Act III, Scene IV — Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
ROSALIND. Never talk to me, I will weep.
CELIA. Do, I prithee, but yet have the grace to consider that tears do not become a man.
ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep?
CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep.
ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.
CELIA. Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his kisses are Judas’s own children.
ROSALIND. I’ faith, his hair is of a good colour.
CELIA. An excellent colour. Your chestnut was ever the only colour.
ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.
CELIA. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana. A nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.
ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?
CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
ROSALIND. Do you think so?
CELIA. Yes. I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer, but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet or a worm-eaten nut.
ROSALIND. Not true in love?
CELIA. Yes, when he is in, but I think he is not in.
ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright he was.
CELIA. “Was” is not “is”. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster. They are both the confirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the forest on the Duke your father.
ROSALIND. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was. I told him, of as good as he, so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is such a man as Orlando?
CELIA. O, that’s a brave man! He writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover, as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s brave that youth mounts and folly guides. Who comes here?
Enter Corin.
CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complained of love, Who you saw sitting by me on the turf, Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess That was his mistress.
CELIA. Well, and what of him?
CORIN. If you will see a pageant truly played Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it.
ROSALIND. O, come, let us remove. The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall say I’ll prove a busy actor in their play.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene V — Another part of the Forest
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
SILVIUS. Sweet Phoebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phoebe. Say that you love me not, but say not so In bitterness. The common executioner, Whose heart th’ accustomed sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin, at a distance.
PHOEBE. I would not be thy executioner; I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye. ’Tis pretty, sure, and very probable That eyes, that are the frail’st and softest things, Who shut their coward gates on atomies, Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers. Now I do frown on thee with all my heart, And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down; Or if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame, Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee. Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains Some scar of it; lean upon a rush, The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps. But now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not; Nor I am sure there is not force in eyes That can do hurt.
SILVIUS. O dear Phoebe, If ever—as that ever may be near— You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That love’s keen arrows make.
PHOEBE. But till that time Come not thou near me. And when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not, As till that time I shall not pity thee.
ROSALIND. [Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty— As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed— Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinary Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too! No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it. ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame my spirits to your worship. You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her, Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. ’Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favoured children. ’Tis not her glass but you that flatters her, And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her. But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love. For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can; you are not for all markets. Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer; Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd. Fare you well.
PHOEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together! I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.
ROSALIND. He’s fall’n in love with your foulness, and she’ll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I’ll sauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?
PHOEBE. For no ill will I bear you.
ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine. Besides, I like you not. If you will know my house, ’Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. Will you go, sister? Shepherd, ply her hard. Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud. Though all the world could see, None could be so abused in sight as he. Come, to our flock.
[Exeunt Rosalind, Celia and Corin.]
PHOEBE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might: “Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
SILVIUS. Sweet Phoebe—
PHOEBE. Ha, what sayst thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS. Sweet Phoebe, pity me.
PHOEBE. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SILVIUS. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be. If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love your sorrow and my grief Were both extermined.
PHOEBE. Thou hast my love. Is not that neighbourly?
SILVIUS. I would have you.
PHOEBE. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love; But since that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erst was irksome to me, I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too. But do not look for further recompense Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then A scattered smile, and that I’ll live upon.
PHOEBE. Know’st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
SILVIUS. Not very well, but I have met him oft, And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old carlot once was master of.
PHOEBE. Think not I love him, though I ask for him. ’Tis but a peevish boy—yet he talks well. But what care I for words? Yet words do well When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth—not very pretty— But sure he’s proud, and yet his pride becomes him. He’ll make a proper man. The best thing in him Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall, yet for his years he’s tall; His leg is but so-so, and yet ’tis well. There was a pretty redness in his lip, A little riper and more lusty red Than that mixed in his cheek. ’Twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they marked him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him; but for my part I love him not nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him. For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black and my hair black, And now I am remembered, scorned at me. I marvel why I answered not again. But that’s all one: omittance is no quittance. I’ll write to him a very taunting letter, And thou shalt bear it. Wilt thou, Silvius?
SILVIUS. Phoebe, with all my heart.
PHOEBE. I’ll write it straight, The matter’s in my head and in my heart. I will be bitter with him and passing short. Go with me, Silvius.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene I — The Forest of Arden
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques.
JAQUES. I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
ROSALIND. They say you are a melancholy fellow.
JAQUES. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.
ROSALIND. Those that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards.
JAQUES. Why, ’tis good to be sad and say nothing.
ROSALIND. Why then, ’tis good to be a post.
JAQUES. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical; nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier’s, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer’s, which is politic; nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
ROSALIND. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad. I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s. Then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
JAQUES. Yes, I have gained my experience.
ROSALIND. And your experience makes you sad. I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad—and to travel for it too.
Enter Orlando.
ORLANDO. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!
JAQUES. Nay, then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in blank verse.
ROSALIND. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.
[Exit Jaques.]
Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.
ORLANDO. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
ROSALIND. Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.
ORLANDO. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
ROSALIND. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be wooed of a snail.
ORLANDO. Of a snail?
ROSALIND. Ay, of a snail, for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head—a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.
ORLANDO. What’s that?
ROSALIND. Why, horns, which such as you are fain to be beholding to your wives for. But he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife.
ORLANDO. Virtue is no horn-maker and my Rosalind is virtuous.
ROSALIND. And I am your Rosalind.
CELIA. It pleases him to call you so, but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.
ROSALIND. Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind?
ORLANDO. I would kiss before I spoke.
ROSALIND. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking—God warn us—matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
ORLANDO. How if the kiss be denied?
