SCENE III. A public place.
Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE
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.
Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE
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.
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
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!’
Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the
bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were
you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy
Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to
The fellow is distract, and so am I;
And here we wander in illusions:
Some blessed power deliver us from hence!
Enter a Courtezan
Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.
I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:
Is that the chain you promised me to-day?
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.
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.
‘Fly pride,’ says the peacock: mistress, that you know.
Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse
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 to-day 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.