« PredošláPokračovať »
Adr. [within.] Who is that at the door that keeps all this noise?
Bal. Have patience, fir: 0, let it not be thus.
Luce. Can you tell for whose fake?
go, get you from the gate.
S. Dro. You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.
E. Ant. Go, fetch me something, I'll break ope the gate.
E. Dro. A man may break a word with you, fir, and words are but wind;
E. Dro. A crow without feather, mafter, mean you fo?
E. Ant. Go, get thee gone. &c.
If by strong hand you offer to break in
E. Ant. You have prevaild; I will depart in quiet,
Ang. I'll meet you at that place, fome hour, fır, hence.
The House of Antipholis of Ephesus.
Enter Luciana, with Antipholis of Syracuse. Luc.
ND may it be, that you have quite forgot
A husband's office? 'shall, Antipholis, hate Ev’n in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinate ? If
you did wed my sister for her wealth,
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 show of blindness; Let not my sister read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator;
Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
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 Aattery conquers
ftrife. S. Ant. 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 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 filver waves thy golden hairs,
And, in that glorious fuppofition, think
Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink.
Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be.
S. Ant. Call thyself fister, sweet; for I mean thee : Thee will I love, and with thee lead
life. Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife; Give me thy hand.
Luc. O, soft, fir, hold you still ;
Enter Dromio of Syracuse.
S. Dro. Do you know me, fir? am I Dromio? am I your man?
. S. Dro. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and besides myself
. S. Ant. What woman's man? and how befides 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 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.
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, fir reverence: I have but lean luck in the match; and yet is the a wond'rous fat marriage.
S. Ant. How dost thou mean, a fat marriage ?
S. Dro. Marry, fir, 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 so clean kept; for why ? she sweats, a man may go over-shoes in the grime of it.
S. Ant. That's a fault that water will mend.
S. Dro. Nell, fir; but her name and three quarters, that is, an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip.