Othello, the Moore of Venice

Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall
And by the doom of death end woes and all.

Merchant of Syracuse, 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 guilders to redeem their lives
Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,
Excludes all pity from our threatening looks.
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed
Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,
To admit no traffic to our adverse towns. Nay, more,
If any born at Ephesus be seen
At any Syracusian marts and fairs;
Again: if any Syracusian 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 a hundred marks;
Therefore by law thou art condemned to die.

Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause
Why thou departed'st from thy native home
And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.

A heavier task could not have been imposed
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 sorrows give me leave.
In Syracusa was I born, and wed
Unto a woman, happy but for me,
And by me, had not our hap been bad.
With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased
By prosperous voyages I often made
To Epidamnum; till my factor's death
And the 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 had she not been long, but she became
A joyful mother of two goodly sons;
And, 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 meaner 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 embraced,
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,
Forced 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 seafaring 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 disposed, 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,
Was carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
Dispersed those vapours that offended us;
And by the benefit of his wished 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 that went before.

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

O, 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 encounterd 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 seized on us;
And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,
Gave healthful 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.

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.

My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother: and importuned me
That his attendant – so 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 loved.
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.

Hapless Ægeon, 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 would 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 I will favour thee in what I can.
Therefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this day
To seek thy life by beneficial help:
Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
And live; if no, then thou art doom'd to die.
Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

I will, my lord.

Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum,
Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
This very day a Syracusian 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.

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 that, 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.

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

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?

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 afterward consort you till bed-time:
My present business calls me from you now.

Farewell till then: I will go lose myself
And wander up and down to view the city.

Sir, I commend you to your own content.

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.

Here comes the almanac of my true date.
What now? how chance thou art return'd so soon?

Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late:
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken 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 today.

Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:
Where have you left the money that I gave you?

O, – sixpence, that I had o' Wednesday last
To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper?
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

I am not in a sportive humour now:
Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?
We being strangers here, how darest thou trust
So great a charge from thine own custody?

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.

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?

To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.

Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,
And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge.

My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:
My mistress and her sister stays for you.

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 undisposed:
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

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.

Thy mistress' marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou?

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.

What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

What mean you, sir? for God's sake, hold your hands!
Nay, and you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.

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.

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.

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.

Why should their liberty than ours be more?

Because their business still lies out o' door.

Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

O, know he is the bridle of your will.

There's none but asses will be bridled so.

Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.
There's nothing situate under heaven's eye
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
Are their males' subjects and at their controls:
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,
Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas,
Indued with intellectual sense and souls,
Of more preeminence than fish and fowls,
Are masters to their females, and their lords:
Then let your will attend on their accords.

This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.

Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey.

How if your husband start some other where?

Till he come home again, I would forbear.

Patience unmoved! no marvel though she pause;
They can be meek that have no other cause.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much or more would we ourselves complain:
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me,
But, if thou live to see like right bereft,
This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.

Well, I will marry one day, but to try.
Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh.

Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

Nay, he's at two hands with me, and that my two ears
can witness.

Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st thou his mind?

Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear:
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?

Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his
blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce
understand them.

But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he
hath great care to please his wife.

Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.

Horn-mad, thou villain!

I mean not cuckold-mad;
But, sure, he is stark mad.
When I desired him to come home to dinner,
He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold:
''Tis dinner-time,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he;
'Your meat doth burn,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:
'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he.
'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?'
'The pig,' quoth I, 'is burn'd;' 'My gold!' quoth he:
'My mistress, sir' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress!
I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!'

Quoth who?

Quoth my master:
'I know,' quoth he, 'no house, no wife, no mistress.'
So that my errand, due unto my tongue,
I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;
For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.

Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.

Go back again, and be new beaten home?
For God's sake, send some other messenger.

Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

And he will bless that cross with other beating:
Between you I shall have a holy head.

Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.

Am I so round with you as you with me,
That like a football you do spurn me thus?
You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:
If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!

His company must do his minions grace,
Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.
Hath homely age the alluring beauty took
From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:
Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?
If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,
Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:
Do their gay vestments his affections bait?
That's not my fault: he's master of my state:
What ruins are in me that can be found,
By him not ruin'd? then is he the ground
Of my defeatures. My decayed fair
A sunny look of his would soon repair
But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale
And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence!

Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.
I know his eye doth homage otherwhere,
Or else what lets it but he would be here?
Sister, you know he promised me a chain;
Would that alone, alone he would detain,
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!
I see the jewel best enamelled
Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still,
That others touch, and often touching will
Wear gold: and no man that hath a name,
By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up
Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave
Is wander'd forth, in care to seek me out
By computation and mine host's report.
I could not speak with Dromio since at first
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

How now sir! is your merry humour alter'd?
As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
You know no Centaur? you received no gold?
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?
My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,
That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

Even now, even here, not half an hour since.

I did not see you since you sent me hence,
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.

Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt,
And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner;
For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased.

I am glad to see you in this merry vein:
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.

Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?
Think'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

Hold, sir, for God's sake! now your jest is earnest:
Upon what bargain do you give it me?

Because that I familiarly sometimes
Do use you for my fool and chat with you,
Your sauciness will jest upon my love
And make a common of my serious hours.
When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
If you will jest with me, know my aspect,
And fashion your demeanor to my looks,
Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, I
had rather have it a head: an you use these blows
long, I must get a sconce for my head and ensconce
it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders.
But, I pray, sir why am I beaten?

Dost thou not know?

Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

Shall I tell you why?

Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why hath
a wherefore.

Why, first, – for flouting me; and then, wherefore –
For urging it the second time to me.

Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,
When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme
nor reason?
Well, sir, I thank you.

Thank me, sir, for what?

Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

I'll make you amends next, to give you nothing for
something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

In good time, sir; what's that?

Basting.

Well, sir, then 'twill be dry.

If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it.

Your reason?

Lest it make you choleric and purchase me another
dry basting.

Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there's a
time for all things.

I durst have denied that, before you were so choleric.

By what rule, sir?

Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald
pate of father Time himself.

Let's hear it.

There's no time for a man to recover his hair that
grows bald by nature.

May he not do it by fine and recovery?

Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and recover the
lost hair of another man.

Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is,
so plentiful an excrement?

Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts;
and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.

Why, but there's many a man hath more hair than wit.

Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth
it in a kind of jollity.

For what reason?

For two; and sound ones too.

Nay, not sound, I pray you.

Sure ones, then.

Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

Certain ones then.

Name them.

The one, to save the money that he spends in
trimming; the other, that at dinner they should not
drop in his porridge.

You would all this time have proved there is no
time for all things.

Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair
lost by nature.

But your reason was not substantial, why there is no
time to recover.

Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald and therefore
to the world's end will have bald followers.

I knew 'twould be a bald conclusion:
But, soft! who wafts us yonder?

Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown:
Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects;
I am not Adriana nor thy wife.
The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow
That never words were music to thine ear,
That never object pleasing in thine eye,
That never touch well welcome to thy hand,
That never meat sweet-savor'd in thy taste,
Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carved to thee.
How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
That thou art thus estranged from thyself?
Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
That, undividable, incorporate,
Am better than thy dear self's better part.
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me!
For know, my love, as easy mayest thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
And take unmingled that same drop again,
Without addition or diminishing,
As take from me thyself and not me too.
How dearly would it touch me to the quick,
Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious
And that this body, consecrate to thee,
By ruffian lust should be contaminate!
Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me
And hurl the name of husband in my face
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 too be one and thou play false,
I do digest the poison of thy flesh,
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
Keep then far league and truce with thy true bed;
I live unstain'd, thou undishonoured.

Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:
In Ephesus I am but two hours old,
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.

Fie, brother! how the world is changed with you!
When were you wont to use my sister thus?
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

By Dromio?

By me?

By thee; and this thou didst return from him,
That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows,
Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?
What is the course and drift of your compact?

I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

Villain, thou liest; for even her very words
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

I never spake with her in all my life.

How can she thus then call us by our names,
Unless it be by inspiration.

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

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.

Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

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 sprites:
If we obey them not, this will ensue,
They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

Why pratest thou to thyself and answer'st not?
Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!

I am transformed, master, am I not?

I think thou art in mind, and so am I.

Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

Thou hast thine own form.

No, I am an ape.

If thou art changed to aught, 'tis to an ass.

'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.

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 today
And shrive 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.

Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?
Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised?
Known unto these, and to myself disguised!
I'll say as they say and persever so,
And in this mist at all adventures go.

Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.

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 carcanet,
And that tomorrow you will bring it home.
But here's a villain that would face me down
He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,
And charged him with a thousand marks in gold,
And that I did deny my wife and house.
Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

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.

I think thou art an ass.

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.

You're sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our cheer
May answer my good will and your good welcome here.

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

O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,
A table full of welcome make scarce one dainty dish.

Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.

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

Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

Ay, to a niggardly host, and more sparing 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.

Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicel, Gillian, Ginn!

[Within] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb,
idiot, patch!
Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch.
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st
for such store,
When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.

What patch is made our porter? My master stays in
the street.

[Within] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he
catch cold on's feet.

Who talks within there? ho, open the door!

[Within] Right, sir; I'll tell you when, an you tell
me wherefore.

Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not dined today.

[Within] Nor today here you must not; come again
when you may.

What art thou that keepest me out from the house I owe?

[Within] The porter for this time, sir, and my name
is Dromio.

O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name.
The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.
If thou hadst been Dromio today in my place,
Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name or thy
name for an ass.

[Within] What a coil is there, Dromio? who are those
at the gate?

Let my master in, Luce.

[Within] Faith, no; he comes too late;
And so tell your master.

O Lord, I must laugh!
Have at you with a proverb – Shall I set in my staff?

[Within] Have at you with another; that's – When?
can you tell?

[Within] If thy name be call'd Luce – Luce, thou hast
answered him well.

Do you hear, you minion? you'll let us in, I hope?

[Within] I thought to have asked you.

[Within] And you said no.

So, come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow.

Thou baggage, let me in.

[Within] Can you tell for whose sake?

Master, knock the door hard.

[Within] Let him knock till it ache.

You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.

[Within] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?

[Within] Who is that at the door that keeps all
this noise?

[Within] By my troth, your town is troubled with
unruly boys.

Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

[Within] Your wife, sir knave! go get you from the door.

If you went in pain, master, this 'knave' would go sore.

Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would
fain have either.

In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.

They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.

There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.
Your cake there is warm within; you stand here in the cold:
It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.

Go fetch me something: I'll break ope the gate.

[Within] Break any breaking here, and I'll break your
knave's pate.

A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind,
Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.

[Within] It seems thou want'st breaking: out upon
thee, hind!

Here's too much 'out upon thee!' I pray thee,
let me in.

[Within] Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

Well, I'll break in: go borrow me a crow.

A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?
For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather;
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together.

Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.

Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so!
Herein you war against your reputation
And draw within the compass of suspect
The 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 made against you.
Be ruled by me: depart in patience,
And let us to the Tiger all to dinner,
And about evening come yourself 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 you are dead;
For slander lives upon succession,
For ever housed where it gets possession.

You have prevailed: I will depart in quiet,
And, in despite of mirth, 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
And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made:
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;
For there's the house: that chain will I bestow –
Be it for nothing but to spite my wife –
Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste.
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,
I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.

I'll meet you at that place some hour hence.

Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.

And may it be that you have quite forgot
A husband's office? shall, Antipholus.
Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?
If you did wed my sister for her wealth,
Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness:
Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
Muffle your false love with some show of blindness:
Let not my sister read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;
Look sweet, be fair, become disloyalty;
Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;
Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?
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:
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
Being compact of credit, that you love us;
Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;
We in your motion turn and you may move us.
Then, gentle brother, get you in again;
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:
'Tis holy sport to be a little vain,
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

Sweet mistress – what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine, –
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
Than our earth's wonder, more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
The folded 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 sister is no wife of mine,
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe
Far more, far more to you do I decline.
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote:
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take them and there lie,
And in that glorious supposition think
He gains by death that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

Why call you me love? call my sister so.

Thy sister's sister.

That's my sister.

