60
But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground,   
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute   
As Angelo; even so may Angelo,   
In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms,     64
Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal prince:   
If he be less, he’s nothing; but he’s more,   
Had I more name for badness.   
  Duke.        By mine honesty,     68
If she be mad,—as I believe no other,—   
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,   
Such a dependency of thing on thing,   
As e’er I heard in madness.     72
  Isab.        O gracious duke!   
Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason   
For inequality; but let your reason serve   
To make the truth appear where it seems hid,     76
And hide the false seems true.   
  Duke.        Many that are not mad   
Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?   
  Isab.  I am the sister of one Claudio,     80
Condemn’d upon the act of fornication   
To lose his head; condemn’d by Angelo.   
I, in probation of a sisterhood,   
Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio     84
As then the messenger,—   
  Lucio.        That’s I, an’t like your Grace:   
I came to her from Claudio, and desir’d her   
To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo     88
For her poor brother’s pardon.   
  Isab.        That’s he indeed.   
  Duke.  You were not bid to speak.   
  Lucio.        No, my good lord;     92
Nor wish’d to hold my peace.   
  Duke.        I wish you now, then;   
Pray you, take note of it; and when you have   
A business for yourself, pray heaven you then     96
Be perfect.   
  Lucio.  I warrant your honour.   
  Duke.  The warrant’s for yourself: take heed to it.   
  Isab.  This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,—    100
  Lucio.  Right.   
  Duke.  It may be right; but you are in the wrong   
To speak before your time. Proceed.   
  Isab.        I went    104
To this pernicious caitiff deputy.   
  Duke.  That’s somewhat madly spoken.   
  Isab.        Pardon it;   
The phrase is to the matter.    108
  Duke.  Mended again: the matter; proceed.   
  Isab.  In brief, to set the needless process by,   
How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d,   
How he refell’d me, and how I replied,—    112
For this was of much length,—the vile conclusion   
I now begin with grief and shame to utter.   
He would not, but by gift of my chaste body   
To his concupiscible intemperate lust,    116
Release my brother; and, after much debatement,   
My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour,   
And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes,   
His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant    120
For my poor brother’s head.   
  Duke.        This is most likely!   
  Isab.  O, that it were as like as it is true!   
  Duke.  By heaven, fond wretch! thou know’st not what thou speak’st,    124
Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour   
In hateful practice. First, his integrity   
Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason   
That with such vehemency he should pursue    128
Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended,   
He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself,   
And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on:   
Confess the truth, and say by whose advice    132
Thou cam’st here to complain.   
  Isab.        >And is this all?   
Then, O you blessed ministers above,   
Keep me in patience; and, with ripen’d time    136
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up   
In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe,   
As I, thus wrong’d, hence unbelieved go!   
  Duke.  I know you’d fain be gone. An officer!    140
To prison with her! Shall we thus permit   
A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall   
On him so near us? This needs must be a practice.   
Who knew of your intent and coming hither?    144
  Isab.  One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.   
  Duke.  A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?   
  Lucio.  My lord, I know him; ’tis a meddling friar;   
I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord,    148
For certain words he spake against your Grace   
In your retirement, I had swing’d him soundly.   
  Duke.  Words against me! This’ a good friar, belike!   
And to set on this wretched woman here    152
Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.   
  Lucio.  But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar,   
I saw them at the prison: a saucy friar,   
A very scurvy fellow.    156
  F. Peter.        Bless’d be your royal Grace!   
I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard   
Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman   
Most wrongfully accus’d your substitute,    160
Who is as free from touch or soil with her,   
As she from one ungot.   
  Duke.        We did believe no less.   
Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?    164
  F. Peter.  I know him for a man divine and holy;   
Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,   
As he’s reported by this gentleman;   
And, on my trust, a man that never yet    168
Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace.   
  Lucio.  My lord, most villanously; believe it.   
  F. Peter.  Well; he in time may come to clear himself,   
But at this instant he is sick, my lord,    172
Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request,   
Being come to knowledge that there was complaint   
Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither,   
To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know    176
Is true and false; and what he with his oath   
And all probation will make up full clear,   
Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman,   
To justify this worthy nobleman,    180
So vulgarly and personally accus’d,   
Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,   
Till she herself confess it.   
  Duke.        Good friar, let’s hear it.  [ISABELLA is carried off guarded; and MARIANA comes forward.    184
Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo?—   
O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools!   
Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo;   
In this I’ll be impartial; be you judge    188
Of your own cause. Is this the witness, friar?   
First, let her show her face, and after speak.   
  Mari.  Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face   
Until my husband bid me.    192
  Duke.        What, are you married?   
  Mari.  No, my lord.   
  Duke.        Are you a maid?   
  Mari.        No, my lord.    196
  Duke.  A widow, then?   
  Mari.        Neither, my lord.   
  Duke.        Why, you   
Are nothing, then: neither maid, widow, nor wife?    200
  Lucio.  My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.   
  Duke.  Silence that fellow: I would he had some cause   
To prattle for himself.   
  Lucio.  Well, my lord.    204
  Mari.  My lord, I do confess I ne’er was married;   
And I confess besides I am no maid:   
I have known my husband yet my husband knows not   
That ever he knew me.    208
  Lucio.  He was drunk then my lord: it can be no better.   
  Duke.  For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too!   
  Lucio.  Well, my lord.   
  Duke.  This is no witness for Lord Angelo.    212
  Mari.  Now I come to ’t, my lord:   
She that accuses him of fornication,   
In self-same manner doth accuse my husband;   
And charges him, my lord, with such a time,    216
When, I’ll depose, I had him in mine arms,   
With all th’ effect of love.   
  Ang.  Charges she moe than me?   
  Mari.        Not that I know.    220
  Duke.  No? you say your husband.   
  Mari.  Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,   
Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body   
But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel’s.    224
  Ang.  This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.   
  Mari.  My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [Unveiling.   
This is that face, thou cruel Angelo,   
Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on:    228
This is the hand which, with a vow’d contract,   
Was fast belock’d in thine: this is the body   
That took away the match from Isabel,   
And did supply thee at thy garden-house    232
In her imagin’d person.   
  Duke.        Know you this woman?   
  Lucio.  Carnally, she says.   
  Duke.        Sirrah, no more!    236
  Lucio.  Enough, my lord.   
  Ang.  My lord, I must confess I know this woman;   
And five years since there was some speech of marriage   
Betwixt myself and her, which was broke off,    240
Partly for that her promised proportions    
Came short of composition; but, in chief   
For that her reputation was disvalu’d   
In levity: since which time of five years    244
I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,   
Upon my faith and honour.   
  Mari.        Noble prince,   
As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,    248
As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,   
I am affianc’d this man’s wife as strongly   
As words could make up vows: and, my good lord,   
But Tuesday night last gone in ’s garden-house    252
He knew me as a wife. As this is true,   
Let me in safety raise me from my knees   
Or else for ever be confixed here,   
A marble monument.    256
  Ang.        I did but smile till now:   
Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice;   
My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive   
These poor informal women are no more    260
But instruments of some more mightier member   
That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord,   
To find this practice out.   
  Duke.        Ay, with my heart;    264
And punish them unto your height of pleasure.   
Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,   
Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou thy oaths,   
Though they would swear down each particular saint,    268
Were testimonies against his worth and credit   
That’s seal’d in approbation? You, Lord Escalus,   
Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains   
To find out this abuse, whence ’tis deriv’d.    272
There is another friar that set them on;   
Let him be sent for.   
  F. Peter.  Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed   
Hath set the women on to this complaint:    276
Your provost knows the place where he abides   
And he may fetch him.   
  Duke.  Go do it instantly. [Exit PROVOST.   
And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin,    280
Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth,   
Do with your injuries as seems you best,   
In any chastisement: I for awhile will leave you;   
But stir not you, till you have well determin’d    284
Upon these slanderers.   
  Escal.  My lord, we’ll do it throughly.—  [Exit DUKE.   
Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that   
Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?    288
  Lucio.  Cucullus non facit monachum: honest in nothing, but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villanous speeches of the duke.   
  Escal.  We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow.   
  Lucio.  As any in Vienna, on my word.   
  Escal.  Call that same Isabel here once again: I would speak with her. [Exit an Attendant.] Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I’ll handle her.    292
  Lucio.  Not better than he, by her own report.   
  Escal.  Say you?   
  Lucio.  Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess: perchance, publicly, she’ll be ashamed.   
  Escal.  I will go darkly to work with her.    296
  Lucio.  That’s the way: for women are light at midnight.   
 
