Scene II. The same. Enter Luciana, with Antipholus of Syracuse. Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot? If you did wed my sister for her wealth, Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kind ness; Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; Muffle your false love with some show of blind ness: Let not my sister read it in your eye; Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator; Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted; Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. Being compact of credit, that you love us; Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife; 'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain, ΙΟ 20 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 of mine, 30 Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not Than our earth's wonder; more than earth divine. Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And, in that glorious supposition, think Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink! 41 50 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. Luc. Ant. S. That's my sister. No; 60 It is thyself, mine own self's better part, Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart, My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim. Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be. Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee. Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life: Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife. Give me thy hand. Luc. O, soft, sir! hold you still: Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 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. S. What woman's man? and how besides thy self? Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a 80 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; Ant. S. What is she? 90 Dro. S. A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of, without he say Sirreverence. I have but lean luck in the match, and yet she is 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 100 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 and three quarters, IIO that's 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, sir, 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; armed and reverted, making war against her heir. Ant. S. Where England? Dro. S. I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it. Ant. S. Where Spain? Dro. S. 'Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath. Ant. S. Where America, the Indies? Dro. S. Oh, sir, upon her nose, all o'er embellished Ant. S. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands? And, I think, if my breast had not been made of 120 130 140 |