The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up

Safe at the Centaur, and the heedful slave

Is wander’d forth in care to seek me out.

By computation and mine host’s report.

I could not speak with Dromio since at first

I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d?

As you love strokes, so jest with me again.

You know no Centaur? you receiv’d no gold?

Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?

My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,

That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

Even now, even here, not half an hour since.

I did not see you since you sent me hence,

Home to the Centaur with the gold you gave me.

Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt,

And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner,

For which I hope thou felt’st I was displeas’d.

I am glad to see you in this merry vein.

What means this jest, I pray you, master, tell me?

Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?

Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

Hold, sir, for God’s sake, now your jest is earnest.

Upon what bargain do you give it me?

Because that I familiarly sometimes

Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,

Your sauciness will jest upon my love,

And make a common of my serious hours.

When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,

But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.

If you will jest with me, know my aspect,

And fashion your demeanour to my looks,

Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it

a head. And you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head,

and ensconce it too, or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But I

pray, sir, why am I beaten?

Dost thou not know?

Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

Shall I tell you why?

Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say, every why hath a wherefore.

Why, first, for flouting me; and then wherefore,

For urging it the second time to me.

Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,

When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason?

Well, sir, I thank you.

Thank me, sir, for what?

Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something.

But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

In good time, sir, what’s that?

Basting.

Well, sir, then ’twill be dry.

If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.

Your reason?

Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me another dry basting.

Well, sir, learn to jest in good time.

There’s a time for all things.

I durst have denied that before you were so choleric.

By what rule, sir?

Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald pate of Father Time

himself.

Let’s hear it.

There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by

nature.

May he not do it by fine and recovery?

Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and recover the lost hair of another

man.

Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an

excrement?

Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts, and what he hath

scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.

Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair than wit.

Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

The plainer dealer, the sooner lost. Yet he loseth it in a kind of

jollity.

For what reason?

For two, and sound ones too.

Nay, not sound, I pray you.

Sure ones, then.

Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

Certain ones, then.

Name them.

The one, to save the money that he spends in tiring; the other, that at

dinner they should not drop in his porridge.

You would all this time have proved there is no time for all things.

Marry, and did, sir; namely, e’en no time to recover hair lost by

nature.

But your reason was not substantial why there is no time to recover.

Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and therefore, to the world’s end

will have bald followers.

I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion.

But soft! who wafts us yonder?

Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown,

Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects.

I am not Adriana, nor thy wife.

The time was once when thou unurg’d wouldst vow

That never words were music to thine ear,

That never object pleasing in thine eye,

That never touch well welcome to thy hand,

That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste,

Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carv’d to thee.

How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,

That thou art then estranged from thyself?

Thyself I call it, being strange to me,

That, undividable, incorporate,

Am better than thy dear self’s better part.

Ah, do not tear away thyself from me;

For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall

A drop of water in the breaking gulf,

And take unmingled thence that drop again

Without addition or diminishing,

As take from me thyself, and not me too.

How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,

Should’st thou but hear I were licentious?

And that this body, consecrate to thee,

By ruffian lust should be contaminate?

Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me,

And hurl the name of husband in my face,

And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot brow,

And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring,

And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?

I know thou canst; and therefore, see thou do it.

I am possess’d with an adulterate blot;

My blood is mingled with the crime of lust;

For if we two be one, and thou play false,

I do digest the poison of thy flesh,

Being strumpeted by thy contagion.

Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed,

I live distain’d, thou undishonoured.

Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not.

In Ephesus I am but two hours old,

As strange unto your town as to your talk,

Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d,

Wants wit in all one word to understand.

Fie, brother, how the world is chang’d with you.

When were you wont to use my sister thus?

She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

By Dromio?

By me?

By thee; and this thou didst return from him,

That he did buffet thee, and in his blows

Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?

What is the course and drift of your compact?

I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

Villain, thou liest, for even her very words

Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

I never spake with her in all my life.

How can she thus, then, call us by our names?

Unless it be by inspiration.

How ill agrees it with your gravity

To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,

Abetting him to thwart me in my mood;

Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt,

But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.

Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,

Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,

Makes me with thy strength to communicate:

If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,

Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss,

Who all, for want of pruning, with intrusion

Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.

To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme.

What, was I married to her in my dream?

Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this?

What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?

Until I know this sure uncertainty

I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy.

Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.

This is the fairy land; O spite of spites!

We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites;

If we obey them not, this will ensue:

They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

Why prat’st thou to thyself, and answer’st not?

Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot.

I am transformed, master, am I not?

I think thou art in mind, and so am I.

Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

Thou hast thine own form.

No, I am an ape.

If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass.

’Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass.

’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be

But I should know her as well as she knows me.

Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,

To put the finger in the eye and weep

Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn.

Come, sir, to dinner; Dromio, keep the gate.

Husband, I’ll dine above with you today,

And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.

Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,

Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.

Come, sister; Dromio, play the porter well.

Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?

Sleeping or waking, mad, or well-advis’d?

Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d!

I’ll say as they say, and persever so,

And in this mist at all adventures go.

Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.