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E. Ant. What are thou, that keep'ft me out from the

house I owe?

S. Dro. The porter for this time, Sir, and my name is Dromio.

E. Dro. O villain, thou haft ftoll'n both mine office

and my name:

The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.
If thou had'it been Dromio to day in my place,
Thou would't have chang'd thy face for a name, or
thy name for an ass.

Luce. within. What a coile is there, Dromio? who are those at the gate?

E. Dro. Let my mafter in, Luce.

Luce. Faith, no; he comes too late;

And fo tell your master.

E. Dro. O lord, I muft laugh;

Have at you with a Proverb. Shall I fet in my staff? Luce. Have at you with another; that's, when, can you tell?

S. Dro. If thy name be call'd Luce, Luce, thou hast anfwer'd him well.

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E. Ant. Do you hear, you minion, you'll let us in, I trow?

Luc. I thought to have askt you.

S. Dro. And you faid, no.

E. Dro. So, come, help, well ftruck; there was blow for blow..

E. Ant. Thou baggage, let me in.
Luce. Can you tell for whofe fake?
E. Dro. Mafter, knock the door hard.
Luce. Let him knock, till it ake.

E. Ant. You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the
door down.

Luce. What needs all that, and a pair of Stocks in the town?

Adr. within. Who is that at the door, that keeps all this noise?

S. Dro. By my troth, your town is troubled with

unruly boys.

E. Ant.

E. Ant. Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

Adr. Your wife, Sir knave! go, get you from the door.

E. Dro. If you went in pain, mafter, this knave would go fore.

Ang. Here is neither cheer, Sir, nor welcome; we would fain have either.

Bal. In debating which was beft, we shall part with

neither.

E. Dro. They ftand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.

E. Ant. There's something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

E. Dro. You would fay fo, mafter, if your garments were thin.

Your cake here is warm within: you stand here in the cold:

It would make a man mad as a buck to be fo bought and fold.

E. Ant. Go fetch me fomething, I'll break ope the

gate.

S. Dro. Break any thing here, and I'll break your knave's pate.

E. Dro. A man may break a word with you, Sir, and words are but wind;

Ay, and break it in your face, fo he break it not behind.

S. Dro. It seems, thou wanteft breaking; out upon thee, hind!

E.Dro. Here's too much, out, upon thee! I pray thee,

let me in.

S. Dro. Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin.

E. Ant. Well, I'll break in; go borrow me a crow. E. Dro. A crow without feather, mafter, mean you fo?

For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a fea

ther:

If a crow help us in, firrah, we'll pluck a crow together, E. Ant.

E. Ant. Go, get thee gone, fetch me an iron crow.
Bal. Have patience, Sir: oh, let it not be so.
Herein you war against your reputation,
And draw within the compass of suspect
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 fhe will well excuse,
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 reafon 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 intrufion 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 despight of wrath, (11) 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

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To her will we to dinner. Get you home,
And fetch the chain; by this, I know, 'tis made;
Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine;

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(11) And, in Defpight of Mirth,] In Defpight 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 restor'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.

For

For there's the houfe: that chain will I beftow,
(Be it for nothing but to fpight my wife,)
Upon mine Hostels there. Good Sir, make hafte:
Since my own doors refufe to entertain me,

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

E. Ant. Do for this jeft fhall coft me fome expence. [Exeunt.

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SCENE, the Houfe of Antipholis of Ephefus.

Enter Luciana, with Antipholis of Syracufe.

Luc. AND. may it be, that you have quite forgot (12)

husband's office? fhall, Antipholis, Hate,

Ev'n in the spring of love, thy love-fprings rot?
Shall love, in building, grow fo ruinate?
If you did wed my filter for her wealth,

Then for her wealth's fake ufe her with more kindnefs of

Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;

Muffle your falle love with fome fhew of blindness; Let not my fifter read it in your eye;

Be not thy tongue thy own fhame's orator;
Look fweet, fpeak fair; become disloyalty:
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 the 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:

L

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

An Husband's Office? Shall, Antipholis,

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

Alas!

Shall love in buildings grow fo ruinate?] This Paffage has

hither o labour'd under a double Corruption. What Conceit could our

Editors

Alas! poor women, make us but believe, (13)
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 sweet breath of flattery conquers ftrife.
S. Ant. Sweet mistress, (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;
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:

Editors have of Love in Buildings growing ruinate? Surely, they did not dream of Love made under an old Wall? Our Poet meant no more than This. Shall thy Love-fprings rot, even in the Spring of Love? and fhall thy Love grow ruinous, ev'n while 'tis but building up? The next Corruption is by an accident at Prefs, as I take it; This Scene for 52 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 2d Verfe, and I have ventur'd to fupply it by, I hope, a probable Conjecture.

(13) 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 first Copies inftead of but. And these two Monofyllables have by mistake reciprocally difpoffefs'd one another in many other Paffages of our Author's Works. Nothing can be more plain than the Poet's Senfe 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 Substance and Reality.

Oh,

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