THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. William Shakespeare

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       If you did wed my sister for her wealth,

       Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness;

       Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;

       Muffle 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;

       Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;

       Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?

       What simple 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 bastard fame, well managed;

       Ill deeds is 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.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not,

       Nor by what wonder you do hit on mine,—

       Less, in your knowledge and your grace, you show not

       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,

       The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.

       Against my soul’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 power I’ll yield.

       But if that I am I, then well I know

       Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,

       Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:

       Far more, far more, to you do I decline.

       O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

       To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears:

       Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;

       Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,

       And as a bed I’ll take thee, and there lie;

       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!

       LUCIANA.

       What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

       LUCIANA.

       It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

       LUCIANA.

       Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.

       LUCIANA.

       Why call you me love? call my sister so.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Thy sister’s sister.

       LUCIANA.

       That’s my sister.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       No;

       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.

       LUCIANA.

       All this my sister is, or else should be.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee;

       Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life:

       Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife;

       Give me thy hand.

       LUCIANA.

       O, soft, sir, hold you still;

       I’ll fetch my sister to get her goodwill.

       [Exit LUCIANA.]

       [Enter from the house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Why, how now, Dromio? where runn’st thou so fast?

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man? am I myself?

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       I am an ass, I am a woman’s man, and beside myself.

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