Re-enter Officers with ISABELLA.
   
  Escal.  [To ISAB.] Come on, mistress: here’s a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.   
  Lucio.  My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of; here with the provost.    300
  Escal.  In very good time: speak not you to him, till we call upon you.   
 
Enter DUKE, disguised as a friar, and PROVOST.
   
  Lucio.  Mum.   
  Escal.  Come, sir. Did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? they have confessed you did.    304
  Duke.  ’Tis false.   
  Escal.  How! know you where you are?   
  Duke.  Respect to your great place! and let the devil   
Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne.    308
Where is the duke? ’tis he should hear me speak.   
  Escal.  The duke’s in us, and we will hear you speak:   
Look you speak justly.   
  Duke.  Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls!    312
Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox?   
Good night to your redress! Is the duke gone?   
Then is your cause gone too. The duke’s unjust,   
Thus to retort your manifest appeal,    316
And put your trial in the villain’s mouth   
Which here you come to accuse.   
  Lucio.  This is the rascal: this is he I spoke of.   
  Escal.  Why, thou unreverend and unhallow’d friar!    320
Is’t not enough thou hast suborn’d these women   
To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth,   
And in the witness of his proper ear,   
To call him villain?    324
And then to glance from him to the duke himself.   
To tax him with injustice? take him hence;   
To the rack with him! We’ll touse you joint by joint,   
But we will know his purpose. What! ‘unjust’?    328
  Duke.  Be not so hot; the duke   
Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he   
Dare rack his own: his subject am I not,   
Nor here provincial. My business in this state    332
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,   
Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble   
Till it o’er-run the stew: laws for all faults,   
But faults so countenanc’d, that the strong statutes    336
Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop,   
As much in mock as mark.   
  Escal.  Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!   
  Ang.  What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio?    340
Is this the man that you did tell us of?   
  Lucio.   ’Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman bald-pate: do you know me?   
  Duke.  I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice: I met you at the prison, in the absence of the duke.   
  Lucio.  O! did you so? And do you remember what you said of the duke?    344
  Duke.  Most notedly, sir.   
  Lucio.  Do you so, sir? And was the duke a flesh-monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?   
  Duke.  You must, sir, change persons with me, ere you make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so of him; and much more, much worse.   
  Lucio.  O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?    348
  Duke.  I protest I love the duke as I love myself.   
  Ang.  Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!   
  Escal.  Such a fellow is not to be talk’d withal.   
Away with him to prison! Where is the provost?    352
Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough on him, let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion!  [The PROVOST lays hands on the DUKE.   
  Duke.  Stay, sir; stay awhile.   
  Ang.  What! resists he? Help him, Lucio.   
  Lucio.  Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh! sir. Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal, you must be hooded, must you? show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you! show your sheepbiting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off?  [Pulls off the friar’s hood, and discovers the DUKE.]    356
  Duke.  Thou art the first knave that e’er made a duke.   
First, provost, let me bail these gentle three.   
[To LUCIO.] Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and you   
Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him.    360
  Lucio.  This may prove worse than hanging.   
  Duke.  [To ESCALUS.] What you have spoke I pardon; sit you down:   
We’ll borrow place of him. [To ANGELO.] Sir, by your leave.   
Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence,    364
That yet can do thee office? If thou hast,   
Rely upon it till my tale be heard,   
And hold no longer out.   
  Ang.        O my dread lord!    368
I should be guiltier than my guiltiness,   
To think I can be undiscernible   
When I perceive your Grace, like power divine,   
Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good prince,    372
No longer session hold upon my shame,   
But let my trial be mine own confession:   
Immediate sentence then and sequent death   
Is all the grace I beg.    376
  Duke.        Come hither, Mariana,   
Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman?   
  Ang.  I was, my lord.   
  Duke.  Go take her hence, and marry her instantly.    380
Do you the office, friar; which consummate,   
Return him here again. Go with him, provost.  [Exeunt ANGELO, MARIANA, FRIAR PETER, and PROVOST.   
  Escal.  My lord, I am more amaz’d at his dishonour   
Than at the strangeness of it.    384
  Duke.        Come hither, Isabel.   
Your friar is now your prince: as I was then   
Advertising and holy to your business,   
Not changing heart with habit, I am still    388
Attorney’d at your service.   
  Isab.        O, give me pardon,   
That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d   
Your unknown sovereignty!    392
  Duke.        You are pardon’d, Isabel:   
And now, dear maid, be you as free to us.   
Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart;   
And you may marvel why I obscur’d myself,    396
Labouring to save his life, and would not rather   
Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power   
Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid!   
It was the swift celerity of his death,    400
Which I did think with slower foot came on,   
That brain’d my purpose: but, peace be with him!   
That life is better life, past fearing death,   
Than that which lives to fear: make it your comfort,    404
So happy is your brother.   
  Isab.        I do, my lord.   
 
Re-enter ANGELO, MARIANA, FRIAR PETER, and PROVOST.
   
  Duke.  For this new-married man approaching here,    408
Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d   
Your well-defended honour, you must pardon   
For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudg’d your brother,—   
Being criminal, in double violation    412
Of sacred chastity, and of promise-breach,   
Thereon dependent, for your brother’s life,—   
The very mercy of the law cries out   
Most audible, even from his proper tongue,    416
‘An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!’   
Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure,   
Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure.   
Then, Angelo, thy fault’s thus manifested,    420
Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage.   
We do condemn thee to the very block   
Where Claudio stoop’d to death, and with like haste.   
Away with him!    424
  Mari.        O, my most gracious lord!   
I hope you will not mock me with a husband.   
  Duke.  It is your husband mock’d you with a husband.   
Consenting to the safeguard of your honour,    428
I thought your marriage fit; else imputation,   
For that he knew you, might reproach your life   
And choke your good to come. For his possessions,   
Although by confiscation they are ours,    432
We do instate and widow you withal,   
To buy you a better husband.   
  Mari.        O my dear lord!   
I crave no other, nor no better man.    436
  Duke.  Never crave him; we are definitive.   
  Mari.  [Kneeling.] Gentle my liege,—   
  Duke.        You do but lose your labour.   
Away with him to death! [To LUCIO.] Now, sir, to you.    440
  Mari.  O my good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part:   
Lend me your knees, and, all my life to come,   
I’ll lend you all my life to do you service.   
  Duke.  Against all sense you do importune her:    444
Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact,   
Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break,   
And take her hence in horror.   
  Mari.        Isabel,    448
Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me:   
Hold up your hands, say nothing, I’ll speak all.   
They say best men are moulded out of faults,   
And, for the most, become much more the better    452
For being a little bad: so may my husband.   
O, Isabel! will you not lend a knee?   
  Duke.  He dies for Claudio’s death.   
  Isab.        [Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir,    456
Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d,   
As if my brother liv’d. I partly think   
A due sincerity govern’d his deeds,   
Till he did look on me: since it is so,    460
Let him not die. My brother had but justice,   
In that he did the thing for which he died:   
For Angelo,   
His act did not o’ertake his bad intent;    464
And must be buried but as an intent   
That perish’d by the way. Thoughts are no subjects;   
Intents but merely thoughts.   
  Mari.        Merely, my lord.    468
  Duke.  Your suit’s unprofitable: stand up, I say.   
I have bethought me of another fault.   
Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded   
At an unusual hour?    472
  Prov.        It was commanded so.   
  Duke.  Had you a special warrant for the deed?   
  Prov.  No, my good lord; it was by private message.   
  Duke.  For which I do discharge you of your office:    476
Give up your keys.   
  Prov.        Pardon me, noble lord:   
I thought it was a fault, but knew it not,   
Yet did repent me, after more advice;    480
For testimony whereof, one in the prison,   
That should by private order else have died   
I have reserv’d alive.   
  Duke.        What’s he?    484
  Prov.        His name is Barnardine.   
  Duke.  I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.   
Go, fetch him hither: let me look upon him.  [Exit PROVOST.   
  Escal.  I am sorry, one so learned and so wise    488
As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d,   
Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood,   
And lack of temper’d judgment afterward.   
  Ang.  I am sorry that such sorrow I procure;    492
And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart   
That I crave death more willingly than mercy:   
’Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.   
 
Re-enter PROVOST, with BARNARDINE, CLAUDIO muffled, and JULIET.
    496
  Duke.  Which is that Barnardine?   
  Prov.        This, my lord.   
  Duke.  There was a friar told me of this man.   
Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul,    500
That apprehends no further than this world,   
And squar’st thy life according. Thou’rt condemn’d:   
But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all,   
And pray thee take this mercy to provide    504
For better times to come. Friar, advise him:   
I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow’s that?   
  Prov.  This is another prisoner that I sav’d,   
That should have died when Claudio lost his head,    508
As like almost to Claudio as himself.  [Unmuffles CLAUDIO.   
  Duke.  [To ISABELLA.] If he be like your brother, for his sake   
Is he pardon’d; and, for your lovely sake   
Give me your hand and say you will be mine,    512
He is my brother too. But fitter time for that.   
By this, Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe:   
Methinks I see a quickening in his eye.   
Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well:    516
Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours.—   
I find an apt remission in myself,   
And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon.—   
[To LUCIO.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward,    520
One all of luxury, an ass, a madman:   
Wherein have I so deserv’d of you,   
That you extol me thus?   
  Lucio.   ’Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped.    524
  Duke.  Whipp’d first, sir, and hang’d after.   
Proclaim it, provost, round about the city,   
If any woman’s wrong’d by this lewd fellow,—   
As I have heard him swear himself there’s one    528
Whom he begot with child, let her appear,   
And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d,   
Let him be whipp’d and hang’d.   
  Lucio.  I beseech your highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now, I made you a duke: good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.    532
  Duke.  Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her.   
Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal   
Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison,   
And see our pleasure herein executed.    536
  Lucio.  Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.   
  Duke.  Slandering a prince deserves it.   
She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.   
Joy to you, Mariana! love her, Angelo:    540
I have confess’d her and I know her virtue.   
Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness:   
There’s more behind that is more gratulate.   
Thanks, provost, for thy care and secrecy;    544
We shall employ thee in a worthier place.   
Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home   
The head of Ragozine for Claudio’s:   
The offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel,    548
I have a motion much imports your good;   
Whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline,   
What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.   
So, bring us to our palace; where we’ll show    552
What’s yet behind, that’s meet you all should know.  [Exeunt.   

Act I. Scene I.


A Hall in the DUKE’S Palace.
   
 
Enter DUKE, ÆGEON, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.
   
  Æge.  Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,   
And by the doom of death end woes and all.      4
  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      8
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 threat’ning looks.     12
For, since the mortal and intestine jars   
’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,   
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,   
Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,     16
T’ admit no traffic to our adverse towns:   
Nay, more, if any, born at Ephesus   
Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs;   
Again, if any Syracusian born     20
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 him.     24
Thy substance, valu’d at the highest rate,   
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;   
Therefore, by law thou art condemn’d to die.   
  Æge.  Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,     28
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.   
  Duke.  Well, Syracusian; say, in brief the cause   
Why thou departedst from thy native home,   
And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus.     32
  Æge.  A heavier task could not have been impos’d   
Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable;   
Yet, that the world may witness that my end   
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,     36
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.     40
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,     44
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,—     48
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;     52
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 woman was delivered     56
Of such a burden, 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,     60
Made daily motions for our home return:   
Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon   
We came aboard.   
A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d,     64
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     68
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 of my wife,     72
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.     76
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,     80
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.     84
The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I,   
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d,   
Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast;   
And floating straight, obedient to the stream,     88
Were carried 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 wished light     92
The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered   
Two ships from far making amain to us;   
Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:   
But ere they came,—O! let me say no more;     96
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    100
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,    104
Our helpful 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.    108
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    112
By fishermen-of Corinth, as we thought.   
At length, another ship had soiz’d on us;   
And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,   
Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wrack’d guests;    116
And would have reft 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,    120
That by misfortune was my life prolong’d,   
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.   
  Duke.  And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,   
Do me the favour to dilate at full    124
What hath befall’n of them and thee till now.   
  Æge.  My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,   
At eighteen years became inquisitive   
After his brother; and importun’d me    128
That his attendant—for his 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,    132
I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d.   
Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,   
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,   
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,    136
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,    140
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,    144
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    148
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 limit thee this day    152
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 no, then thou art doom’d to die.    156
Gaoler, take him to thy custody.   
  Gaol.  I will, my lord.   
  Æge.  Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,   
But to procrastinate his lifeless end.  [Exeunt.

Act I. Scene II.


The Mart.
   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse, DROMIO of Syracuse, and a Merchant.
   
  Mer.  Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,   
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.      4
This very day, a Syracusian merchant   
Is apprehended for arrival here;   
And, not being able to buy out his life,   
According to the statute of the town      8
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 I come to thee.     12
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,     16
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.  [Exit.     20
  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,     24
And then go to my 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,     28
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. S.  Farewell till then: I will go lose myself,     32
And wander up and down to view the city.   
  Mer.  Sir, I commend you to your own content.  [Exit.   
  Ant. S.  He that commends me to mine own content,   
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.     36
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:     40
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.     44
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;     48
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;     52
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:     56
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.     60
  Ant. 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?     64
  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 your fault upon my pate.     68
Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock   
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.     72
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 dispos’d thy charge.     76
  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 for you.   
  Ant. S.  Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,     80
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 undispos’d.   
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?     84
  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,     88
Perchance you will 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,     92
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.  [Strikes him.   
  Dro. E.  What mean you, sir? for God’s sake, hold your hands!     96
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 of all my money.   
They say this town is full of cozenage;    100
As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,   
Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,   
Soul-killing witches that deform the body,   
Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,    104
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.    108

Act II. Scene I.


The House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.
   
 
Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.
   
  Adr.  Neither my husband, nor the slave return’d,   
That in such haste I sent to seek his master!      4
Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock.   
  Luc.  Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,   
And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to dinner.   
Good sister, let us dine and never fret:      8
A man is master of his liberty:   
Time is their master, and, when they see time,   
They’ll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.   
  Adr.  Why should their liberty than ours be more?     12
  Luc.  Because their business still lies out o’ door.   
  Adr.  Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.   
  Luc.  O! know he is the bridle of your will.   
  Adr.  There’s none but asses will be bridled so.     16
  Luc.  Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe.   
There’s nothing situate under heaven’s eye   
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:   
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,     20
Are their males’ subjects and at their controls.   
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,   
Lords of the wide world, and wild wat’ry seas,   
Indu’d with intellectual sense and souls,     24
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,   
Are masters to their females and their lords:   
Then, let your will attend on their accords.   
  Adr.  This servitude makes you to keep unwed.     28
  Luc.  Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.   
  Adr.  But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.   
  Luc.  Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey.   
  Adr.  How if your husband start some other where?     32
  Luc.  Till he come home again, I would forbear.   
  Adr.  Patience unmov’d! no marvel though she pause;   
They can be meek that have no other cause.   
A wretched soul, bruis’d with adversity,     36
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;   
But were we burden’d with like weight of pain,   
As much, or more we should ourselves complain:   
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,     40
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me:   
But if thou live to see like right bereft.   
This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left.   
  Luc.  Well, I will marry one day, but to try.     44
Here comes your man: now is your husband nigh.   
 
Enter DROMIO of Ephesus.
   
  Adr.  Say, is your tardy master now at hand?   
  Dro. E.  Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness.     48
  Adr.  Say, didst thou speak with him? Know’st thou his mind?   
  Dro. E.  Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear.   
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.   
  Luc.  Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?     52
  Dro. E.  Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully, that I could scarce understand them.   
  Adr.  But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he hath great care to please his wife.   
  Dro. E.  Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.   
  Adr.  Horn-mad, thou villain!     56
  Dro. E.  I mean not cuckold-mad; but, sure, he is stark mad.   
When I desir’d him to come home to dinner,   
He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold:   
‘’Tis dinner time,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:     60
‘Your meat doth burn,’ quoth I; ‘my gold!’ quoth he:   
‘Will you come home?’ quoth I: ‘my gold!’ quoth he:   
‘Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?’   
‘The pig,’ quoth I, ‘is burn’d;’ ‘my gold!’ quoth he:     64
‘My mistress, sir,’ quoth I: ‘hang up thy mistress!   
I know not thy mistress: out on thy mistress!’   
  Luc.  Quoth who?   
  Dro. E.  Quoth my master:     68
‘I know,’ quoth he, ‘no house, no wife, no mistress.’   
So that my errand, due unto my tongue,   
I thank him, I bear home upon my shoulders;   
For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.     72
  Adr.  Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.   
  Dro. E.  Go back again, and be new beaten home?   
For God’s sake, send some other messenger.   
  Adr.  Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.     76
  Dro. E.  And he will bless that cross with other beating:   
Between you, I shall have a holy head.   
  Adr.  Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.   
  Dro. E.  Am I so round with you as you with me,     80
That like a football you do spurn me thus?   
You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:   
If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.  [Exit.   
  Luc.  Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!     84
  Adr.  His company must do his minions grace,   
Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.   
Hath homely age the alluring beauty took   
From my poor cheek? then, he hath wasted it:     88
Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?   
If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d,   
Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:   
Do their gay vestments his affections bait?     92
That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state:   
What ruins are in me that can be found   
By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground   
Of my defeatures. My decayed fair     96
A sunny look of his would soon repair;   
But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale   
And feeds from home: poor I am but his stale.   
  Luc.  Self-harming jealousy! fie! beat it hence.    100
  Adr.  Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.   
I know his eye doth homage otherwhere,   
Or else what lets it but he would be here?   
Sister, you know he promis’d me a chain:    104
Would that alone, alone he would detain,   
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!   
I see, the jewel best enamelled   
Will lose his beauty; and though gold bides still    108
That others touch, yet often touching will   
Wear gold; and no man that hath a name,   
By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.   
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,    112
I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.   
  Luc.  How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!  [Exeunt.

