Array The griffin classics - William Shakespeare - Complete Collection

Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,

I went to seek him. In the street I met him,

And in his company that gentleman.

There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down

That I this day of him receiv’d the chain,

Which, God he knows, I saw not; for the which

He did arrest me with an officer.

I did obey, and sent my peasant home

For certain ducats; he with none return’d.

Then fairly I bespoke the officer

To go in person with me to my house.

By th’ way we met

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more

Of vild confederates. Along with them

They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller,

A needy, hollow-ey’d, sharp-looking wretch,

A living dead man. This pernicious slave,

Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,

And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,

And with no face, as ’twere, outfacing me,

Cries out, I was possess’d. Then all together

They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,

And in a dark and dankish vault at home

There left me and my man, both bound together,

Till gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,

I gain’d my freedom; and immediately

Ran hither to your Grace, whom I beseech

To give me ample satisfaction

For these deep shames and great indignities.

Ang.

My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him:

That he din’d not at home, but was lock’d out.

Duke.

But had he such a chain of thee, or no?

Ang.

He had, my lord, and when he ran in here,

These people saw the chain about his neck.

[2. E.] Mer.

Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine

Heard you confess you had the chain of him,

After you first forswore it on the mart,

And thereupon I drew my sword on you;

And then you fled into this abbey here,

From whence I think you are come by miracle.

E. Ant.

I never came within these abbey walls,

Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;

I never saw the chain, so help me heaven;

And this is false you burthen me withal.

Duke.

Why, what an intricate impeach is this!

I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.

If here you hous’d him, here he would have been;

If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly.

You say he din’d at home; the goldsmith here

Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

E. Dro.

Sir, he din’d with her there, at the Porpentine.

Cour.

He did, and from my finger snatch’d that ring.

E. Ant.

’Tis true, my liege, this ring I had of her.

Duke.

Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?

Cour.

As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace.

Duke.

Why, this is strange. Go call the Abbess hither.

I think you are all mated, or stark mad.

Exit one to the Abbess.

Ege.

Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:

Haply I see a friend will save my life,

And pay the sum that may deliver me.

Duke.

Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

Ege.

Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipholus?

And is not that your bondman, Dromio?

E. Dro.

Within this hour I was his bondman, sir,

But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:

Now am I Dromio, and his man, unbound.

Ege.

I am sure you both of you remember me.

E. Dro.

Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;

For lately we were bound as you are now.

You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir?

Ege.

Why look you strange on me? You know me well.

E. Ant.

I never saw you in my life till now.

Ege.

O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last,

And careful hours with time’s deformed hand

Have written strange defeatures in my face:

But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

E. Ant.

Neither.

Ege.

Dromio, nor thou?

E. Dro.

No, trust me, sir, nor I.

Ege. I am sure thou dost!

E. Dro. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not—and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

Ege.

Not know my voice! O time’s extremity,

Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue

In seven short years, that here my only son

Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares?

Though now this grained face of mine be hid

In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow,

And all the conduits of my blood froze up,

Yet hath my night of life some memory,

My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,

My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:

All these old witnesses—I cannot err—

Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.

E. Ant.

I never saw my father in my life.

Ege.

But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,

Thou know’st we parted, but perhaps, my son,

Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery.

E. Ant.

The Duke, and all that know me in the city,

Can witness with me that it is not so.

I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.

Duke.

I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years

Have I been patron to Antipholus,

During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa:

I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Enter the Abbess with Antipholus [of] Syracusa and Dromio [of] Syracusa.

Abb.

Most mighty Duke, behold a man much wrong’d.

All gather to see them.

Adr.

I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.

Duke.

One of these men is genius to the other:

And so of these, which is the natural man,

And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?

S. Dro.

I, sir, am Dromio, command him away.

E. Dro.

I, sir, am Dromio, pray let me stay.

S. Ant.

Egeon art thou not? or else his ghost?

S. Dro.

O my old master, who hath bound him here?

Abb.

Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,

And gain a husband by his liberty.

Speak, old Egeon, if thou be’st the man

That hadst a wife once call’d Aemilia,

That bore thee at a burthen two fair sons.

O, if thou be’st the same Egeon, speak,

And speak unto the same Aemilia!

Ege.

If I dream not, thou art Aemilia.

If thou art she, tell me, where is that son

That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

Abb.

By men of Epidamium he and I,

And the twin Dromio, all were taken up;

But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth

By force took Dromio and my son from them,

And me they left with those of Epidamium.

What then became of them I cannot tell;

I to this fortune that you see me in.

Duke.

Why, here begins his morning story right:

These two Antipholus’, these two so like,

And these two Dromios, one in semblance—

Besides her urging of her wrack at sea—

These are the parents to these children,

Which accidentally are met together.

Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first?

S. Ant.

No, sir, not I, I came from Syracuse.

Duke.

Stay, stand apart, I know not which is which.

E. Ant.

I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord—

E. Dro.

And I with him.

E. Ant.

Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,