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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 fuspect Th’unviolated honour of your wife. Once, this;- your long experience of her wisdom, Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, Plead on her part some cause to you unknown ; And doubt not, Sir, but she will well excuse, Why at this time the doors are barr'd against you. Be ruld by me, depart in patience, And let us to the Tyger all to dinner ; And about evening come your self alone, To know the reason of this strange restraint. If by strong hand you offer to break in, Now in the stirring passage of the day, A vulgar comment will be made of it; And that supposed by the common rout, Against your yet ungalled estimation, That may
with foul intrusion enter in, And dwell upon your grave
when For slander lives
upon succession For ever hous'd, where it once gets poffeffion.
E. Ant. You have prevail d; I will depart in quiet, And, in despight of wrath, (9) mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse, Pretty and witty, wild, and, yet too, gentle ; There will we dine: this woman that I mean, My wife (but, I protest, without desert,) Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal ; To her will we to dinner. Get you home,
you are dead:
(9) And, in Despight of Mirth,] In despight of what Mirth? We don't find, that it was any Joke, or matter of Mirth, to be shut out of Doors by his Wife. I make no Doubt therefore, but I have restor'd the true Reading. Antipholis's Passion is plain crough all thro' this Scene: and, in the next Axt, we find him confefling how angry He was at this Jun&ure. And did not I in Rage depart from thence? The Circumstances, I think, fufficieatly juftify my Emendation.
And fetch the chain; by this, I know, 'tis made;
hence. E. Ant. Do so; this jest shall cost me fome expence.
(Exeunt. SCENE, the House of Antipholis of Ephesus.
Enter Luciana, with Antipholis of Syracuse.
Then for her wealth's fake use her with more kindness; Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
Muffle your false love with some shew of blindness;
(10) And may it be, that you have quite forgot
An Husband's Office ? Shall, Antipholis,
Shall love in buildings grow so ruinate :} This Paffage has hitherto labour'd under a double Corruption. What Conceit could our Editors have of Love in Buildings growing ruinate: Our Poet meant no more than This. Shall thy Lovefprings rot, even in the Spring of Love and thall thy Love grow ruinous, ev’n while 'ois but building up! The ecxt Corruption is by an accident at Press, as I take it ; This Scene for Fifty two Lines successively is ftri&tly in alternate Rhymes: and this Measure is never broken, but in the Second, and Fourth, Lines of these two Couplets. 'Tis certain, I think, a Monosyllable dropt from the Tail of the Second Verse; and I have veacur'd to fupply it by, I hope, a probable Conjecture.
Let not my fifter read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator ;
Apparel vice, like virtue's harbinger ;
Teach fin the carriage of a holy faint ;
What simple thief brags of his own attaint ? 'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed,
And let her read it in thy looks at board :
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word :
Being compact of credit, that you love us ;
We in your motion turn, and you may move us. Then, gentle brother, get you in again ;
Comfort my fifter, chear her, call her wife ; 'Tis holy sport to be a little vain
When the sweet breath of Aattery conquers Atrife.
know not ;
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, Smotherd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The foulded meaning of your words' deceit;
(11) Alas, poor Women! make us not believe, &c.] From the whole Tenour of the context it is evident, that this Negative (not,) got Place in the first Copies instead of but. And these two Monosyllables have by Mitake reciprocally dispofsess’d one another in many other Passages of our Author's Works. Nothing can be more plain than the Poet's Sense in this Pasage. Women, says he, are so easy of Faith, that only make them believe you love them, and they'll take the bare Profession, for the Substance and Reality,
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 pow'r I'll yield. But if that I am I, then, well I know,
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine ;
Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears ;
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And in that glorious supposition think,
Let love, being light, be drowned if she fink.
fight. S. Ant. As good to wink, fweet love, as look on
S. Ant. No ;
Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be.
you I'll fetch my lifter, to get her good will.
Enter Dromio of Syracuse. S. Ant. Why, how now, Dromio, where run'st thou So faft?
S. Dro. Do you know me, Sir ? am I Dromio ? am I your man? am I myself?
S. Ant. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.
S. Dro. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and besides myself.
S. Ant. What woman's man? and how besides thyself?
S. Dro. Marry, Sir, besides 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 she to thee?
S. Dro. Marry, Sir, such a claim as you would lay to your horse ; and she would have me as a beast: not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that the, being very beastly 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 say, Sir reverence : I have but lean luck in the match ; and yet is the a wondrous fat marriage. S. Ant. How doft thou mean, a fat marriage ?
S. Dro. Marry, Sir, she's the kitchen-wench, and all grease ; 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 she lives 'till doomsday, The'll burn a week longer than the whole world. S. Ant. What complexion is the of? S. Dro. Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like fo clean kept ; for why? The sweats, a man may geover hoes in the grime of it.
S. Ant. That's a fault, that water will mend. S. Dro. No, Sir, 'tis in grain ; Noah's food could not do is.