No;
It is thyself, mine own self's better part,
Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,
My food, my fortune and my sweet hope's aim,
My sole earth's heaven and my heaven's claim.

All this my sister is, or else should be.

Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee.
Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:
Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife.
Give me thy hand.

O, soft, air! hold you still:
I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will.

Why, how now, Dromio! where runn'st thou so fast?

Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man?
am I myself?

Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.

I am an ass, I am a woman's man and besides myself.

What woman's man? and how besides thyself?

Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one
that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.

What claim lays she to thee?

Marry sir, such 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 she,
being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

What is she?

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 she a
wondrous fat marriage.

How dost thou mean a fat marriage?

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,
she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

What complexion is she of?

Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing half so
clean kept: for why, she sweats; a man may go over
shoes in the grime of it.

That's a fault that water will mend.

No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.

What's her name?

Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that's
an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from
hip to hip.

Then she bears some breadth?

No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip:
she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out
countries in her.

In what part of her body stands Ireland?

Marry, in her buttocks: I found it out by the bogs.

Where Scotland?

I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand.

Where France?

In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war
against her heir.

Where England?

I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no
whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin,
by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

Where Spain?

Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath.

Where America, the Indies?

Oh, sir, upon her nose all o'er embellished with
rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich
aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole
armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.

Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this
drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me, call'd me
Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what
privy marks I had about me, as, the mark of my
shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my
left arm, that I amazed ran from her as a witch:
And, I think, if my breast had not been made of
faith and my heart of steel,
She had transform'd me to a curtal dog and made
me turn i' the wheel.

Go hie thee presently, post to the road:
An if the wind blow any way from shore,
I will not harbour in this town tonight:
If any bark put forth, come to the mart,
Where I will walk till thou return to me.
If every one knows us and we know none,
'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.

As from a bear a man would run for life,
So fly I from her that would be my wife.

There's none but witches do inhabit here;
And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.
She that doth call me husband, even my soul
Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,
Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace,
Of such enchanting presence and discourse,
Hath almost made me traitor to myself:
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.

Master Antipholus, –

Ay, that's my name.

I know it well, sir, lo, here is the chain.
I thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine:
The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.

What is your will that I shall do with this?

What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you.

Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.

Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.
Go home with it and please your wife withal;
And soon at supper-time I'll visit you
And then receive my money for the chain.

I pray you, sir, receive the money now,
For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more.

You are a merry man, sir: fare you well.

What I should think of this, I cannot tell:
But this I think, there's no man is so vain
That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.
I see a man here needs not live by shifts,
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.
I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay
If any ship put out, then straight away.

You know since Pentecost the sum is due,
And since I have not much importuned you;
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound
To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:
Therefore make present satisfaction,
Or I'll attach you by this officer.

Even just the sum that I do owe to you
Is growing to me by Antipholus,
And in the instant that I met with you
He had of me a chain: at five o'clock
I shall receive the money for the same.
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
I will discharge my bond and thank you too.

That labour may you save: see where he comes.

While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou
And buy a rope's end: that will I bestow
Among my wife and her confederates,
For locking me out of my doors by day.
But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;
Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me.

I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope.

A man is well holp up that trusts to you:
I promised your presence and the chain;
But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.
Belike you thought our love would last too long,
If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.

Saving your merry humour, here's the note
How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,
The fineness of the gold and chargeful fashion.
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more
Than I stand debted to this gentleman:
I pray you, see him presently discharged,
For he is bound to sea and stays but for it.

I am not furnish'd with the present money;
Besides, I have some business in the town.
Good signior, take the stranger to my house
And with you take the chain and bid my wife
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:
Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?

No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?

An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;
Or else you may return without your money.

Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:
Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse
Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.
I should have chid you for not bringing it,
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.

You hear how he importunes me; – the chain!

Why, give it to my wife and fetch your money.

Come, come, you know I gave it you even now.
Either send the chain or send me by some token.

Fie, now you run this humour out of breath,
Come, where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

My business cannot brook this dalliance.
Good sir, say whether you'll answer me or no:
If not, I'll leave him to the officer.

I answer you! what should I answer you?

The money that you owe me for the chain.

I owe you none till I receive the chain.

You know I gave it you half an hour since.

You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.

You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:
Consider how it stands upon my credit.

Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

I do; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me.

This touches me in reputation.
Either consent to pay this sum for me
Or I attach you by this officer.

Consent to pay thee that I never had!
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest.

Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer,
I would not spare my brother in this case,
If he should scorn me so apparently.

I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.

I do obey thee till I give thee bail.
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
As all the metal in your shop will answer.

Sir, sir, I will have law in Ephesus,
To your notorious shame; I doubt it not.

Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum
That stays but till her owner comes aboard,
And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought
The oil, the balsamum and aqua-vitae.
The ship is in her trim; the merry wind
Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all
But for their owner, master, and yourself.

How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.

Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;
And told thee to what purpose and what end.

You sent me for a rope's end as soon:
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

I will debate this matter at more leisure
And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry,
There is a purse of ducats; let her send it:
Tell her I am arrested in the street
And that shall bail me; hie thee, slave, be gone!
On, officer, to prison till it come.

To Adriana! that is where we dined,
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
Thither I must, although against my will,
For servants must their masters' minds fulfil.

Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye
That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?
Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?
What observation madest thou in this case
Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?

First he denied you had in him no right.

He meant he did me none; the more my spite.

Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.

Then pleaded I for you.

And what said he?

That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.

With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?

With words that in an honest suit might move.
First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

Didst speak him fair?

Have patience, I beseech.

I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
He is deformed, crooked, old and sere,
Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Who would be jealous then of such a one?
No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.

Ah, but I think him better than I say,
And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:
My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste.

How hast thou lost thy breath?

By running fast.

Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?

No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;
One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;
A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough;
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands
The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands;
A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well;
One that before the judgement carries poor souls to hell.

Why, man, what is the matter?

I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case.

What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit.

I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;
But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell.
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

Go fetch it, sister.

This I wonder at,
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt.
Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;
A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?

What, the chain?

No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone:
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.

The hours come back! that did I never hear.

O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant,
a' turns back for very fear.

As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than
he's worth, to season.
Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say
That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight;
And bring thy master home immediately.
Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit –
Conceit, my comfort and my injury.

There's not a man I meet but doth salute me
As if I were their well-acquainted friend;
And every one doth call me by my name.
Some tender money to me; some invite me;
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;
Some offer me commodities to buy:
Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop
And show'd me silks that he had bought for me,
And therewithal took measure of my body.
Sure, these are but imaginary wiles
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Master, here's the gold you sent me for. What, have
you got the picture of old Adam new-apparelled?

What gold is this? what Adam dost thou mean?

Not that Adam that kept the Paradise but that Adam
that keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf's
skin that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came
behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you
forsake your liberty.

I understand thee not.

No? why, 'tis a plain case: he that went, like a
bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir,
that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob
and 'rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed
men and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up
his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a
morris-pike.

What, thou meanest an officer?

Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band, he that brings
any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that
thinks a man always going to bed, and says, 'God
give you good rest!'

Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any
ships puts forth to night? May we be gone?

Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the
bark Expedition put forth tonight; and then were
you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy
Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to
deliver you.

The fellow is distract, and so am I;
And here we wander in illusions:
Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:
Is that the chain you promised me today?

Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.

Master, is this Mistress Satan?

It is the devil.

Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam; and here
she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof
comes that the wenches say 'God damn me;' that's as
much to say 'God make me a light wench.' It is
written, they appear to men like angels of light:
light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn;
ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.

Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.
Will you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here?

Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or bespeak a
long spoon.

Why, Dromio?

Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with
the devil.

Avoid then, fiend! what tell'st thou me of supping?
Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress:
I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.

Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,
Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised,
And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail,
A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,
A nut, a cherry-stone;
But she, more covetous, would have a chain.
Master, be wise: an if you give it her,
The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.

I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:
I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

'Fly pride,' says the peacock: mistress, that you know.

Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad,
Else would he never so demean himself.
A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,
And for the same he promised me a chain:
Both one and other he denies me now.
The reason that I gather he is mad,
Besides this present instance of his rage,
Is a mad tale he told today at dinner,
Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.
Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,
On purpose shut the doors against his way.
My way is now to hie home to his house,
And tell his wife that, being lunatic,
He rush'd into my house and took perforce
My ring away. This course I fittest choose;
For forty ducats is too much to lose.

Fear me not, man; I will not break away:
I'll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,
To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for.
My wife is in a wayward mood today,
And will not lightly trust the messenger
That I should be attach'd in Ephesus,
I tell you, 'twill sound harshly in her ears.

Here comes my man; I think he brings the money.
How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

Here's that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

But where's the money?

Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.

Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?

I'll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

To a rope's-end, sir; and to that end am I returned.

And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

Good sir, be patient.

Nay, 'tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.

Good, now, hold thy tongue.

Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

Thou whoreson, senseless villain!

I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel
your blows.

Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an
ass.

I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it by my long
ears. I have served him from the hour of my
nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his
hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he
heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me
with beating; I am waked with it when I sleep;
raised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with
it when I go from home; welcomed home with it when
I return; nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a
beggar wont her brat; and, I think when he hath
lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.

Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.

Mistress, 'respice finem,' respect your end; or
rather, the prophecy like the parrot, 'beware the
rope's-end.'

Wilt thou still talk?

How say you now? is not your husband mad?

His incivility confirms no less.
Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;
Establish him in his true sense again,
And I will please you what you will demand.

Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks!

Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!

Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.

There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

I charge thee, Satan, housed within this man,
To yield possession to my holy prayers
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven!

Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad.

O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

You minion, you, are these your customers?
Did this companion with the saffron face
Revel and feast it at my house today,
Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut
And I denied to enter in my house?

O husband, God doth know you dined at home;
Where would you had remain'd until this time,
Free from these slanders and this open shame!

Dined at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou?

Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home.

Were not my doors lock'd up and I shut out?

Perdie, your doors were lock'd and you shut out.

And did not she herself revile me there?

Sans fable, she herself reviled you there.

Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?

Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn'd you.

And did not I in rage depart from thence?

In verity you did; my bones bear witness,
That since have felt the vigour of his rage.

Is't good to soothe him in these contraries?

It is no shame: the fellow finds his vein,
And yielding to him humours well his frenzy.

Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to arrest me.

Alas, I sent you money to redeem you,
By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

Money by me! heart and goodwill you might;
But surely master, not a rag of money.

Went'st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?

He came to me and I deliver'd it.

And I am witness with her that she did.

God and the rope-maker bear me witness
That I was sent for nothing but a rope!

Mistress, both man and master is possess'd;
I know it by their pale and deadly looks:
They must be bound and laid in some dark room.

Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth today?
And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

And, gentle master, I received no gold;
But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out.

Dissembling villain, thou speak'st false in both.

Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all;
And art confederate with a damned pack
To make a loathsome abject scorn of me:
But with these nails I'll pluck out these false eyes
That would behold in me this shameful sport.

O, bind him, bind him! let him not come near me.

More company! The fiend is strong within him.

Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,
I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them
To make a rescue?

Masters, let him go
He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.

Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.

What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?
Hast thou delight to see a wretched man
Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

He is my prisoner: if I let him go,
The debt he owes will be required of me.

I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,
And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.
Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd
Home to my house. O most unhappy day!

O most unhappy strumpet!

Master, I am here entered in bond for you.

Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me?

Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good master:
cry 'The devil!'

God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk!

Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.

Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?

One Angelo, a goldsmith: do you know him?

I know the man. What is the sum he owes?

Two hundred ducats.

Say, how grows it due?

Due for a chain your husband had of him.

He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

When as your husband all in rage today
Came to my house and took away my ring –
The ring I saw upon his finger now –
Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

It may be so, but I did never see it.
Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:
I long to know the truth hereof at large.

God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.

And come with naked swords.
Let's call more help to have them bound again.

Away! they'll kill us.

I see these witches are afraid of swords.

She that would be your wife now ran from you.

Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:
I long that we were safe and sound aboard.

Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us
no harm: you saw they speak us fair, give us gold:
methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for
the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of
me, I could find in my heart to stay here still and
turn witch.

I will not stay tonight for all the town;
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.