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 unstain'd, thou undishonoured.

Ant. S. Plead you to me, fair dame ?

you not:

In Ephesus I am but two hours old,

I know

As strange unto your town, as to your talk;
Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd,
Want wit in all one word to understand.

Luc. 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.

Ant. S. By Dromio!

Dro. S. By me?

Adr. By thee: and this thou didst return from

That he did buffet thee, and in his blows

Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle woman?

What is the course and drift of your compact?
Dro. S. I, sir? I never saw her till this time?
Ant. S. Villain, thou liest! for even her very words
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life. Ant. S. How can she thus, then, call us by our names, Unless it be by inspiration?

Adr. 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;

12

Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion
Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.

Ant. S. 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.

Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

10 That is, separated, parted. Shakespeare uses the word in 1 Henry VI., Act ii. sc. 4, in a similar sense ·

"And by his treason stand'st thou not attainted,
Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?"

So in The Triumph of Honour, by Beaumont and Fletcher:
"Hard-hearted Dorigen! yield, lest for contempt

They fix you there a rock whence they're exempt."

So Milton's Paradise Lost, b. v.: "They led the vine to wed her elm: She, spous'd, about him twines her marriageable arms.' Thus also in A Midsummer-Night's Dream: "The female ivy so enrings the barky fingers of the elm." Mr. Douce observes that there is something extremely beautiful in making the vine the lawful spouse of the elm, and the parasite plants here named its concubines. See also Ovid's tale of Vertumnus and Pomona. 12 That is, unfruitful. So in Othello: " Antres vast, and des erts idle."

Dro. S. 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 elvish sprites: 13 If we obey them not, this will ensue,

They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue Luc. Why prat'st thou to thyself, and answer's

not?

Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot! Dro. S. I am transformed, master, am I not? Ant. S. I think thou art, in mind, and so am I. Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my

shape.

Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form.

Dro. S.

No, I am an ape. Luc. If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis to an ass. Dro. S. '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.
Adr. Come, come; no longer will I be a fool,
To put the finger in the eye and weep,

Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.
Come, sir, to dinner: Dromio, keep the gate: -
Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day,

13 Theobald changed owls to ouphes in this passage most un warrantably. It is those unlucky birds, the striges or screech owls, which are meant. It has been asked, How should Shakespeare know that screech-owls were considered by the Romans as witches? Do these cavillers think that Shakespeare never looked into a book? Take an extract from the Cambridge Latin Dic tionary, 1594, 8vo., probably the very book he used: "Strix, a scritche owle; an unluckie kind of bird (as they of old time said) which sucked out the blood of infants lying in their cradles; a witch, that changeth the favour of children; an hagge or fairie." So in The London Prodigal, comedy, 1605 "Soul, I think I am sure crossed or witch'd with an owl." The epithet elvish is not in the first folio; but the second has elves, which was probably meant for elvish.

And shrive 14
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.

Ant. S. 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.

Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate ? Adr. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

Luc. Come, come, Antipholus; we dine too late.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The same.

[Exeunt.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROMIO of Ephesus, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR.

Ant. E. 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 carkanet,'
And that to-morrow you will bring it home.
But here's a villain, that would face me down
He met me on the mart; and that beat him,
And charg'd him with a thousand marks in gold;

14 That is, call you to confession.

A carcanet or chain for a lady's neck.

And that I did deny my wife and house

Thou drunkard thou, what didst thou mean by this? Dro. E. 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. Ant. E. I think thou art an ass.

Dro. E. 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.

Ant. E. You are sad, signior Balthazar: 'Pray God, our cheer

May answer my good will, and your good welcome

here.

Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear.

Ant. E. O signior Balthazar, either at flesh or

fish,

A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. Bal. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl

affords.

Ant. E. And welcome more common; for that's nothing but words.

Bal. Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host, and more spar

ing 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