Adr. [within.] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise? Once, this; your long experience of her wisdom, Plead on her part fome caufe to you unknown; And let us to the tiger all to dinner, And about evening come yourself alone, go, get you from the gate. S. Dro. If you went in pain, mafter, this knave would go fore. Ang. Here is neither cheer, fir, nor welcome; we would fain have either. E. Dro. They ftand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither. E. Ant. There's fomething in the wind that we cannot get in. S. Dro. You would fay fo, mafter, if your garments were thin. Your cake here is warm within: you ftand here in the cold. E. Ant. Go, fetch me fomething, I'll break ope the gate. S. Dro. Break any breaking here, and I'll break your knave's pate. E. Dro. A man may break a word with you, fir, and words are but wind; Ay, and break it in your face, fo he break it not behind. S. Dro. It feems, thou wanteft breaking; out upon thee, hind! E. Dro. Here's too much out upon thee; I pray thee, let me in. E. Dro. Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin. E. Ant. Well, I'll break in; gc, borrow me a crow. If by ftrong hand you offer to break in And dwell upon your grave when you are dead : For ever hous'd where it once gets poffeffion. E. Ant. You have prevail'd; I will depart in quiet, For there's the houfe: that chain I will beftow, Upon mine hoftefs there. Good fir, make hafte : I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll difdain me. Ang. I'll meet you at that place, fome hour, fir, hence. Luc. A The Houfe of Antipholis of Ephefus. ND may it be, that you have quite forgot Eee 2 Shall If Shall love, in building, grow fo ruinate? you did wed my fifter for her wealth, Then for her wealth's-fake ufe her with more kindness; Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth, Muffle your falfe love with fome fhow of blindness; Let not my fifter read it in your eye; Be not thy tongue thy own fhame's orator; Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted; Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word: (Being compact of credit) that you love us; Though others have the arm, fhow us the fleeve : We in your motion turn, and you may move us. Then, gentle brother, get you in again; Comfort my fifter, cheer her, call her wife: 'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain, When the sweet breath of flattery conquers ftrife. S. Ant. Sweet mistress; what your name is else I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine: Lefs in your knowledge and your grace you show not The folded meaning of your words deceit ; Are Are you a god? would you create me new ? Transform me then, and to your pow'r I'll yield. But if that I am I, then, well I know, Your weeping fifter is no wife of mine, Far more, far more to you do I decline: Spread o'er the filver waves thy golden hairs, S. Ant. For gazing on your beams, fair fun, being by. Luc. That's my sister. S. Ant. No; It is thyself, mine own felf's better part: Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart, Luc. All this my fifter is, or else should be. Luc. O, foft, fir, hold you ftill; I'll fetch my fifter, to get her good will. [Exit Luc. SCENE SCENE III. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. S. Ant. Why, how now, Dromio, where runn'ft thou so fast? S. Dro. Do you know me, fir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself? S. Ant. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyfelf. S. Dro. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and befides myself. S. Ant. What woman's man? and how befides thyfelf? S. Dro. Marry, fir, befides myself, I am due to a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. S. Ant. What claim lays fhe to thee? S. Dro. Marry, fir, fuch claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beaft: not that, I being a beast, fhe would have me; but that fhe, being a very beaftly creature, lays claim to me. S. Ant. What is she? S. Dro. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of, without he fay, fir reverence: I have but lean luck in the match; and yet is the a wond'rous fat marriage. S. Ant. How doft thou mean, a fat marriage? S. Dro. Marry, fir, fhe's the kitchen-wench, and all greafe, 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 the lives 'till doomsday, fhe'll burn a week longer than the whole world. S. Ant. What complexion is the of? S. Dro. Swart, like my fhoe, but her face nothing like fo clean kept; for why? fhe fweats, a man may go over-shoes in the grime of it. S. Ant. That's a fault that water will mend. S. Dro. No, fir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it. S. Ant. What's her name? S. Dro. Nell, fir; but her name and three quarters, that is, an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip. S. Ant. |