ROSALIND. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
ORLANDO. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?
ROSALIND. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress, or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
ORLANDO. What, of my suit?
ROSALIND. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind?
ORLANDO. I take some joy to say you are because I would be talking of her.
ROSALIND. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you.
ORLANDO. Then, in mine own person, I die.
ROSALIND. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
ORLANDO. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind, for I protest her frown might kill me.
ROSALIND. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition, and ask me what you will, I will grant it.
ORLANDO. Then love me, Rosalind.
ROSALIND. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
ORLANDO. And wilt thou have me?
ROSALIND. Ay, and twenty such.
ORLANDO. What sayest thou?
ROSALIND. Are you not good?
ORLANDO. I hope so.
ROSALIND. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do you say, sister?
ORLANDO. Pray thee, marry us.
CELIA. I cannot say the words.
ROSALIND. You must begin “Will you, Orlando—”
CELIA. Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?
ORLANDO. I will.
ROSALIND. Ay, but when?
ORLANDO. Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
ROSALIND. Then you must say “I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.”
ORLANDO. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.
ROSALIND. I might ask you for your commission. But I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband. There’s a girl goes before the priest, and certainly a woman’s thought runs before her actions.
ORLANDO. So do all thoughts. They are winged.
ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her.
ORLANDO. For ever and a day.
ROSALIND. Say “a day” without the “ever.” No, no, Orlando, men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen, more clamorous than a parrot against rain, more new-fangled than an ape, more giddy in my desires than a monkey. I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry. I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou are inclined to sleep.
ORLANDO. But will my Rosalind do so?
ROSALIND. By my life, she will do as I do.
ORLANDO. O, but she is wise.
ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this. The wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a woman’s wit, and it will out at the casement. Shut that, and ’twill out at the keyhole. Stop that, ’twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say, “Wit, whither wilt?”
ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for it till you met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour’s bed.
ORLANDO. And what wit could wit have to excuse that?
ROSALIND. Marry, to say she came to seek you there. You shall never take her without her answer unless you take her without her tongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed it like a fool.
ORLANDO. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee.
ROSALIND. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours.
ORLANDO. I must attend the Duke at dinner. By two o’clock I will be with thee again.
ROSALIND. Ay, go your ways, go your ways. I knew what you would prove. My friends told me as much, and I thought no less. That flattering tongue of yours won me. ’Tis but one cast away, and so, come death! Two o’clock is your hour?
ORLANDO. Ay, sweet Rosalind.
ROSALIND. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. Therefore beware my censure, and keep your promise.
ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind. So, adieu.
ROSALIND. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let time try. Adieu.
[Exit Orlando.]
CELIA. You have simply misused our sex in your love-prate! We must have your doublet and hose plucked over your head and show the world what the bird hath done to her own nest.
ROSALIND. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded; my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
CELIA. Or rather, bottomless, that as fast as you pour affection in, it runs out.
ROSALIND. No, that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses everyone’s eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando. I’ll go find a shadow and sigh till he come.
CELIA. And I’ll sleep.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene II — Another part of the Forest
Enter Jaques and Lords, like foresters.
JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer?
FIRST LORD. Sir, it was I.
JAQUES. Let’s present him to the Duke, like a Roman conqueror, and it would do well to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of victory. Have you no song, forester, for this purpose?
SECOND LORD. Yes, sir.
JAQUES. Sing it. ’Tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noise enough.
SONG
SECOND LORD. [Sings.] What shall he have that killed the deer? His leather skin and horns to wear. Then sing him home: [The rest shall bear this burden.] Take thou no scorn to wear the horn. It was a crest ere thou wast born. Thy father’s father wore it And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene III — Another part of the Forest
Enter Rosalind and Celia.
ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o’clock? And here much Orlando.
CELIA. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain he hath ta’en his bow and arrows and is gone forth to sleep.
Enter Silvius.
Look who comes here.
SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth. My gentle Phoebe did bid me give you this.
[Giving a letter.]
I know not the contents, but, as I guess By the stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger.
ROSALIND. Patience herself would startle at this letter And play the swaggerer. Bear this, bear all! She says I am not fair, that I lack manners; She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as phoenix. ’Od’s my will, Her love is not the hare that I do hunt. Why writes she so to me? Well, shepherd, well, This is a letter of your own device.
SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents. Phoebe did write it.
ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool, And turned into the extremity of love. I saw her hand. She has a leathern hand, A freestone-coloured hand. I verily did think That her old gloves were on, but ’twas her hands. She has a huswife’s hand—but that’s no matter. I say she never did invent this letter; This is a man’s invention, and his hand.
SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers.
ROSALIND. Why, ’tis a boisterous and a cruel style, A style for challengers. Why, she defies me, Like Turk to Christian. Women’s gentle brain Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter?
SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet, Yet heard too much of Phoebe’s cruelty.
ROSALIND. She Phoebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.
[Reads.]
_Art thou god to shepherd turned, That a maiden’s heart hath burned?_ Can a woman rail thus?
SILVIUS. Call you this railing?
ROSALIND. _Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart?_ Did you ever hear such railing? _Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me._ Meaning me a beast. _If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect? Whiles you chid me, I did love, How then might your prayers move? He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me; And by him seal up thy mind, Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me, and all that I can make, Or else by him my love deny, And then I’ll study how to die._
SILVIUS. Call you this chiding?
CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd.
ROSALIND. Do you pity him? No, he deserves no pity.—Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon thee? Not to be endured! Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, and say this to her: that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. If you be a true lover, hence, and not a word, for here comes more company.
