THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. William Shakespeare
It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.
Go, fetch me something, I’ll break ope the gate.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.
Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS.
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.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.
It seems thou want’st breaking; out upon thee, hind!
DROMIO OF EPHESUS.
Here’s too much out upon thee: I pray thee, let me in.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.
Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.
Well, I’ll break in; go borrow me a crow.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS.
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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.
Go, get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.
BALTHAZAR.
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.
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 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,
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 gets possession.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.
You have prevail’d. I will depart in quiet,
And, in despite 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 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,
I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.
ANGELO.
I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS.
Do so; this jest shall cost me some expense.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE 2. The same.
[Enter LUCIANA with ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.]
LUCIANA.
And may it be that you have quite forgot
A husband’s office? Shall, Antipholus,
Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
Shall love, in building, 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 show 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 though 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 is doubled with an evil word.
Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
Being compact of credit, that you love us:
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:
‘Tis holy sport to be a little vain
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.
Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit on 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 folded 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 power 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 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’s flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself,