If thou hadst been Dromio to Day in my place,
Thou wouldst have chang'd thy Face for a Name, or thy
Name for an Ass.

Luce, within. What a Coile is there, Dromio? Who are thofe at the Gate?

E. Dro. Let my Mafter in, Luce.

Luce. Faith, no; he comes too late; and fo tell your Mafter. E. Dro. O Lord, I must laugh; have at you with a Proverb.

Shall I fet in my Staff?

Luce. Have at you with another; that's when? Can you

tell?

S. Dro. If thy Name be called Luce, Luce, thou haft anfwer'd him well.

E. Ant. Do you hear, you Minion, you'll let us in, I hope?

Luce. I thought to have askt

S. Dro. And you faid, no.

you.

E. Dro. So, come, help, well ftruck; there was Blow for
Blow.

E. Ant. Thou Baggage, let me in.
Luce. Can you tell for whofe fake?
E. Dro. Mafter, knock the Door hard.
Luce. Let him knock 'till it ake.

E. Ant. 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?

Adr. within. Who is that at the Door that keeps all this Noife?

S. Dro. By my Troth, your Town is troubled with unruly Boys.

E. Ant. Are you there, Wife? You might have come be fore.

Adri. Your Wife, Sir Knave ! Go get you from the Door. E. Dro. If you went in pain, Mafter, this Knave would go fore.

Ang. Here is neither Cheer, Sir, norWelcome; we would fain have either.

Bal. In debating which was beft, we shall part with nei

ther.

E. Dre

E. Dro. They stand at the Door, Mafter; bid them Welcome hither.

E. Ant. There's fomething in the Wind, that we cannot get in.

E. Dro. You would fay fo, Master, if your Garments were thin.

Your Cake here is warm within: You ftand here in the Cold,

It would make a Man as mad as a Buck to be fo bought and fold.

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, Sir, and
Words are but Wind;

Ay, and break it in your Face, fo he break it not behind.
S. Dro. It feems thou want'ft breaking; Out upon thee,
Hind.

E. Dro. Here's too much: Out upon thee; I pray thee let me in.

S. Dro. Ay, when Fowls have no Feathers, and Fish have

no Fin.

E. Ant. Well, I'll break in; go borrow me a Crow.
E. Dro. A Crow without Feather, Mafter, mean you fo?
For a Fish without a Fin, there's a Fowl without a Fearher:
If a Crow help us in, Sirrah, we'll pluck a Crow together.
E. Ant. Go, get thee gone, fetch me an Iron Crow.
Bal. Have patience, Sir: Oh let it not be fo,
Herein you war against your Reputation,
And draw within the compass of Sufpe&
Th' unviolated Honour of your Wife.
Once this; your long experience of her Wisdom,
Her fober Virtue, Years and Modefty,

Plead on her part fome Caufe to you unknown;
And doubt nor, Sir, but the will well excufe
Why at this time the Doors are made against you.
Be rul'd by me, depart in Patience,

And let us to the Tyger all to Dinner,
And about Evening come your felf alone,
To know the Reafon of this ftrange Reftraint.
If by ftrong Hand you offer to break in

U 2

Now

Now in the stirring Paffage of the Day,
A vulgar Comment will be made of it;
And that fuppofed by the common Rout,
Against your yet ungalled Eftimation,
That may with foul Intrufion enter in,
And dwell upon your Grave when you are dead:
For Slander lives upon Succeffion,

For ever hous'd where it once gets Poffeffion.

E. Ant. You have prevail'd; I will depart in quiet,
And in defpight of Mirth mean to be merry
I know a Wench of excellent Difcourfe,
Pretty and witty, wild, and yet too gentle;
There will we dine: This Woman that I mean,
My Wife, but I proteft without Defert,
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal;

To her will we to Dinner. Get you home,
And fetch the Chain; by this I know 'tis made;
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine ;

For there's the Houfe: That Chain I will beftow,
Be it for nothing but to fpight my Wife,
Upon my Hoftefs there; good Sir, make hafte:
Since my own Doors refufe to entertain me,
I'll knock elsewhere, to fee if they'll disdain me.
Ang. I'll meet you at that Place, fome Hour, Sir, hence.
E.Ant. Do fo; this Jeft fhall coft me fome Expence. [Ex.
Enter Luciana, with Antipholis of Syracufe.