[Exit Silvius.]
Enter Oliver.
OLIVER. Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheepcote fenced about with olive trees?
CELIA. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom; The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream, Left on your right hand, brings you to the place. But at this hour the house doth keep itself. There’s none within.
OLIVER. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, Then should I know you by description, Such garments, and such years. “The boy is fair, Of female favour, and bestows himself Like a ripe sister; the woman low, And browner than her brother.” Are not you The owner of the house I did inquire for?
CELIA. It is no boast, being asked, to say we are.
OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both, And to that youth he calls his Rosalind He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
ROSALIND. I am. What must we understand by this?
OLIVER. Some of my shame, if you will know of me What man I am, and how, and why, and where This handkerchief was stained.
CELIA. I pray you tell it.
OLIVER. When last the young Orlando parted from you, He left a promise to return again Within an hour, and pacing through the forest, Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy, Lo, what befell. He threw his eye aside, And mark what object did present itself. Under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age And high top bald with dry antiquity, A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair, Lay sleeping on his back; about his neck A green and gilded snake had wreathed itself, Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached The opening of his mouth. But suddenly, Seeing Orlando, it unlinked itself And with indented glides did slip away Into a bush; under which bush’s shade A lioness, with udders all drawn dry, Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch When that the sleeping man should stir. For ’tis The royal disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. This seen, Orlando did approach the man And found it was his brother, his elder brother.
CELIA. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother, And he did render him the most unnatural That lived amongst men.
OLIVER. And well he might so do, For well I know he was unnatural.
ROSALIND. But, to Orlando: did he leave him there, Food to the sucked and hungry lioness?
OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back and purposed so; But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, And nature, stronger than his just occasion, Made him give battle to the lioness, Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtling From miserable slumber I awaked.
CELIA. Are you his brother?
ROSALIND. Was it you he rescued?
CELIA. Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill him?
OLIVER. ’Twas I; but ’tis not I. I do not shame To tell you what I was, since my conversion So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.
ROSALIND. But, for the bloody napkin?
OLIVER. By and by. When from the first to last betwixt us two Tears our recountments had most kindly bathed— As how I came into that desert place— In brief, he led me to the gentle Duke, Who gave me fresh array and entertainment, Committing me unto my brother’s love, Who led me instantly unto his cave, There stripped himself, and here upon his arm The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, And cried in fainting upon Rosalind. Brief, I recovered him, bound up his wound, And after some small space, being strong at heart, He sent me hither, stranger as I am, To tell this story, that you might excuse His broken promise, and to give this napkin, Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
[Rosalind faints.]
CELIA. Why, how now, Ganymede, sweet Ganymede!
OLIVER. Many will swoon when they do look on blood.
CELIA. There is more in it. Cousin—Ganymede!
OLIVER. Look, he recovers.
ROSALIND. I would I were at home.
CELIA. We’ll lead you thither. I pray you, will you take him by the arm?
OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth. You a man? You lack a man’s heart.
ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho.
OLIVER. This was not counterfeit. There is too great testimony in your complexion that it was a passion of earnest.
ROSALIND. Counterfeit, I assure you.
OLIVER. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.
ROSALIND. So I do. But, i’ faith, I should have been a woman by right.
CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler. Pray you draw homewards. Good sir, go with us.
OLIVER. That will I, for I must bear answer back How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.
ROSALIND. I shall devise something. But I pray you commend my counterfeiting to him. Will you go?
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene I — The Forest of Arden
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
TOUCHSTONE. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey.
AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman’s saying.
TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim to you.
AUDREY. Ay, I know who ’tis. He hath no interest in me in the world.
Enter William.
Here comes the man you mean.
TOUCHSTONE. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown. By my troth, we that have good wits have much to answer for. We shall be flouting; we cannot hold.
WILLIAM. Good ev’n, Audrey.
AUDREY. God ye good ev’n, William.
WILLIAM. And good ev’n to you, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. Good ev’n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head. Nay, prithee, be covered. How old are you, friend?
WILLIAM. Five-and-twenty, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. A ripe age. Is thy name William?
WILLIAM. William, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. A fair name. Wast born i’ th’ forest here?
WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I thank God.
TOUCHSTONE. “Thank God.” A good answer. Art rich?
WILLIAM. Faith, sir, so-so.
TOUCHSTONE. “So-so” is good, very good, very excellent good. And yet it is not, it is but so-so. Art thou wise?
WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit.
TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou sayst well. I do now remember a saying: “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth, meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid?
WILLIAM. I do, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
WILLIAM. No, sir.
TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me: to have is to have. For it is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out of cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty the other. For all your writers do consent that ipse is “he.” Now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
WILLIAM. Which he, sir?
TOUCHSTONE. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown, abandon—which is in the vulgar, “leave”—the society—which in the boorish is “company”—of this female—which in the common is “woman”; which together is, abandon the society of this female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into bondage. I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel. I will bandy with thee in faction; will o’errun thee with policy. I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways! Therefore tremble and depart.
AUDREY. Do, good William.
WILLIAM. God rest you merry, sir.
[Exit.]
Enter Corin.
CORIN. Our master and mistress seek you. Come away, away.
TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey! I attend, I attend.
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene II — Another part of the Forest
Enter Orlando and Oliver.
ORLANDO. Is’t possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her? That but seeing, you should love her? And loving woo? And wooing, she should grant? And will you persever to enjoy her?
OLIVER. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her sudden consenting. But say with me, I love Aliena; say with her that she loves me; consent with both that we may enjoy each other. It shall be to your good, for my father’s house and all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s will I estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd.
Enter Rosalind.
ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be tomorrow. Thither will I invite the Duke and all’s contented followers. Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind.
ROSALIND. God save you, brother.
OLIVER. And you, fair sister.
[Exit.]
ROSALIND. O my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see thee wear thy heart in a scarf!
ORLANDO. It is my arm.
ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
ORLANDO. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady.
ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoon when he showed me your handkercher?
ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that.
ROSALIND. O, I know where you are. Nay, ’tis true. There was never anything so sudden but the fight of two rams, and Caesar’s thrasonical brag of “I came, saw and overcame.” For your brother and my sister no sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climb incontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage. They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together. Clubs cannot part them.
ORLANDO. They shall be married tomorrow, and I will bid the Duke to the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I tomorrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for.
ROSALIND. Why, then, tomorrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind?
ORLANDO. I can live no longer by thinking.
ROSALIND. I will weary you then no longer with idle talking. Know of me then—for now I speak to some purpose—that I know you are a gentleman of good conceit. I speak not this that you should bear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know you are. Neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in some little measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. I have, since I was three year old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena shall you marry her. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven and it is not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your eyes tomorrow, human as she is, and without any danger.
ORLANDO. Speak’st thou in sober meanings?
ROSALIND. By my life, I do, which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid your friends; for if you will be married tomorrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will.
Enter Silvius and Phoebe.
Look, here comes a lover of mine and a lover of hers.
PHOEBE. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness To show the letter that I writ to you.
ROSALIND. I care not if I have; it is my study To seem despiteful and ungentle to you. You are there followed by a faithful shepherd. Look upon him, love him; he worships you.
PHOEBE. Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.
SILVIUS. It is to be all made of sighs and tears, And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE. And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND. And I for no woman.
SILVIUS. It is to be all made of faith and service, And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE. And I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND. And I for no woman.
SILVIUS. It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion, and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience, and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance, And so am I for Phoebe.
PHOEBE. And so am I for Ganymede.
ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind.
ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman.
PHOEBE. [To Rosalind.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
SILVIUS. [To Phoebe.] If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
ORLANDO. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
ROSALIND. Why do you speak too, “Why blame you me to love you?”
ORLANDO. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear.
ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this, ’tis like the howling of Irish wolves against the moon. [to Silvius.] I will help you if I can. [to Phoebe.] I would love you if I could.—Tomorrow meet me all together. [to Phoebe.] I will marry you, if ever I marry woman, and I’ll be married tomorrow. [to Orlando.] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married tomorrow. [to Silvius.] I will content you, if what pleases you contents you, and you shall be married tomorrow. [to Orlando.] As you love Rosalind, meet. [to Silvius.] As you love Phoebe, meet.—And as I love no woman, I’ll meet. So fare you well. I have left you commands.
SILVIUS. I’ll not fail, if I live.
PHOEBE. Nor I.
ORLANDO. Nor I.
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene III — Another part of the Forest
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
TOUCHSTONE. Tomorrow is the joyful day, Audrey, tomorrow will we be married.
AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is no dishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world.
Enter two Pages.
Here come two of the banished Duke’s pages.
FIRST PAGE. Well met, honest gentleman.
TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song.
SECOND PAGE. We are for you, sit i’ th’ middle.
FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into’t roundly, without hawking or spitting or saying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a bad voice?
SECOND PAGE. I’faith, i’faith, and both in a tune like two gipsies on a horse.
SONG
PAGES. [Sing.] It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green cornfield did pass In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.
This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower, In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime, In the spring-time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love the spring.
TOUCHSTONE Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.
FIRST PAGE. You are deceived, sir, we kept time, we lost not our time.
TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes. I count it but time lost to hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you, and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey.
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene IV — Another part of the Forest
Enter Duke Senior, Amiens, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver and Celia.
DUKE SENIOR. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy Can do all this that he hath promised?
ORLANDO. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not, As those that fear they hope, and know they fear.
Enter Rosalind, Silvius and Phoebe.
ROSALIND. Patience once more whiles our compact is urged. [To the Duke.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, You will bestow her on Orlando here?
DUKE SENIOR. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her.
ROSALIND. [To Orlando.] And you say you will have her when I bring her?
ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
ROSALIND. [To Phoebe.] You say you’ll marry me if I be willing?
PHOEBE. That will I, should I die the hour after.
ROSALIND. But if you do refuse to marry me, You’ll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd?
PHOEBE. So is the bargain.
ROSALIND. [To Silvius.] You say that you’ll have Phoebe if she will?
SILVIUS. Though to have her and death were both one thing.
ROSALIND. I have promised to make all this matter even. Keep you your word, O Duke, to give your daughter, You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter. Keep your word, Phoebe, that you’ll marry me, Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd. Keep your word, Silvius, that you’ll marry her If she refuse me. And from hence I go To make these doubts all even.
[Exeunt Rosalind and Celia.]
DUKE SENIOR. I do remember in this shepherd boy Some lively touches of my daughter’s favour.
ORLANDO. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him Methought he was a brother to your daughter. But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born And hath been tutored in the rudiments Of many desperate studies by his uncle, Whom he reports to be a great magician, Obscured in the circle of this forest.
Enter Touchstone and Audrey.
JAQUES. There is sure another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
TOUCHSTONE. Salutation and greeting to you all.
JAQUES. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-minded gentleman that I have so often met in the forest. He hath been a courtier, he swears.
TOUCHSTONE. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have fought one.
JAQUES. And how was that ta’en up?
TOUCHSTONE. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause.