Act II. Scene II.


A public Place.
   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.
   
  Ant. S.  The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up   
Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave      4
Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out.   
By computation, and mine host’s report,   
I could not speak with Dromio since at first   
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.      8
 
Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.
   
How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d?   
As you love strokes, so jest with me again.   
You know no Centaur? You receiv’d no gold?     12
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?   
My house was at the Phœnix? Wast thou mad,   
That thus so madly thou didst answer me?   
  Dro. S.  What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?     16
  Ant. S.  Even now, even here, not half-an-hour since.   
  Dro. S.  I did not see you since you sent me hence,   
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.   
  Ant. S.  Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt,     20
And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner;   
For which, I hope, thou felt’st I was displeas’d.   
  Dro. S.  I am glad to see you in this merry vein:   
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.     24
  Ant. S.  Yea, dost thou jeer, and flout me in the teeth?   
Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.  [Beating him.   
  Dro. S.  Hold, sir, for God’s sake! now your jest is earnest:   
Upon what bargain do you give it me?     28
  Ant. S.  Because that I familiarly sometimes   
Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,   
Your sauciness will jest upon my love,   
And make a common of my serious hours.     32
When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,   
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.   
If you will jest with me, know my aspect,   
And fashion your demeanour to my looks,     36
Or I will beat this method in your sconce.   
  Dro. S.  Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head and insconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why am I beaten?   
  Ant. S.  Dost thou not know?   
  Dro. S.  Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.     40
  Ant. S.  Shall I tell you why?   
  Dro. S.  Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why hath a wherefore.   
  Ant. S.  Why, first,—for flouting me; and then, wherefore,—   
For urging it the second time to me.     44
  Dro. S.  Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,   
When, in the why and the wherefore is neither rime nor reason?   
Well, sir, I thank you.   
  Ant. S.  Thank me, sir! for what?     48
  Dro. S.  Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.   
  Ant. S.  I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?   
  Dro. S.  No, sir: I think the meat wants that I have.   
  Ant. S.  In good time, sir; what’s that?     52
  Dro. S.  Basting.   
  Ant. S.  Well, sir, then ’twill be dry.   
  Dro. S.  If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.   
  Ant. S.  Your reason?     56
  Dro. S.  Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting.   
  Ant. S.  Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there’s a time for all things.   
  Dro. S.  I durst have denied that, before you were so choleric.   
  Ant. S.  By what rule, sir?     60
  Dro. S.  Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time himself.   
  Ant. S.  Let’s hear it.   
  Dro. S.  There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.   
  Ant. S.  May he not do it by fine and recovery?     64
  Dro. S.  Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and recover the lost hair of another man.   
  Ant. S.  Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?   
  Dro. S.  Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts: and what he hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.   
  Ant. S.  Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.     68
  Dro. S.  Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.   
  Ant. S.  Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.   
  Dro. S.  The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.   
  Ant. S.  For what reason?     72
  Dro. S.  For two; and sound ones too.   
  Ant. S.  Nay, not sound, I pray you.   
  Dro. S.  Sure ones then.   
  Ant. S.  Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.     76
  Dro. S.  Certain ones, then.   
  Ant. S.  Name them.   
  Dro. S.  The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge.   
  Ant. S.  You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.     80
  Dro. S.  Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature.   
  Ant. S.  But your reason was not substantial, why there is no time to recover.   
  Dro. S.  Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and therefore to the world’s end will have bald followers.   
  Ant. S.  I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion. But soft! who wafts us yonder?     84
 
Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.
   
  Adr.  Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange, and frown:   
Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects,   
I am not Adriana, nor thy wife.     88
The time was once when thou unurg’d wouldst vow   
That never words were music to thine ear,   
That never object pleasing in thine eye,   
That never touch well welcome to thy hand,     92
That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste,   
Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carv’d to thee.   
How comes it now, my husband, O! how comes it,   
That thou art thus estranged from thyself?     96
Thyself I call it, being strange to me,   
That, undividable, incorporate,   
Am better than thy dear self’s better part.   
Ah! do not tear away thyself from me,    100
For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall   
A drop of water in the breaking gulf,   
And take unmingled thence that drop again,   
Without addition or diminishing,    104
As take from me thyself and not me too.   
How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,   
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious,   
And that this body, consecrate to thee,    108
By ruffian lust should be contaminate!   
Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me,   
And hurl the name of husband in my face,   
And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot-brow,    112
And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring   
And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?   
I know thou canst; and therefore, see thou do it.   
I am possess’d with an adulterate blot;    116
My blood is mingled with the crime of lust:   
For if we two be one and thou play false,   
I do digest the poison of thy flesh,   
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.    120
Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;   
I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured.   
  Ant. S.  Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:   
In Ephesus I am but two hours old,    124
As strange unto your town as to your talk;   
Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d,   
Want wit in all one word to understand.   
  Luc.  Fie, brother: how the world is chang’d with you!    128
When were you wont to use my sister thus?   
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.   
  Ant. S.  By Dromio?   
  Dro. S.  By me?    132
  Adr.  By thee; and this thou didst return from him,   
That he did buffet thee, and in his blows,   
Denied my house for his, me for his wife.   
  Ant. S.  Did you converse, sir, with this gentle-woman?    136
What is the course and drift of your compact?   
  Dro. S.  I, sir? I never saw her till this time.   
  Ant. S.  Villain, thou liest; for even her very words   
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.    140
  Dro. S.  I never spake with her in all my life.   
  Ant. S.  How can she thus then, call us by our names,   
Unless it be by inspiration?   
  Adr.  How ill agrees it with your gravity    144
To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,   
Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!   
Be it my wrong you are from me exempt,   
But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.    148
Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine;   
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,   
Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,   
Makes me with thy strength to communicate:    152
If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,   
Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;   
Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion   
Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion.    156
  Ant. S.  To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme!   
What! was I married to her in my dream?   
Or sleep I now and think I hear all this?   
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?    160
Until I know this sure uncertainty,   
I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.   
  Luc.  Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner   
  Dro. S.  O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.    164
This is the fairy land: O! spite of spites.   
We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites:   
If we obey them not, this will ensue,   
They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.    168
  Luc.  Why prat’st thou to thyself and answer’st not?   
Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!   
  Dro. S.  I am transformed, master, am not I?   
  Ant. S.  I think thou art, in mind, and so am I.    172
  Dro. S.  Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.   
  Ant. S.  Thou hast thine own form.   
  Dro. S.        No, I am an ape.   
  Luc.  If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass.    176
  Dro. S.  ’Tis true; she rides me and I long for grass.   
’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be   
But I should know her as well as she knows me.   
  Adr.  Come, come; no longer will I be a fool,    180
To put the finger in the eye and weep,   
Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.   
Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.   
Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day,    184
And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.   
Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,   
Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.   
Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.    188
  Ant. S.  [Aside.] Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?   
Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advis’d?   
Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d!   
I’ll say as they say, and persever so,    192
And in this mist at all adventures go.   
  Dro. S.  Master, shall I be porter at the gate?   
  Adr.  Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.   
  Luc.  Come, come, Antipholus; we dine too late.  [Exeunt.    196

Act III. Scene I.


