Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends,
Bring them to our embracement. Still 'tis strange
[Exeunt CLEOMENES, Lords, and Gentlemen.
Ile thus should steal upon us.

Paul.
Had our prince
(Jewel of children) seen this hour, he had pair'd
Well with this lord: there was not a full month
Between their births.
Leon.
Pr'ythee no more; thou know'st
He dies to me again, when talk'd of; sure,
When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches
Will bring me to consider that which may
Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.

Re-enter CLEOMENES, with FLORIZEL, Perdita, and
Attendants.

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;
For she did print your royal father off,
Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one,
Your father's image is so hit in you,
His very air, that I should call you brother,
As I did him; and speak of something wildly
By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome,
And your fair princess-goddess! O, alas!
I lost a couple that, 'twixt heaven and earth
Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as
You, gracious couple, do!-And then I lost
(All mine own folly) the society,

Amity too, of your brave father; whom,
Though bearing misery, I desire my life
Once more to look upon.

Flo.
By his command
Have I here touched Sicilia; and from him
Give you all greetings that a king, a friend,
Can send his brother; and, but infirmity
(Which waits upon worn times) hath something seiz'd
His wish'd ability, he had himself

The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his
Measur'd to look upon you; whom he loves

(He bade me say so) more than all the sceptres,
And those that bear them, living.

Leon.

O, my brother,

(Good gentleman !) the wrongs I have done thee stir
Afresh within me; and these thy offices,
So rarely kind, are as interpreters

Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither,
As is the spring to the earth! And hath he too
Expos'd this paragon to the fearful usage
(At least ungentle) of the dreadful Neptune,
To greet a man not worth her pains, much less
The adventure of her person?

Flo.

She came from Libya.

Leon.

Good my lord,

Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and lov'd?

Flo. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose

daughter

'His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her; thence (A prosperous south-wind friendly) we have cross'd, To execute the charge my father gave me

For visiting your highness. My best train

I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd;

Who for Bohemia bend, to signify

Not only my success in Libya, sir,
But my arrival, and my wife s, in safety
Here, where we are.

Leon.
The blessed gods
Purge all infection from our air, whilst you
Do climate here! You have a holy father,
A graceful gentleman; against whose person,
So sacred as it is, I have done sin;

For which the heavens, taking angry note,
Have left me issueless; and your father's bless'd
(As he from heaven merits it) with you,
Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,
Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on,
buch goodly things as you?

I thought of her, But your petition

[TO FLORIZEL

Is yet unanswer'd: I will to your father;
Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires,

I am a friend to them and you; upon which errand
I now go toward him. Therefore follow me,
And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-The same.-Before the Palace.
Enter AUTOLYCUS and a Gentleman.

Aut. 'Beseech you, sir, were you present at this • relation ?

1 Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber: only this, methought I heard the shepherd say, he found the child.

Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it.

1 Gent. I make a broken delivery of the business: -but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo, were very notes of admiration; they seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness,language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. Ă notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say, if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one it must needs be.

Enter another Gentleman.

Here comes a gentleman that, happily, knows more; The news, Rogero!

2 Gent. Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is fulfilled; the king's daughter is found! Such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour, that ballad

makers cannot be able to express it.

Enter a third Gentleman.

Here comes the lady Paulina's steward; he can deliver you more. How goes it now, sir ? This news, which is called true, is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir?

3 Gent. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance; that which you hear, you'll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs: the mantle of Queen Hermione: her jewel about the neck of it; the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother; the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences, proclaim her, with all certainty, to be the king's daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?

2 Gent. No.

3 Gent. Then have you lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so, and in such manner, that, it seemed, sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting-up of eyes, holding-up of hands, with countenance of such distraction, that they were to be known by garment not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries, O thy mother, thy mother! then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings' reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.

2 Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?

3 Gent. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse though credit be asleep, and not an ear open; he was torn to pieces with a bear. This avouches the shepherd's son, who has not only his innocence (which seems much) to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his, that Paulina knows. 1 Gent. What became of his bark and his follow

ers ?

3 Gent. Wrecked the same instant of their master's death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost, when it was found. But, oh the noble combat that, 'twixt joy and sorrow, was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing.

1 Gent. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted.

2 Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish), was, when at the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came to it (bravely confessed and lamented by the king), how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did with an alas! I would fain say, bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned,-all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal. 1 Gent. Are they returned to the court ?

3 Gent. No: the princess, hearing of her mother's statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina, a piece many years in doing, and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romane; who, had he himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would beguile nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape. He so near to Hermione hath done Hermione, that, they say, one would speak to her, and stand in hope of answer; thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to

will be born;-our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let's along. [Exeunt Gentlemen. Aut. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son a-board the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what; but he, at that time, over fond of the shepherd's daughter (so he then took her to be), who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscovered. But 'tis all one to me; for, had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relished among my other discredits.