JAQUES. How seventh cause?—Good my lord, like this fellow?
DUKE SENIOR. I like him very well.
TOUCHSTONE. God ’ild you, sir, I desire you of the like. I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear according as marriage binds and blood breaks. A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will. Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house, as your pearl in your foul oyster.
DUKE SENIOR. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious.
TOUCHSTONE. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases.
JAQUES. But, for the seventh cause. How did you find the quarrel on the seventh cause?
TOUCHSTONE. Upon a lie seven times removed—bear your body more seeming, Audrey—as thus, sir. I did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard. He sent me word if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it was. This is called the “retort courteous”. If I sent him word again it was not well cut, he would send me word he cut it to please himself. This is called the “quip modest”. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgement. This is called the “reply churlish”. If again it was not well cut, he would answer I spake not true. This is called the “reproof valiant”. If again it was not well cut, he would say I lie. This is called the “countercheck quarrelsome”, and so, to the “lie circumstantial”, and the “lie direct”.
JAQUES. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut?
TOUCHSTONE. I durst go no further than the lie circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the lie direct; and so we measured swords and parted.
JAQUES. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie?
TOUCHSTONE. O sir, we quarrel in print, by the book, as you have books for good manners. I will name you the degrees: the first, the retort courteous; the second, the quip modest; the third, the reply churlish; the fourth, the reproof valiant; the fifth, the countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the lie with circumstance; the seventh, the lie direct. All these you may avoid but the lie direct and you may avoid that too with an “if”. I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an “if”, as, “if you said so, then I said so;” and they shook hands, and swore brothers. Your “if” is the only peacemaker; much virtue in “if.”
JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? He’s as good at anything, and yet a fool.
DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
Enter Hymen, Rosalind in woman’s clothes, and Celia. Still music.
HYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven When earthly things made even Atone together. Good Duke, receive thy daughter. Hymen from heaven brought her, Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his, Whose heart within his bosom is.
ROSALIND. [To Duke Senior.] To you I give myself, for I am yours. [To Orlando.] To you I give myself, for I am yours.
DUKE SENIOR. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
ORLANDO. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
PHOEBE. If sight and shape be true, Why then, my love adieu.
ROSALIND. [To Duke Senior.] I’ll have no father, if you be not he. [To Orlando.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not he. [To Phoebe.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.
HYMEN. Peace, ho! I bar confusion. ’Tis I must make conclusion Of these most strange events. Here’s eight that must take hands To join in Hymen’s bands, If truth holds true contents. [To Orlando and Rosalind.] You and you no cross shall part. [To Celia and Oliver.] You and you are heart in heart. [To Phoebe.] You to his love must accord Or have a woman to your lord. [To Audrey and Touchstone.] You and you are sure together As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning, That reason wonder may diminish How thus we met, and these things finish.
SONG Wedding is great Juno’s crown, O blessed bond of board and bed. ’Tis Hymen peoples every town, High wedlock then be honoured. Honour, high honour, and renown To Hymen, god of every town.
DUKE SENIOR. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.
PHOEBE. [To Silvius.] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine, Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine.
Enter Jaques de Boys.
JAQUES DE BOYS. Let me have audience for a word or two. I am the second son of old Sir Rowland, That bring these tidings to this fair assembly. Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day Men of great worth resorted to this forest, Addressed a mighty power, which were on foot In his own conduct, purposely to take His brother here and put him to the sword; And to the skirts of this wild wood he came, Where, meeting with an old religious man, After some question with him, was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world, His crown bequeathing to his banished brother, And all their lands restored to them again That were with him exiled. This to be true I do engage my life.
DUKE SENIOR. Welcome, young man. Thou offer’st fairly to thy brother’s wedding: To one his lands withheld, and to the other A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were well begun and well begot; And after, every of this happy number That have endured shrewd days and nights with us Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music! And you brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heaped in joy to th’ measures fall.
JAQUES. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly, The Duke hath put on a religious life And thrown into neglect the pompous court.
JAQUES DE BOYS. He hath.
JAQUES. To him will I. Out of these convertites There is much matter to be heard and learned. [To Duke Senior.] You to your former honour I bequeath; Your patience and your virtue well deserves it. [To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth merit. [To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great allies. [To Silvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed. [To Touchstone.] And you to wrangling, for thy loving voyage Is but for two months victualled.—So to your pleasures, I am for other than for dancing measures.
DUKE SENIOR. Stay, Jaques, stay.
JAQUES. To see no pastime, I. What you would have I’ll stay to know at your abandoned cave.
[Exit.]
DUKE SENIOR. Proceed, proceed! We will begin these rites, As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights.
[Dance. Exeunt all but Rosalind.]
Epilogue
ROSALIND. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue, but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, ’tis true that a good play needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes, and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am not furnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me. My way is to conjure you, and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much of this play as please you. And I charge you, O men, for the love you bear to women—as I perceive by your simpering, none of you hates them—that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defied not. And I am sure as many as have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths will for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell.
[Exit.]
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS
Dramatis Personæ
SOLINUS, Duke of Ephesus. EGEON, a Merchant of Syracuse.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, Twin brothers and sons to Egeon and ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE, Emilia, but unknown to each other.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS, Twin brothers, and attendants on DROMIO OF SYRACUSE, the two Antipholuses.
BALTHASAR, a Merchant. ANGELO, a Goldsmith. A MERCHANT, friend to Antipholus of Syracuse. PINCH, a Schoolmaster and a Conjurer. EMILIA, Wife to Egeon, an Abbess at Ephesus. ADRIANA, Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus. LUCIANA, her Sister. LUCE, her Servant. A COURTESAN Messenger, Jailer, Officers, Attendants
SCENE: Ephesus
Act I, Scene I — A hall in the Duke’s palace
Enter Duke, Egeon, Jailer, Officers and other Attendants.
EGEON. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, And by the doom of death end woes and all.
DUKE. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more. I am not partial to infringe our laws. The enmity and discord which of late Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your Duke To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives, Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods, Excludes all pity from our threat’ning looks. For since the mortal and intestine jars ’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, It hath in solemn synods been decreed, Both by the Syracusians and ourselves, To 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 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. Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; Therefore by law thou art condemn’d to die.
EGEON. Yet this my comfort; when your words are done, 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.
EGEON. 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, 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, had not our hap been bad. With her I liv’d in joy; our wealth increas’d By prosperous voyages I often made To Epidamnum, till my factor’s death, And the great care of goods at random left, Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse; From whom my absence was not six months old Before herself (almost at fainting under The pleasing punishment that women bear) Had made provision for her following me, And soon and safe arrived where I was. There had she not been long but she became A joyful mother of two goodly sons, And, which was strange, the one so like the other As could not be distinguish’d but by names. That very hour, and in the self-same inn, A mean woman was delivered 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, Made daily motions for our home return. Unwilling I agreed; alas, too soon We came aboard. A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d Before the always-wind-obeying deep Gave any tragic instance of our harm; But longer did we not retain much hope; For what obscured light the heavens did grant Did but convey unto our fearful minds A doubtful warrant of immediate death, Which though myself would gladly have embrac’d, Yet the incessant weepings of my wife, Weeping before for what she saw must come, And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear, Forc’d me to seek delays for them and me. And this it was (for other means was none). The sailors sought for safety by our boat, And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us. My wife, more careful for the latter-born, Had fast’ned him unto a small spare mast, Such as sea-faring men provide for storms. To him one of the other twins was bound, Whilst I had been like heedful of the other. The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I, Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, Fast’ned ourselves at either end the mast, And, floating straight, obedient to the stream, Was 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 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! 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.
EGEON. O, had the gods done so, I had not now Worthily term’d them merciless to us. For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues, We were encountered by a mighty rock, Which being violently borne upon, 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. 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 By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. At length another ship had seiz’d on us; And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wrack’d guests, 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, That by misfortunes 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 What have befall’n of them and thee till now.
EGEON. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care, At eighteen years became inquisitive After his brother, and importun’d me That his attendant, so 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 laboured of a love to see, I hazarded the loss of whom I lov’d. Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece, Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia, And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus, Hopeless to find, yet 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, Could all my travels warrant me they live.
DUKE. Hapless Egeon, whom the fates have mark’d To bear the extremity of dire mishap; Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, Against my crown, my oath, my dignity, Which princes, would they, may not disannul, My soul should sue as advocate for thee. But though thou art adjudged to the death, And passed sentence may not be recall’d But to our honour’s great disparagement, Yet will I favour thee in what I can. Therefore, merchant, I’ll limit thee this day To seek thy health 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. Jailer, take him to thy custody.
JAILER. I will, my lord.
EGEON. Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend, But to procrastinate his lifeless end.
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene II — A public place
Enter Antipholus and Dromio of Syracuse and a Merchant.
MERCHANT. Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum, Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate. 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 Dies ere the weary sun set in the west. There is your money that I had to keep.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. Within this hour it will be dinnertime; Till that, I’ll view the manners of the town, Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings, And then return and sleep within mine inn, For with long travel I am stiff and weary. Get thee away.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Many a man would take you at your word, And go indeed, having so good a mean.
[Exit Dromio.]
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft, When I am dull with care and melancholy, Lightens my humour with his merry jests. What, will you walk with me about the town, And then go to my inn and dine with me?
MERCHANT. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, Of whom I hope to make much benefit. I crave your pardon. Soon, at five o’clock, Please you, I’ll meet with you upon the mart, And afterward consort you till bedtime. My present business calls me from you now.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Farewell till then: I will go lose myself, And wander up and down to view the city.
MERCHANT. Sir, I commend you to your own content.
[Exit Merchant.]
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, failing there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself. So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.
Enter Dromio of Ephesus.
Here comes the almanac of my true date. What now? How chance thou art return’d so soon?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Return’d so soon? rather approach’d too late. The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit; The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell; My mistress made it one upon my cheek. She is so hot because the meat is cold; The meat is cold because you come not home; You come not home because you have no stomach; You have no stomach, having broke your fast; But we that know what ’tis to fast and pray, Are penitent for your default today.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Stop in your wind, sir, tell me this, I pray: Where have you left the money that I gave you?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 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?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I pray you jest, sir, as you sit at dinner: I from my mistress come to you in post; If I return, I shall be post indeed, For she will score your fault upon my pate. Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock, And strike you home without a messenger.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season, Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me!
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness, And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. My charge was but to fetch you from the mart Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner. My mistress and her sister stay for you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me 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?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I have some marks of yours upon my pate, Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders, But not a thousand marks between you both. If I should pay your worship those again, Perchance you will not bear them patiently.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thy mistress’ marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phoenix; She that doth fast till you come home to dinner, And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face, Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. What mean you, sir? for God’s sake hold your hands. Nay, an you will not, sir, I’ll take my heels.
[Exit Dromio.]
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 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, 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, 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.]
Act II, Scene I — A public place
Enter Adriana, wife to Antipholus (of Ephesus) with Luciana her sister.
ADRIANA. Neither my husband nor the slave return’d That in such haste I sent to seek his master? Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock.
LUCIANA. Perhaps some merchant hath invited him, And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to dinner. Good sister, let us dine, and never fret; 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.
ADRIANA. Why should their liberty than ours be more?
LUCIANA. Because their business still lies out o’ door.
ADRIANA. Look when I serve him so, he takes it ill.
LUCIANA. O, know he is the bridle of your will.
ADRIANA. There’s none but asses will be bridled so.
LUCIANA. 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 Are their males’ subjects, and at their controls. Man, more divine, the masters of all these, Lord of the wide world and wild wat’ry seas, Indued with intellectual sense and souls, Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls, Are masters to their females, and their lords: Then let your will attend on their accords.
ADRIANA. This servitude makes you to keep unwed.
LUCIANA. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.
ADRIANA. But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.
LUCIANA. Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey.
ADRIANA. How if your husband start some other where?
LUCIANA. Till he come home again, I would forbear.
ADRIANA. Patience unmov’d! No marvel though she pause; They can be meek that have no other cause. A wretched soul bruis’d with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burd’ned with like weight of pain, As much, or more, we should ourselves complain: So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, With urging helpless patience would relieve me: But if thou live to see like right bereft, This fool-begg’d patience in thee will be left.
LUCIANA. Well, I will marry one day, but to try. Here comes your man, now is your husband nigh.
Enter Dromio of Ephesus.
ADRIANA. Say, is your tardy master now at hand?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness.
ADRIANA. Say, didst thou speak with him? know’st thou his mind?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear. Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.
LUCIANA. Spake he so doubtfully thou couldst not feel his meaning?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, he struck so plainly I could too well feel his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.
ADRIANA. But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he hath great care to please his wife.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.
ADRIANA. Horn-mad, thou villain?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I mean not cuckold-mad, But sure he’s 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. “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. “My mistress, sir,” quoth I. “Hang up thy mistress; I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!”
LUCIANA. Quoth who?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Quoth my master. “I know,” quoth he, “no house, no wife, no mistress.” So that my errand, due unto my tongue, I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders; For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.
ADRIANA. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Go back again, and be new beaten home? For God’s sake, send some other messenger.
ADRIANA. Back slave, or I will break thy pate across.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And he will bless that cross with other beating. Between you I shall have a holy head.
ADRIANA. Hence, prating peasant. Fetch thy master home.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Am I so round with you, as you with me, 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.]
LUCIANA. Fie, how impatience loureth in your face.
ADRIANA. His company must do his minions grace, Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. Hath homely age th’ alluring beauty took From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it. 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? 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 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.
LUCIANA. Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence.
ADRIANA. 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; Would that alone, a love he would detain, So he would keep fair quarter with his bed. I see the jewel best enamelled Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still 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, I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.
LUCIANA. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene II — The same
Enter Antipholus of Syracuse.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up Safe at the Centaur, and the heedful slave 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.
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? Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner? My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad, That thus so madly thou didst answer me?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Even now, even here, not half an hour since.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I did not see you since you sent me hence, Home to the Centaur with the gold you gave me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt, And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner, For which I hope thou felt’st I was displeas’d.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am glad to see you in this merry vein. What means this jest, I pray you, master, tell me?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth? Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.
[Beats Dromio.]
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Hold, sir, for God’s sake, now your jest is earnest. Upon what bargain do you give it me?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 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. 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, Or I will beat this method in your sconce.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head. And you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and ensconce it too, or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But I pray, sir, why am I beaten?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Dost thou not know?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Shall I tell you why?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say, every why hath a wherefore.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, first, for flouting me; and then wherefore, For urging it the second time to me.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season, When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason? Well, sir, I thank you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thank me, sir, for what?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. In good time, sir, what’s that?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Basting.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, then ’twill be dry.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Your reason?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time. There’s a time for all things.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I durst have denied that before you were so choleric.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. By what rule, sir?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time himself.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Let’s hear it.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. May he not do it by fine and recovery?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and recover the lost hair of another man.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts, and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost. Yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. For what reason?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. For two, and sound ones too.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Nay, not sound, I pray you.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sure ones, then.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Certain ones, then.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Name them.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his porridge.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, and did, sir; namely, e’en no time to recover hair lost by nature.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. But your reason was not substantial why there is no time to recover.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and therefore, to the world’s end will have bald followers.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion. But soft! who wafts us yonder?
Enter Adriana and Luciana.
ADRIANA. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown, Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects. I am not Adriana, nor thy wife. 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, 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 then estranged from thyself? 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; 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, As take from me thyself, and not me too. How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, Should’st thou but hear I were licentious? And that this body, consecrate to thee, 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, 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; 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. Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed, I live distain’d, thou undishonoured.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not. In Ephesus I am but two hours old, As strange unto your town as to your talk, Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d, Wants wit in all one word to understand.
LUCIANA. Fie, brother, how the world is chang’d with you. When were you wont to use my sister thus? She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. By Dromio?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By me?
ADRIANA. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman? What is the course and drift of your compact?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I, sir? I never saw her till this time.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Villain, thou liest, for even her very words Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I never spake with her in all my life.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. How can she thus, then, call us by our names? Unless it be by inspiration.
ADRIANA. How ill agrees it with your gravity 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. 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: 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 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? Until I know this sure uncertainty I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.
LUCIANA. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. This is the fairy land; O spite of spites! We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites; If we obey them not, this will ensue: They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.
LUCIANA. Why prat’st thou to thyself, and answer’st not? Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am transformed, master, am I not?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think thou art in mind, and so am I.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou hast thine own form.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, I am an ape.