Before the House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.
   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROMIO of Ephesus, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR.
   
  Ant. E.  Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;   
My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours;      4
Say that I linger’d with you at your shop   
To see the making of her carkanet,   
And that to-morrow you will bring it home.   
But here’s a villain, that would face me down      8
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?     12
  Dro. E.  Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;   
That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show:   
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink,   
Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.     16
  Ant. E.  I think thou art an ass.   
  Dro. E.        Marry, so it doth appear   
By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.   
I should kick, being kick’d; and, being at that pass,     20
You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass.   
  Ant. E.  You are sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God, our cheer   
May answer my good will and your good welcome here.   
  Bal.  I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.     24
  Ant. E.  O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,   
A table-full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.   
  Bal.  Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.   
  Ant. E.  And welcome more common, for that’s nothing but words.     28
  Bal.  Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.   
  Ant. E.  Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest:   
But though my cates be mean, take them in good part;   
Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.     32
But soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.   
  Dro. E.  Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch!   
Either get thee from the door or sit down at the hatch.     36
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st for such store,   
When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.   
  Dro. E.  What patch is made our porter?—My master stays in the street.   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on’s feet.     40
  Ant. E.  Who talks within there? ho! open the door.   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] Right, sir; I’ll tell you when, an you’ll tell me wherefore.   
  Ant. E.  Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not din’d to-day.   
  Dro. S.  Nor to-day here you must not; come again when you may.     44
  Ant. E.  What art thou that keep’st me out from the house I owe?   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.   
  Dro. E.  O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name:   
The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame.     48
If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,   
Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.   
  Luce.  [Within.] What a coil is there, Dromio! who are those at the gate?   
  Dro. E.  Let my master in, Luce.     52
  Luce.  [Within.] Faith, no; he comes too late;   
And so tell your master.   
  Dro. E.        O Lord! I must laugh.   
Have at you with a proverb: Shall I set in my staff?     56
  Luce.  [Within.] Have at you with another: that’s—when? can you tell?   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] If thy name be call’d Luce,—Luce, thou hast answer’d him well.   
  Ant. E.  Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I trow?   
  Luce.  [Within.] I thought to have ask’d you.     60
  Dro. S.  [Within.] And you said, no.   
  Dro. E.  So come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow.   
  Ant. E.  Thou baggage, let me in.   
  Luce.  [Within.] Can you tell for whose sake?     64
  Dro. E.  Master, knock the door hard.   
  Luce.  [Within.] Let him knock till it ache.   
  Ant. E.  You’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.   
  Luce.  [Within.] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?     68
  Adr.  [Within.] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] By my troth your town is troubled with unruly boys.   
  Ant. E.  Are you there, wife? you might have come before.   
  Adr.  [Within.] Your wife, sir knave! go, get you from the door.     72
  Dro. E.  If you went in pain, master, this ‘knave’ would go sore.   
  Ang.  Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would fain have either.   
  Bal.  In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.   
  Dro. E.  They stand at the door, master: bid them welcome hither.     76
  Ant. E.  There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.   
  Dro. E.  You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.   
Your cake here is warm within; you stand here in the cold:   
It would make a man mad as a buck to be so bought and sold.     80
  Ant. E.  Go fetch me something: I’ll break ope the gate.   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.   
  Dro. E.  A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind:   
Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.     84
  Dro. S.  [Within.] It seems thou wantest breaking: out upon thee, hind!   
  Dro. E.  Here’s too much ‘out upon thee!’ I pray thee, let me in.   
  Dro. S.  [Within.] Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin.   
  Ant. E.  Well, I’ll break in. Go borrow me a crow.     88
  Dro. E.  A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?   
For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather:   
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together.   
  Ant. E.  Go get thee gone: fetch me an iron crow.     92
  Bal.  Have patience, sir; O! let it not be so;   
Herein you war against your reputation,   
And draw within the compass of suspect   
The unviolated honour of your wife.     96
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    100
Why at this time the doors are made against you.   
Be rul’d by me: depart in patience,   
And let us to the Tiger all to dinner;   
And about evening come yourself alone,    104
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,    108
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;    112
For slander lives upon succession,   
For ever housed where it gets possession.   
  Ant. E.  You have prevail’d: I will depart in quiet,   
And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.    116
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,—    120
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:   
To her will we to dinner. [To ANGELO.] Get you home,   
And fetch the chain; by this I know ’tis made:   
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;    124
For there’s the house: that chain will I bestow,   
Be it for nothing but to spite my wife,   
Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste.   
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,    128
I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.   
  Ang.  I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.   
  Ant. E.  Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.


The Same.
   
 
Enter LUCIANA and ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.
   
  Luc.  And may it be that you have quite forgot   
  A husband’s office? Shall, Antipholus,      4
Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?   
  Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?   
If you did wed my sister for her wealth,   
  Then, for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness:      8
Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;   
  Muffle your false love with some show of blindness;   
Let not my sister read it in your eye;   
  Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator;     12
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;   
  Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger;   
Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;   
  Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;     16
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:     20
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;   
  Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.   
Alas! poor women, make us but believe,   
  Being compact of credit, that you love us;     24
Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;   
  We in your motion turn, and you may move us.   
Then, gentle brother, get you in again;   
  Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:     28
’Tis holy sport to be a little vain,   
  When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.   
  Ant. S.  Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not,   
  Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,—     32
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,     36
Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,   
  The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.   
Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you   
  To make it wander in an unknown field?     40
Are you a god? would you create me new?   
  Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield.   
But if that I am I, then well I know   
  Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,     44
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:   
  Far more, far more, to you do I decline.   
O! train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,   
  To drown me in thy sister flood of tears:     48
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote:   
  Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,   
And as a bed I’ll take them and there lie;   
  And, in that glorious supposition think     52
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?   
  Ant. S.  Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.     56
  Luc.  It is a fault that springeth from your eye.   
  Ant. S.  For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.   
  Luc.  Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.   
  Ant. S.  As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.     60
  Luc.  Why call you me love? call my sister so.   
  Ant. S.  Thy sister’s sister.   
  Luc.        That’s my sister.   
  Ant. S.        No;     64
It is thyself, 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.     68
  Luc.  Al this my sister is, or else should be.   
  Ant. S.  Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee.   
Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:   
Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife.     72
Give me thy hand.   
  Luc.        O! soft, sir; hold you still:   
I’ll fetch my sister, to get her good will.  [Exit.   
 