Luc. And may it be, that you have quite forgot
A Husband's Office? Shall Antipholis,

Even in the Spring of Love, thy Love-springs rot?
Shall Love in Buildings grow fo ruinate?

If you did wed my Sifter for her Wealth,

Then for her Wealths-fake ufe her with more Kindness;

Or if you like elsewhere, do it by ftealth,

Muffle your falfe Love with fome fhew of Blindness;

Let not my Sifter read it in your Eye?

Be not thy Tongue thy own Shame's Orator;
Look fweet, fpeak fair; become Difloyalty:
Apparel Vice like Virtue's Harbinger;
Bear a fair Prefence, tho' your Heart be tainted;
Teach Sin the carriage of a holy Saint;

Be fecret Falfe: What need the be acquainted?

What

What fimple 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 heth a Baftard-fame, well managed;
Ill Deeds are doubled with an evil Word:
Alas poor Women, make us not believe,
Being compact of Credit, that you love us;
Tho' other have the Arm, fhews us the Sleeve :
We in your Motion run; and you may move us.
Then, gentle Brother, get you in again;
Comfort my Sifter, chear her, call her Wife:
'Tis holy Sport to do a little vain,

When the fweet breath of Flattery conquers Strife.

S. Ant. Sweet Miftrefs; what your Name is elfe, I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine:

Lefs in your Knowledge, and your Grace you show nct,
Than our Earth's Wonder, more than Earth, Divine.
Teach me, dear Creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthy grofs Conceit,

Smother'd in Errors, feeble, fhadow, weak,
The foulded 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 Sifter is no Wife of mine,
Nor to her Bed a Homage do I owe;
Far more, far more to you do I decline:

Oh train me not, fweet Mermaid, with thy Note,
To drown me in thy Sifter's flood of Tears;
Sing Siren for thy felf, and I will dote;
Spread o'er the filver Waves thy golden Hairs,
And as a Bed I'll take thee, and there lye:
And in that glorious Suppofition think,
He gains by Death that hath fuch means to die;
Let Love, being light, be drowned if he fink.

Luc. What, are you mad, that you do reafon fo?
S. Ant. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
Luc. It is a Fault that fpringeth from your Eye.
S. Ant. For gazing on your Beams, fair Sun being by.

U 3

Luc,

Luc. Gaze when you should, and that will clear your
Sight.

S. Ant. As good to wink, fweet Love, as look on Night.
Luc. Why call you me, Love? call my Sifter fo.
S. Ant. Thy Sifter's Sifter.

Luc. That's my Sifter.

S. Ant. No, it is thy felf, mine own felf's better Part: Mine Eye's clear Eye, my dear Heart's dearer Heart, My Food, my Fortune, and my fweet Hope's Aim, My fole Earth's Heav'n, and my Heaven's Claim.

Luc. All this my Silter is, or elfe fhould be.

S. Ant. Call thy felf, Sifter fweet; for I am thee:
Thee will I love, and with thee lead my Life,
Thou haft no Husband yet, nor I no Wife;
Give me thy Hand.

Luc. Oh foft, Sir, hold you ftill;

I'll fetch my Sifter, to get her good will.

Enter Dromio of Syracufe.

[Exit Luc.

S. Ant. Why how now, Dromio, where runn'ft thou fo faft?

S. Dro. Do you know me, Sir? am I Dromio? am I your Man? am I my self?

S. Ant. Thou art Dremia, thou art my Man, thou art thy felf.

S. Dro. I am an Afs, I am a Woman's Man, and befides my felf.

S. Ant. What Woman's Man? and how befides thy felf? S. Dro. Marry, Sir, befides my self, I am due to a Woman; One that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. S. Ant. What Claim lays the to thee?

S. Dro. Marry, Sir, fuch Claim as you would lay to your Horse; and the would have me as a Beaft: Not that I being a Beast she would have me, but that the being a very beaft ly Creature, lays Claim to me.

S. Ant. What is she?

S. Dro. A very reverent Body; ay, fuch aone as a Man may not speak of, without he fay, Sir-reverence: I have but lean luck in the Match; and yet is fhe a wondrous fat Marriage.

S. Ant. How doft thou mean, a fat Marriage? S. Dro. Marry, Sir, fhe's the Kitchen-wench, and all Grease, and I know not what use to put her to, but to make a Lamp

of