(When thou didst make him mafter of thy bed,)
To do him all the grace and good I could.
Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate;
And bid the lady abbess come to me.
I will determine this, before I ftir.

Meff. O

SCENE IV.

Enter a Messenger.

Mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself;
My master and his man are both broke

loofe,

Beaten the maids a-row, and bound the doctor,
Whofe beard they have fing'd off with brands of fire;
And ever as it blaz'd, they threw on him
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair;
My master preaches patience to him, and the while
His man with scissars nicks him like a fool:
And, fure, unless you send some present help,
Between them they will kill the conjurer.

Adr. Peace, fool, thy master and his man are here, And that is false, thou dost report to us.

Meff. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true; I have not breath'd almost, since I did fee it. He crys for you, and vows if he can take you, To scotch your face, and to disfigure you.

[Cry within. Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone. Duke. Come, stand by me, fear nothing: guard

with halberds.

Adr. Ay me, it is my husband; witness you,
That he is borne about invisible!

Ev'n now we hous'd him in the abbey here,
And now he's there, past thought of human reason,

SCENE

SCENE V.

Enter Antipholis, and Dromio of Ephesus.

E. Ant.

USTICE, most gracious Duke, oh, grant me justice.

J

Even for the service that long since I did thee,
When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took
Deep scars to fave thy life, even for the blood
That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

Ageon. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote, o I fee my fon Antipholis, and Dromio.

er

thin

a

Con

NE

E. Ant. Justice, sweet Prince, against that woman

there:

She whom thou gav'st to me to be my wife
That hath abused and dishonour'd me,
Ev'n in the strength and height of injury.
Beyond imagination is the wrong,

That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.
Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.
E. Ant. This day, great Duke, she shut the doors

upon me;

Whilst she with harlots feasted in my house.

Duke. A grievous fault; fay, woman, didst thou so?
Adr. No, my good lord: myself, he and my fifter,

To day did dine together: fo befal my foul,
As this is false, he burdens me withal!

Luc. Ne'er may I look on day, nor fleep on night,
But she tells to your highness simple truth!
Ang. O, perjur'd woman! they are both forsworn.
In this the mad-man justly chargeth them.

E. Ant. My Liege, I am advised, what I fay.
Neither disturb'd with the effect of wine,
Nor, hardy-rash, provok'd with raging ire;
Albeit, my wrongs might make one wifer mad.
This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner;
That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her,
Could witness it; for he was with me then;

D3

Who

Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,
Promifing to bring it to the Porcupine,
Where Balthazar and I did dine together.
Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,
I went to feek him; in the street I met him,
And in his company that gentleman.
There did this perjur'd goldsmith swear me down,
That I this day from him receiv'd the chain;
Which, God he knows, I faw not; for the which,
He did arrest me with an officer.

4

I did obey, and fent my peasant home
For certain ducats; he with none return'd.
Then fairly I bespoke the officer,
To go in person with me to my house.
By th' way we met my wife, her fifter, and
A rabble more of vile confederates;

They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac'd villian,
A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune-teller,
A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch,
A living dead man. This pernicious flave,
Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer;
And, gazing in my eyes, feeling my pulse,
And with no-face, as 'twere, out-facing me,
Cries out, I was poffeft. Then all together
They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence;
And in a dark and dankish vault at home
There left me and my man, both bound together;
'Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds asunder,
I gain'd my freedom, and immediately
Ran hither to your Grace; whom I befeech
To give me ample fatisfaction

For thefe deep shames and great indignities.

Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him; That he din'd not at home, but was lock'd out. Duke. But had he such a chain of thee, or no? Ang. He had, my lord; and when he ran in here, These people faw the chain about his neck.

Mer.

jan

;

Mer. Besides I will be fworn, these ears of mine

Heard you confess, you had the chain of him,
After you first forswore it on the mart;
And thereupon I drew my fword on you;
And then you fled into this abbey here,
From whence, I think, you're come by miracle.

E. Ant. I never came within these abbey walls,
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;
I never saw the chain, fo help me heav'n!
And this is false, you burden me withal.

Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this? I think, you all have drunk of Circe's cup: If here you hous'd him, here he would have been; If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly: You say, he din'd at home; the goldsmith here Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

E. Dro. Sir, he din'd with her there, at the Por

cupine.

Cour. He did, and from my finger snatch'd that
ring.

E. Ant. 'Tis true, my Liege, this ring I had of her.
Duke. Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here?
Cour. As fure, my Liege, as I do fee your Grace.
Duke. Why, this is strange; go call the Abbess

hither;

I think, you are all mated, or stark mad.

[Exit one to the Abbess.

SCENE VI.

Egeon. M

OST mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak

a word:

Haply, I fee a friend, will save my life;
And pay the sum that may deliver me.

Duke. Speak freely, Syracufan, what thou wilt.
Ageon. Is not your name, Sir, call'd Antipholis ?

And is not that your bond-man Dromio?

E. Dro. Within this hour I was his bond-man,

Sir,

D 4

But

But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords;
Now am I Dromio, and his man unbound.

Ageon. I am fure, you both of you remember me.
E. Dro. Ourselves we do remember, Sir, by you;
For lately we were bound, as you are now.
You are not Pinch's patient, are you, Sir?

Ægeon. Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

E. Ant. I never say you in my life, 'till now. Ægeon. Oh! grief hath chang'd me, since you faw me laft;

And careful hours with time's deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures in my face;
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
E. Ant. Neither.

Ægeon. Dromio, nor thou ?

E. Dro. No, trust me, Sir, nor I.

Ægeon. I am fure, thou doft.

E. Dro. I, Sir? but I am fure, I do not: and whatfoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

Ægeon. Not know my voice! oh, time's extremity! Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue In seven short years, that here my only fon Knows not my feeble key of untun'd cares? Tho' now this grained face of mine be hid In fap-confuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up; Yet hath my night of life some memory; My wafting lamp some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear: All these hold witnesses I cannot err, Tell me thou art my fon Antipholis.

E. Ant. I never faw my father in my life. Ægeon. But seven years fince, in Syracufa-bay, Thou know'st, we parted; but, perhaps, my son, Thou sham'st t'acknowledge me in misery.

E. Ant.