LUCIANA. If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. ’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.
ADRIANA. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, To put the finger in the eye and weep Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn. Come, sir, to dinner; Dromio, keep the gate. Husband, I’ll dine above with you today, 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 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, And in this mist at all adventures go.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, shall I be porter at the gate?
ADRIANA. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.
LUCIANA. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene I — The same
Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, his man Dromio of Ephesus, Angelo the goldsmith and Balthasar the merchant.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all, My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours. Say that I linger’d with you at your shop To see the making of her carcanet, And that tomorrow you will bring it home. But here’s a villain that would face me down. He met me on the mart, and that I beat him, And charg’d him with a thousand marks in gold, And that I did deny my wife and house. Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I think thou art an ass.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. 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, You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You’re sad, Signior Balthasar; pray God our cheer May answer my good will and your good welcome here.
BALTHASAR. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. O, Signior Balthasar, either at flesh or fish A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.
BALTHASAR. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And welcome more common, for that’s nothing but words.
BALTHASAR Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. 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. But soft; my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Ginn!
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within.] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch! Either get thee from the door or sit down at the hatch: Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st for such store When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. What patch is made our porter? My master stays in the street.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on’s feet.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Who talks within there? Ho, open the door.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Right, sir, I’ll tell you when an you’ll tell me wherefore.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Wherefore? For my dinner. I have not dined today.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nor today here you must not; come again when you may.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. What art thou that keep’st me out from the house I owe?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O villain, thou hast stolen both mine office and my name; The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. If thou hadst been Dromio today in my place, Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass.
Enter Luce concealed from Antipholus of Ephesus and his companions.
LUCE. [Within.] What a coil is there, Dromio, who are those at the gate?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Let my master in, Luce.
LUCE. Faith, no, he comes too late, And so tell your master.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O Lord, I must laugh; Have at you with a proverb:—Shall I set in my staff?
LUCE. Have at you with another: that’s—When? can you tell?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. If thy name be called Luce,—Luce, thou hast answer’d him well.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I hope?
LUCE. I thought to have ask’d you.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. And you said no.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. So, come, help. Well struck, there was blow for blow.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou baggage, let me in.
LUCE. Can you tell for whose sake?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Master, knock the door hard.
LUCE. Let him knock till it ache.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.
LUCE. What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?
Enter Adriana concealed from Antipholus of Ephesus and his companions.
ADRIANA. [Within.] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Are you there, wife? you might have come before.
ADRIANA. Your wife, sir knave? go, get you from the door.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. If you went in pain, master, this knave would go sore.
ANGELO. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome. We would fain have either.
BALTHASAR. In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. 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.
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.
BALTHASAR. 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 Porpentine, 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.]
Act III, Scene II — 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 ruinous? 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, and I will dote; Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed I’ll take thee, and there lie, And, in that glorious supposition think He gains by death that hath such means to die. Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink!
LUCIANA. What, are you mad, that you do reason so?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
LUCIANA. It is a fault that springeth from your eye.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.
LUCIANA. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.
LUCIANA. Why call you me love? Call my sister so.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thy sister’s sister.
LUCIANA. That’s my sister.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. No, 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.
LUCIANA. All this my sister is, or else should be.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. 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. Give me thy hand.
LUCIANA. O, soft, sir, hold you still; I’ll fetch my sister to get her goodwill.
[Exit Luciana.]
Enter Dromio of Syracuse.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, how now, Dromio? where runn’st thou so fast?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Do you know me, sir? Am I Dromio? Am I your man? Am I myself?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am an ass, I am a woman’s man, and besides myself.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What woman’s man? and how besides thyself?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman, one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What claim lays she to thee?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What is she?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of without he say “sir-reverence”. I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. How dost thou mean a “fat marriage”?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What complexion is she of?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Swart like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept. For why? she sweats, a man may go overshoes in the grime of it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. That’s a fault that water will mend.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not do it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What’s her name?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that’s an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Then she bears some breadth?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip. She is spherical, like a globe. I could find out countries in her.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. In what part of her body stands Ireland?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, in her buttocks; I found it out by the bogs.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where Scotland?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I found it by the barrenness, hard in the palm of the hand.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where France?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war against her hair.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where England?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where Spain?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where America, the Indies?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. 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 carracks to be ballast at her nose.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude: this drudge or diviner laid claim to me, called 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 transformed me to a curtal dog, and made me turn i’ the wheel.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Go, hie thee presently, post to the road; And if the wind blow any way from shore, I will not harbour in this town tonight. If any bark put forth, come to the mart, Where I will walk till thou return to me. If everyone knows us, and we know none, ’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. As from a bear a man would run for life, So fly I from her that would be my wife.
[Exit.]
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. There’s none but witches do inhabit here, And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence. She that doth call me husband, even my soul Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse, Hath almost made me traitor to myself. But lest myself be guilty to self-wrong, I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.
Enter Angelo with the chain.
ANGELO. Master Antipholus.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Ay, that’s my name.
ANGELO. 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.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What is your will that I shall do with this?
ANGELO. What please yourself, sir; I have made it for you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.
ANGELO. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. Go home with it, and please your wife withal, And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you, And then receive my money for the chain.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more.
ANGELO. You are a merry man, sir; fare you well.
[Exit.]
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What I should think of this I cannot tell, But this I think, there’s no man is so vain That would refuse so fair an offer’d chain. I see a man here needs not live by shifts, When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. I’ll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay; If any ship put out, then straight away.
[Exit.]