Enter DROMIO of Syracuse, hastily.
     76
  Ant. S.  Why, how now, Dromio! where run’st thou so fast?   
  Dro. S.  Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself?   
  Ant. S.  Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.   
  Dro. S.  I am an ass, I am a woman’s man and besides myself.     80
  Ant. S.  What woman’s man? and how besides thyself?   
  Dro. S.  Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.   
  Ant. S.  What claim lays she to thee?   
  Dro. S.  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.     84
  Ant. S.  What is she?   
  Dro. S.  A very reverent body; aye, 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 wondrous fat marriage.   
  Ant. S.  How dost thou mean a fat marriage?   
  Dro. S.  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.     88
  Ant. S.  What complexion is she of?   
  Dro. S.  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.   
  Ant. S.  That’s a fault that water will mend.   
  Dro. S.  No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not do it.     92
  Ant. S.  What’s her name?   
  Dro. S.  Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters,—that is, an ell and three quarters,—will not measure her from hip to hip.   
  Ant. S.  Then she bears some breadth?   
  Dro. S.  No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries in her.     96
  Ant. S.  In what part of her body stands Ireland?   
  Dro. S.  Marry, sir, in her buttocks: I found it out by the bogs.   
  Ant. S.  Where Scotland?   
  Dro. S.  I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand.    100
  Ant. S.  Where France?   
  Dro. S.  In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her heir.   
  Ant. S.  Where England?   
  Dro. S.  I looked 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.    104
  Ant. S.  Where Spain?   
  Dro. S.  Faith, I saw not; but I felt it hot in her breath.   
  Ant. S.  Where America, the Indies?   
  Dro. S.  O, sir! upon her nose, all o’er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.    108
  Ant. S.  Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?   
  Dro. S.  O, sir! I did not look so low. To conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; call’d me Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what privy marks I had about me, as the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, 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’ the wheel.    112
  Ant. S.  Go hie thee presently post to the road:   
An 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,    116
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.   
  Dro. S.  As from a bear a man would run for life,    120
So fly I from her that would be my wife.  [Exit.   
  Ant. S.  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    124
Doth for a wife abhor; but her fair sister,   
Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace,   
Of such enchanting presence and discourse,   
Hath almost made me traitor to myself:    128
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,   
I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.   
 
Enter ANGELO.
   
  Ang.  Master Antipholus!    132
  Ant. S.  Ay, that’s my name.   
  Ang.  I know it well, sir: lo, here is the chain.   
I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine;   
The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long.    136
  Ant. S.  What is your will that I shall do with this?   
  Ang.  What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you.   
  Ant. S.  Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.   
  Ang.  Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.    140
Go home with it and please your wife withal;   
And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you,   
And then receive my money for the chain.   
  Ant. S.  I pray you, sir, receive the money now,    144
For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more.   
  Ang.  You are a merry man, sir: fare you well.  [Exit, leaving the chain.   
  Ant. S.  What I should think of this, I cannot tell:   
But this I think, there’s no man is so vain    148
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:    152
If any ship put out, then straight away.  [Exit.   

Act IV. Scene I.


A Public Place.
   
 
Enter Second Merchant, ANGELO, and an Officer.
   
  Mer.  You know since Pentecost the sum is due,   
And since I have not much importun’d you;      4
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound   
To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:   
Therefore make present satisfaction,   
Or I’ll attach you by this officer.      8
  Ang.  Even just the sum that I do owe to you   
Is growing to me by Antipholus;   
And in the instant that I met with you   
He had of me a chain: at five o’clock     12
I shall receive the money for the same.   
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,   
I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus from the Courtezan’s.
     16
  Off.  That labour may you save: see where he comes.   
  Ant. E.  While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou   
And buy a rope’s end, that I will bestow   
Among my wife and her confederates,     20
For locking me out of my doors by day.   
But soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;   
Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me.   
  Dro. E.  I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope!  [Exit.     24
  Ant. E.  A man is well holp up that trusts to you:   
I promised your presence and the chain;   
But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.   
Belike you thought our love would last too long,     28
If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not.   
  Ang.  Saving your merry humour, here’s the note   
How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat.   
The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,     32
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more   
Than I stand debted to this gentleman:   
I pray you see him presently discharg’d,   
For he is bound to sea and stays but for it.     36
  Ant. E.  I am not furnish’d with the present money;   
Besides, I have some business in the town.   
Good signior, take the stranger to my house,   
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife     40
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:   
Perchance I will be there as soon as you.   
  Ang.  Then, you will bring the chain to her yourself?   
  Ant. E.  No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.     44
  Ang.  Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?   
  Ant. E.  An if I have not, sir, I hope you have,   
Or else you may return without your money.   
  Ang.  Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:     48
Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,   
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.   
  Ant. E.  Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse   
Your breach of promise to the Propentine.     52
I should have chid you for not bringing it,   
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.   
  Mer.  The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.   
  Ang.  You hear how he importunes me: the chain!     56
  Ant. E.  Why, give it to my wife and fetch your money.   
  Ang.  Come, come; you know I gave it you even now.   
Either send the chain or send by me some token.   
  Ant. E.  Fie! now you run this humour out of breath.     60
Come, where’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it.   
  Mer.  My business cannot brook this dalliance.   
Good sir, say whe’r you’ll answer me or no:   
If not, I’ll leave him to the officer.     64
  Ant. E.  I answer you! what should I answer you?   
  Ang.  The money that you owe me for the chain.   
  Ant. E.  I owe you none till I receive the chain.   
  Ang.  You know I gave it you half an hour since.     68
  Ant. E.  You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.   
  Ang.  You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:   
Consider how it stands upon my credit.   
  Mer.  Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.     72
  Off.  I do;   
And charge you in the duke’s name to obey me.   
  Ang.  This touches me in reputation.   
Either consent to pay this sum for me,     76
Or I attach you by this officer.   
  Ant. E.  Consent to pay thee that I never had!   
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st.   
  Ang.  Here is thy fee: arrest him, officer.     80
I would not spare my brother in this case,   
If he should scorn me so apparently.   
  Off.  I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.   
  Ant. E.  I do obey thee till I give thee bail.     84
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear   
As all the metal in your shop will answer.   
  Ang.  Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,   
To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.     88
 
Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.
   
