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 fufpect
Th' unviolated honour of your wife.

Once, this;-your long experience of her wisdom,
Her fober virtue, years, and modefty,

Plead on her part fome cause to you unknown;

And doubt not, Sir, but he will well excufe,

Why at this time the doors are barr'd against you.
Be rul'd by me, depart in patience,
And let us to the Tyger all to dinner;
And about evening come your felf alone,
To know the reason of this ftrange restraint.
If by strong hand you offer to break in,
Now in the stirring paffage of the day,
A vulgar comment will be made of it;
And that fuppofed by the common rout,
Against your yet ungalled eftimation,
That may with foul intrusion enter in,
And dwell upon your grave when you are dead :
For flander lives upon fucceffion ;

For ever hous'd, where it once gets poffeffion.

E. Ant. You have prevail'd; I will depart in quiet,
And, in defpight of wrath, (9) mean to be merry.
I know a wench of excellent difcourfe,

Pretty and witty, wild, and, yet too, gentle;
There will we dine: this woman that I mean,
My wife (but, I proteft, without defert,)
Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal;
To her will we to dinner.

Get you home,

(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 fhut out of Doors by his Wife. I make no Doubt therefore, but I have reftor'd the true Reading. Antipholis's Paffion is plain enough all thro' this Scene: and, in the next Act, we find him confeffing how angry He was at this Juncture.And did not I in Rage depart from thence? The Circumftances, I think, fufficiently juftify my Emendation.

And

And fetch the chain; by this, I know, 'tis made;
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine;

For there's the house: that chain will I bestow,
(Be it for nothing but to fpight my wife,)

Upon mine hoftefs there. Good Sir, make hafte;
Since my own doors refuse to entertain me,

I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.
Ang. I'll meet you at that place, fome hour, Sir,

hence.

E. Ant. Do fo; this jeft shall coft me some expence. [Exeunt. SCENE, the House of Antipholis of Ephesus. Enter Luciana, with Antipholis of Syracufe.

Luc.

A

ND may it be, that you have quite forgot (10)

A husband's office? fhall, Antipbolis, hate,

Ev'n in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
Shall love, in building, grow fo ruinate?

If you did wed my fifter 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 falfe love with some shew of blindness;

(10) And may it be, that you have quite forgot

An Husband's Office? Shall, Antipholis,

Ev'n in the Spring of Love, thy love-Springs rot?

Shall love in buildings grow so ruinate }} This Passage 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 shall thy Love grow ruinous, ev'n while 'tis but building up? The next Corruption is by an accident at Press, as I take it; This Scene for Fifty two Lines fucceffively is ftrictly 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 Monofyllable dropt from the Tail of the Second Verfe; and I have ventur'd to fupply it by, I hope, a probable Conjecture.

Let

Let not my fifter read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;
Look fweet, fpeak fair; become difloyalty:
Apparel vice, like virtue's harbinger;
Bear a fair prefence, tho' your heart be tainted:
Teach fin the carriage of a holy faint;
Be fecret-falfe: what need fhe be acquainted?
What fimple 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 baftard fame, well managed;
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word:
Alas, poor women! make us but believe, (11)
Being compact of credit, that you love us;
Tho' others have the arm, fhew us the fleeve :
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 fweet breath of flattery conquers ftrife.
S. Ant. Sweet miftrefs, (what your name is elfe, I

know not;

Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine :)

Lefs in your knowledge and your grace you fhow 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,
Smother'd in errors, feeble, fhallow, 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 firft Copies inftead of but. And thefe two Monofyllables have by Miftake reciprocally difpoffefs'd one another in many other Paffages of our Author's Works. Nothing can be more plain than the Poet's Sense in this Paffage. Women, fays he, are fo eafy of Faith, that only make them believe you love them, and they'll take the bare Profeffion, for the Subftance and Reality.

Against

Against my foul'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 fifter is no wife of mine;
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe;

Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
Oh, train me not, fweet mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy fifter's flood of tears;
Sing, Siren, for thyfelf, and I will dote ;
Spread o'er the filver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take thee, and there lye:
And in that glorious fuppofition think,

He gains by death, that hath such means to die ;
Let love, being light, be drowned if the fink.
Luc. What, are you mad, that you do reason so?
S. Ant. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
Luc. It is a fault that fpringeth from your eye.
S. Ant. For gazing on your beams, fair fun, being by.
Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your
fight.

S. Ant. As good to wink, fweet love, as look on
night.

Luc. Why call you me, love? call my fifter so.
S. Ant. Thy fifter's fifter.

Luc. That's my fifter.

S. Ant. No;

It is thyfelf, mine own felf's better part :

Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,
My food, my fortune, and my fweet hope's aim,
My fole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
Luc. All this my fifter is, or else should be.

S. Ant. Call thyfelf fifter, sweet; for I mean thee:
Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life;
Thou haft no husband yet, nor I no wife.

Give me thy hand.

Luc. Oh, foft, Sir, hold you ftill ; I'll fetch my fifter, to get her good will.

[Exit Luciana.

Enter

Enter Dromio of Syracufe.

S. Ant. Why, how now, Dromio, where run'ft thou fo 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 thy felf.

S. Dro. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and befides myself.

S. Ant. What woman's man? and how befides thyfelf?

S. Dra. Marry, Sir, befides 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 fhe to thee?

S. Dro. Marry, Sir, fuch a claim as you would lay to your horfe; and she would have me as a beaft: not that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very beaftly creature, lays claim to me.

S. Ant. What is she?

S. Dro. A very reverent body; ay, fuch a one as a man may not fpeak of, without he fay, Sir reverence : I have but lean luck in the match; and yet is fhe a wond'rous fat marriage.

S. Ant. How doft thou mean, a fat marriage?

S. Dro. Marry, Sir, fhe's the kitchen-wench, and all greafe; and I know not what ufe 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 fhe lives 'till doomsday, fhe'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

S. Ant. What complexion is fhe of?

S. Dro. Swart, like my fhoe, but her face nothing like fo clean kept; for why? fhe fweats, a man may go over fhoes in the grime of it.

S. Ant. That's a fault, that water will mend.

S. Dra. No, Sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.

S. Ant.