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Dro. E. 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. Dro. S. It seems, thou want'st breaking. Out upon thee, hind!
Dro. E. Here's too much out upon thee! I pray thee, let me in.
Dro. S. Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish
Ant. E. Well, I'll break in. Go borrow me a crow.
For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather:
Once this. Your long experience of her wisdom,
Plead on her part some course to you unknown;
For ever hous'd, where it gets possession.
Ant. E. You have prevail'd; I will depart in quiet, And, in despite of my wife,6 mean to be merry.
I know a wench of excellent discourse,
For there's the house. That chain will I bestow
SCENE II. The same.
Enter LUCIANA, and ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.
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?
Then, for her wealth's sake, use her with more
Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
Muffe 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, speak fair, become disloyalty; Apparel Vice like Virtue's harbinger;
Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
Be secret-false; What need she be acquainted?
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. Ant. S. Sweet mistress-what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit on mineLess, in your knowledge, and your grace, you show
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,
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hears,
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! Luc. What are you mad, that you do reason so? Ant. S. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. Ant. S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by. Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.
Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.
Luc. Why call you me love? call my sister so.
That's my sister.
It is thyself, mine own self's better part;
Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be.
Oh, soft, sir! hold you still. I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will.
Enter, from the House of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROMIO of Syracuse, hastily.
Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio! where runn'st thou so fast?
Dro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself?
Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.
Dro. S. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and besides myself.
Ant. Š. What woman's man? and how besides thyself?
Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.
Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee?
Dro. S. 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. Ant. S. What is she?
Dro. S. 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.
Ant. S. How dost thou mean, a fat marriage?
Dro. S. 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.
Ant. S. What complexion is she of?
Dro. S. 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.
Ant. S. That's a fault that water will mend.
Dro. S. No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.
Ant. S. What's her name?
Dro. S. Nell, sir; but her name and7 three quarters, that is an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip.
Ant. S. Then she bears some breadth?
Dro. S. No longer from head to foot, than from hip to hip. She is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries in her.
Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland? Dro. S. Marry, sír, in her buttocks; I found it out by the bogs.
Ant. S. Where Scotland?
Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness; hard, in the palm of the hand.
Ant. S. Where France?
Dro. S. In her forehead; arm'd and reverted, making war against her heir.