  Dro. S.  Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum   
That stays but till her owner comes aboard,   
And then she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,     92
I have convey’d aboard, and I have bought   
The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitæ.   
The ship is in her trim; the merry wind   
Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all     96
But for their owner, master, and yourself.   
  Ant. E.  How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,   
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?   
  Dro. S.  A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.    100
  Ant. E.  Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;   
And told thee to what purpose, and what end.   
  Dro. S.  You sent me for a rope’s end as soon:   
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.    104
  Ant. E.  I will debate this matter at more leisure,   
And teach your ears to list me with more heed.   
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight;   
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk    108
That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry,   
There is a purse of ducats: let her send it.   
Tell her I am arrested in the street,   
And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave, be gone!    112
On, officer, to prison till it come.  [Exeunt Merchant, ANGELO, Officer, and ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.   
  Dro. S.  To Adriana! that is where we din’d,   
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:   
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.    116
Thither I must, although against my will,   
For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil.  [Exit.

Act IV. Scene II.


A Room in the House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.
   
 
Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.
   
  Adr.  Ah! Luciana, did he tempt thee so?   
        Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye      4
That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?   
        Look’d he or red or pale? or sad or merrily?   
What observation mad’st thou in this case   
Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face?      8
  Luc.  First he denied you had in him no right.   
  Adr.  He meant he did me none; the more my spite.   
  Luc.  Then swore he that he was a stranger here.   
  Adr.  And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.     12
  Luc.  Then pleaded I for you.   
  Adr.        And what said he?   
  Luc.  That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of me.   
  Adr.  With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?     16
  Luc.  With words that in an honest suit might move.   
First, he did praise my beauty, then my speech.   
  Adr.  Didst speak him fair?   
  Luc.        Have patience, I beseech.     20
  Adr.  I cannot, nor I will not hold me still:   
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.   
He is deformed, crooked, old and sere,   
Ill-fac’d, worse bodied, shapeless every where;     24
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind,   
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.   
  Luc.  Who would be jealous then, of such a one?   
No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone.     28
Adr.Ah! but I think him better than I say,   
        And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse.   
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:   
        My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.     32
 
Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.
   
  Dro. S.  Here, go: the desk! the purse! sweet, now, make haste.   
  Luc.  How hast thou lost thy breath?   
  Dro. S.        By running fast.     36
  Adr.  Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?   
  Dro. S.  No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.   
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him,   
One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel;     40
A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;   
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;   
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands   
The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands;     44
A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well;   
One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to hell.   
  Adr.  Why, man, what is the matter?   
  Dro. S.  I do not know the matter: he is ’rested on the case.     48
  Adr.  What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit.   
  Dro. S.  I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;   
But he’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that can I tell.   
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?     52
  Adr.  Go fetch it, sister.—[Exit LUCIANA.] This I wonder at:   
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt:   
Tell me, was he arrested on a band?   
  Dro. S.  Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;     56
A chain, a chain. Do you not hear it ring?   
  Adr.  What, the chain?   
  Dro. S.  No, no, the bell: ’tis time that I were gone:   
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.     60
  Adr.  The hours come back! that did I never hear.   
  Dro. S.  O yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a’ turns back for very fear.   
  Adr.  As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!   
  Dro. S.  Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he’s worth to season.     64
Nay, he’s a thief too: have you not heard men say,   
That Time comes stealing on by night and day?   
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,   
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?     68
 
Re-enter LUCIANA.
   
  Adr.  Go, Dromio: there’s the money, bear it straight,   
And bring thy master home immediately.   
Come, sister; I am press’d down with conceit;     72
Conceit, my comfort and my injury.  [Exeunt.   

Act IV. Scene III.


A Public Place.
   
 
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.
   
  Ant. S.  There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me,   
As if I were their well acquainted friend;      4
And every one doth call me by my name.   
Some tender money to me; some invite me;   
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;   
Some offer me commodities to buy:      8
Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop   
And show’d me silks that he had bought for me,   
And therewithal, took measure of my body.   
Sure these are but imaginary wiles,     12
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.   
 
Enter DROMIO of Syracuse.
   
  Dro. S.  Master, here’s the gold you sent me for.   
What! have you got the picture of old Adam new apparelled?     16
  Ant. S.  What gold is this? What Adam dost thou mean?   
  Dro. S.  Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that Adam that keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf’s skin that was killed for the Prodigal: he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.   
  Ant. S.  I understand thee not.   
  Dro. S.  No? why, ’tis a plain case: he that went, like a base-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a fob, and ’rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.     20
  Ant. S.  What, thou meanest an officer?   
  Dro. S.  Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says, ‘God give you good rest!’   
  Ant. S.  Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?   
  Dro. S.  Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark Expedition put forth tonight; and then were you hindered by the sergeant to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.     24
  Ant. S.  The fellow is distract, and so am I;   
And here we wander in illusions:   
Some blessed power deliver us from hence!   
 
Enter a Courtezan.
     28
  Cour.  Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.   
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:   
Is that the chain you promis’d me to-day?   
  Ant. S.  Satan, avoid! I charge thee tempt me not!     32
  Dro. S.  Master, is this Mistress Satan?   
  Ant. S.  It is the devil.   
  Dro. S.  Nay, she is worse, she is the devil’s dam, and here she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof comes that the wenches say, ‘God damn me;’ that’s as much as to say, ‘God make me a light wench.’ It is written, they appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.   
  Cour.  Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir. Will you go with me? we’ll mend our dinner here.     36
  Dro. S.  Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, so bespeak a long spoon.   
  Ant. S.  Why, Dromio?   
  Dro. S.  Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.   
  Ant. S.  Avoid thee, fiend! what tell’st thou me of supping?     40
Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress:   
I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.   
  Cour.  Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,   
Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis’d,     44
And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.   
  Dro. S.  Some devils ask but the parings of one’s nail,   
A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,   
A nut, a cherry-stone;     48
But she, more covetous, would have a chain.   
Master, be wise: an if you give it her,   
The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.   
  Cour.  I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:     52
I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.   
  Ant. S.  Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.   
  Dro. S.  ‘Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, that you know.  [Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse.   
  Cour.  Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad,     56
Else would he never so demean himself.   
A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,   
And for the same he promis’d me a chain:   
Both one and other he denies me now.     60
The reason that I gather he is mad,   
Besides this present instance of his rage,   
Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,   
Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.     64
Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,   
On purpose shut the doors against his way.   
My way is now to hie home to his house,   
And tell his wife, that, being lunatic,     68
He rush’d into my house, and took perforce   
My ring away. This course I fittest choose,   
For forty ducats is too much to lose.  [Exit.