Enter Shepherd and Clown.

Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.

Shep. Come, boy, I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.

Clo. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day; because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not, and think me still no gentleman born. You were best say, these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.

Aut. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born. Clo. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

Shep. And so have I, boy.

Clo. So you have. But I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king's son took me by the hand and called me brother, and then the two kings called my father, brother; and then the prince my brother, and the princess my sister,-called my father, father; and so we wept: and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.

Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more. Clo. Ay, or else 'twere hard luck; being in so preposterous estate as we are.

Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince, my master. Shep. Pr'ythee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.

Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life?

Aut. Ay, an it like your good worship.

Clo. Give me thy hand! I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohe

mia.

Shep. You may say it, but not swear it.

Clo. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I'll swear it. Shep How, if it be false, son ?

Clo. If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend. And I'll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands, and that thou wilt not be drunk. But I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands, and that thou wilt be drunk; but I'll swear it: and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.

If I

Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow. do not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not.-Hark! the kings and the princess, our kindred, are going to see the queen's picture. Come, follow us; we'll be thy good masters. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.-The same.-A Room in Paulina's
House.

Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, FLORIZEL, PERDITA,
CAMILLO, PAULINA, Lords, and Attendants.
Leon. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort
That I have had of thee!

Paul.

What, sovereign sir,

I did not well, I meant well: all my services
You have paid home; but that you have vouchsaf'd
With your crown'd brother and these your contracted
Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,
It is a surplus of your grace, which never
My life may last to answer.
Leon.

O Paulina!
We honour you with trouble. But we came
To see the statue of our queen: your gallery
Have we pass'd through, not without much content
In many singularities, but we saw not
That which my daughter came to look upon

The statue of her mother.

Paul.

As she liv'd peerless,
So her dead likeness, I do well believe,
Excels whatever yet you look'd upon,
Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it
Lonely-apart. But here it is: prepare

To see the life as lively mock'd as ever
Still sleep mock'd death. Behold! and say 'tis well.
[PAULINA undraws a curtain, and discovers a
statue.

I like your silence,-it the more shows off
Your wonder. But yet speak, first you, my liege,
Comes it not something near?
Leon.

Her natural posture!
Chide me, dear stone! that I may say, indeed,
Thou art Hermione: or, rather, thou art she
In thy not chiding; for she was as tender
As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina,
Hermione was not so much wrinkled,-nothing
So aged, as this seems.

Pol.

Oh, not by much.

Paul. So much the more our carver's excellence; Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her As she liv'd now.

Leon.

As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort, as it is Now piercing to my soul. Oh! thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty (warm life, As now it coldly stands), when first I woo'd her! I am asham'd; does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it ? Oh, royal piece! There's magic in thy majesty: which has My evils conjur'd to remembrance; and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee!

Lady,

Per. And give me leave, And do not say 'tis superstition, that I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Dear queen! that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss! Paul.

Oh, patience! The statue is but newly fix'd,-the colour's Not dry.

Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow awaySo many summers dry; scarce any joy Did ever so long live,-no sorrow

But kill'd itself much sooner.

Pol.

Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this, have power To take off so much grief from you, as he Will piece up in himself.

Paul.

Indeed, my lord, of my poor image

If I had thought the sight
Would thus have wrought you (for the stone is mine),
I'd not have show'd it.

Leon.
Do not draw the curtain.
Paul. No longer shall you gaze on't, lest your
fancy

May think, anon, it moves.

Let be!-Let be!

Leon. Would I were dead; but that, methinks, alreadyWhat was he that did make it ?-See, my lord! Would you not deem it breath'd, and that those veins Did verily bear blood?

Pol.

Masterly done!

The very life seems warm upon her lip.

Leon. The fixture of her eye has motion in't, As we are mock'd with art.

Paul.

My lord's almost so far transported, that He'll think, anon, it lives.

Leon.

I'll draw the curtain ;

O, sweet Paulina,

Make me to think so twenty years together;-
No settled senses of the world can match
The pleasure of that madness. Let't alone!

Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you; but

I could afflict you further.

Strike all that look upon with marvel! Come,
I'll fill your grave up!-Stir; nay, come away!
Bequeath to death your numbness! For from him
Dear life redeems you.--You perceive she stirs.
[HERMIONE comes down from the pedestal.
Start not; her actions shall be holy as
You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her
Until you see her die again, for then

You kill her double; nay, present your hand.
When she was young you woo'd her; now, in age,
Is she become the suitor.
Leon.

Paul. Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale; but it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.— Please you to interpose, fair madam; kneel, And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady! Our Perdita is found.

[Presenting PERDITA, who kneels to HERMIONE.
Her.
You gods, look down,

And from your sacred vials pour your graces
Upon my daughter's head! Tell me, mine own,
Where hast thou been preserv'd?-Where liv'd ?—

How found

Thy father's court? For thou shalt hear that I,
Knowing, by Paulina, that the oracle
Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv'd
Myself to see the issue.

Paul.
There's time enough for that
Lest they desire upon this push, to trouble
Your joys with like relation.-Go together,
You precious winners all!-Your exultation
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,
Will wing me to some wither'd bough, and there
My mate, that's never to be found again,
Lament, till I am lost.

Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,
As I by thine a wife: this is a match,

And made between's by vows. Thou hast found mine;

But how, is to be question'd: for I saw her,

As I thought, dead, and have, in vain, said many

A prayer upon her grave. I'll not seek far
(For him, I partly know his mind) to find thee
An honourable husband. Come, Camillo,
And take her by the hand; whose worth and honesty
Is richly noted, and here justified

By us, a pair of kings. Let's from this place.—
What? Look upon my brother! Both your pardons,
That e'er I put between your holy looks

My ill suspicion.-This your son-in-law,
And son unto the king (whom heavens directing)
Is troth-plight to your daughter.-Good Paulina,
Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely
Each one demand, and answer to his part
Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first
We were dissever'd;-hastily lead away.

[Exeunt.

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

SOLINUS, Duke of Ephesus. EGEON, a merchant of Syracuse.

DROMIO of Ephesus,

LUCE, her servant.

A Courtesan.

Gaoler, Officers, and other Atttendants.

SCENE, Ephesus.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-A Hall in the Duke's Palace.

Enter DUKE, EGEON, Gaoler, Officer, and other Attendants.

Ege. 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 gilders to redeem their lives,
Have sealed 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 Syracusans and ourselves,
To admit no traffic to our adverse towns.
Nay, more:

If any born at Ephesus be seen
At any Syracusan marts and fairs,-
Again, if any Syracusan 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 an hundred marks;
Therefore by law thou art condemn'd to die.
Ege. Yet this my comfort: when your words are
done,

My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Duke. Well, Syracusan, say in brief the cause
Why thou departed'st from thy native home,
And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus.
Ege. 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 too, 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 he (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 she had not been long but she became
A joyful mother of two goodly sons;

Aud, 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

poor 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 fasten'd 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,
Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast;
And, floating straight, obedient to the stream,
Were 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 wish'd 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 what went before.

Duke. Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so; For we may pity, though not pardon thee,

Ege. Oh, 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 encounter'd 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 helpful welcome to their shipwreck'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 hath befall'n of them and thee till now.
Ege. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and importun'd me
That his attendant (for 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 labour'd of a love to see,
I hazarded the loss of whom I lov'd.
Five summers have I spent in furthest 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 help by beneficial help;
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
Beg thou or borrow to make up the sum,
And live; if not, then thou art doom'd to die.
Gaoler, take him to thy custody.
Gaol.
I will, my lord.
Ege. Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [Exeunt.

SCENE II-A Public Place.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS and DROMIO of Syracuse, and a Merchant.

Mer. Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum, Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.

This very day, a Syracusan 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.

Ant. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
Within this hour it will be dinner-time;
Till then 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.

Dro. S. Many a man would take you at your word, And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[Exit DRO. S.
Ant. S. 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?

Mer. 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 afterwards consort you till bed-time.
My present business calls me from you now.

Ant. S. Farewell till then. I will go lose myself,
And wander up and down to view the city.
Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own content.
[Exit Merchant.

Ant. S. 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, falling 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 almanack of my true date,-
What now? How chance thou art return'd so soon?
Dro. E. Return'd so soon! Rather approach'd too
late.

The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit;
The clock hath stricken 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 to-day.

Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray,

Where have you left the money that I gave you? Dro. E. O sixpence, that I had o' Wednesday last,

Το pay

the saddler for my mistress' crupper!

The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

Ant. S. I am not in a sporting 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?

Dro. E. 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.

Ant. S. 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?
Dro. E. To me, sir? Why, you gave no gold to

me.

Ant. S. Come on, sir knave; have done your foolishness, And tell me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge. Dro. E. 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.

Ant. S. 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?
Dro. E. 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.
Ant. S. Thy mistress' marks? What mistress, slave,
hast thou ?

Dro. E. 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.
Ant. S. What! wilt thou flout me thus unto my
face,

Being forbid ? There, take you that, sir knave.
Dro. E. What mean you, sir? For God's sake,
hold your hands.
Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.
[Exit Dro. E.
Ant. S. 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.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-A Public Place.

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.

Adr. 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.

Luc. 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.
Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be more?
Luc. Because their business still lies out o' door.
Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.
Luc. O, know, he is the bridle of your will.
Adr. There's none but asses will be bridled so.
Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woo.
There's nothing situate under heaven's eye.
But hath its bound, in earth, in sea, and sky:
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
Are their males' subject, and at their controls.
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,
Lords 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.
Adr. This servitude makes you to keep unwed