The Comedy of Errors (c. 1589)


Jan Matejko, Stanczyk, 1862" style="width: 120px; height: 89px; float: right;" class="PopBoxImageSmall" title="Click to magnify/shrink" onclick="Pop(this,50,'/');"/> ACT ONE

SCENE 1. A hall in the DUKE'S palace.



       Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,
       And, by the doom of death, end woes and all.

       Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more;
       I am not partial to infringe our laws:
       The enmity and discord which of late
       Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
       To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,—
       Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives,
       Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,—
       Excludes all pity from our threat'ning looks.
       For, since the mortal and intestine jars
       'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
       It hath in solemn synods been decreed,
       Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,
       To admit no traffic to our adverse towns;
       Nay, more,
       If any born at Ephesus be seen
       At any Syracusian marts and fairs;—
       Again, if any Syracusian born
       Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
       His goods confiscate to the Duke's dispose;
       Unless a thousand marks be levied,
       To quit the penalty and to ransom him.—
       Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,
       Cannot amount unto a hundred marks:
       Therefore by law thou art condemn'd to die.

       Yet this my comfort,—when your words are done,
       My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

       Well, Syracusan, say, in brief, the cause
       Why thou departedst from thy native home,
       And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus.

       A heavier task could not have been impos'd
       Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable!
       Yet, that the world may witness that my end
       Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,
       I'll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.
       In Syracuse was I born; and wed
       Unto a woman, happy but for me,
       And by me too, had not our hap been bad.
       With her I liv'd in joy; our wealth increas'd
       By prosperous voyages I often made
       To Epidamnum, till my factor's death,
       And he,—great care of goods at random left,—
       Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:
       From whom my absence was not six months old,
       Before herself,—almost at fainting under
       The pleasing punishment that women bear,—
       Had made provision for her following me,
       And soon and safe arrived where I was.
       There had she not been long but she became
       A joyful mother of two goodly sons;
       And, which was strange, the one so like the other
       As could not be disdnguish'd but by names.
       That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
       A mean woman was delivered
       Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:
       Those,—for their parents were exceeding poor,—
       I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.
       My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,
       Made daily motions for our home return:
       Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon!
       We came aboard:
       A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd
       Before the always-wind-obeying deep
       Gave any tragic instance of our harm;
       But longer did we not retain much hope:
       For what obscured light the heavens did grant
       Did but convey unto our fearful minds
       A doubtful warrant of immediate death;
       Which though myself would gladly have embrac'd,
       Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,
       Weeping before for what she saw must come,
       And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,
       That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear,
       Forc'd me to seek delays for them and me.
       And this it was,—for other means was none.—
       The sailors sought for safety by our boat,
       And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us;:
       My wife, more careful for the latter-born,
       Had fast'ned him unto a small spare mast,
       Such as sea-faring men provide for storms:
       To him one of the other twins was bound,
       Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.
       The children thus dispos'd, my wife and I,
       Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd,
       Fast'ned ourselves at either end the mast,
       And, floating straight, obedient to the stream,
       Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
       At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
       Dispers'd those vapours that offended us;
       And, by the benefit of his wish'd light,
       The seas wax'd calm, and we discover'd
       Two ships from far making amain to us,—
       Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:
       But ere they came—O, let me say no more!—
       Gather the sequel by that went before.

       Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so;
       For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

       O, had the gods done so, I had not now
       Worthily term'd them merciless to us!
       For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,
       We were encount'red by a mighty rock,
       Which being violently borne upon,
       Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;
       So that, in this unjust divorce of us,
       Fortune had left to both of us alike
       What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
       Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened
       With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,
       Was carried with more speed before the wind;
       And in our sight they three were taken up
       By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.
       At length another ship had seiz'd on us;
       And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,
       Gave healthful welcome to their ship-wreck'd guests;
       And would have reft the fishers of their prey,
       Had not their bark been very slow of sail,
       And therefore homeward did they bend their course.—
       Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;
       That by misfortunes was my life prolong'd,
       To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

       And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,
       Do me the favour to dilate at full
       What have befall'n of them and thee till now.

       My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
       At eighteen years became inquisitive
       After his brother, and importun'd me
       That his attendant,—so his case was like,
       Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name,—
       Might bear him company in the quest of him:
       Whom whilst I laboured of a love to see,
       I hazarded the loss of whom I lov'd.
       Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,
       Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
       And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus;
       Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
       Or that or any place that harbours men.
       But here must end the story of my life;
       And happy were I in my timely death,
       Could all my travels warrant me they live.

       Hapless Aegeon, whom the fates have mark'd
       To bear the extremity of dire mishap!
       Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,
       Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,
       Which princes, would they, may not disannul,
       My soul should sue as advocate for thee.
       But though thou art adjudged to the death,
       And passed sentence may not be recall'd
       But to our honour's great disparagement,
       Yet will I favour thee in what I can:
       Therefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this day
       To seek thy help by beneficial help:
       Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus:
       Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
       And live; if not, then thou art doom'd to die.—
       Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

       I will, my lord.

       Hopeless and helpless doth Aegeon wend.
       But to procrastinate his lifeless end.



SCENE 2. A public place.


       Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,
       Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
       This very day a Syracusian merchant
       Is apprehended for arrival here;
       And, not being able to buy out his life,
       According to the statute of the town,
       Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.—
       There is your money that I had to keep.

       Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
       And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
       Within this hour it will be dinner-time;
       Till that, I'll view the manners of the town,
       Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,
       And then return and sleep within mine inn;
       For with long travel I am stiff and weary.—
       Get thee away.

       Many a man would take you at your word,
       And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[Exit DROMIO.]

       A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,
       When I am dull with care and melancholy,
       Lightens my humour with his merry jests.
       What, will you walk with me about the town,
       And then go to my inn and dine with me?

       I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,
       Of whom I hope to make much benefit:
       I crave your pardon. Soon, at five o'clock,
       Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart,
       And afterward consort you till bed-time:
       My present business calls me from you now.

       Farewell till then: I will go lose myself,
       And wander up and down to view the city.

       Sir, I commend you to your own content.


       He that commends me to mine own content
       Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
       I to the world am like a drop of water
       That in the ocean seeks another drop;
       Who, failing there to find his fellow forth,
       Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:
       So I, to find a mother and a brother,
       In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.


Here comes the almanac of my true date.
       What now? How chance thou art return'd so soon?

       Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late.
       The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit;
       The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell—
       My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
       She is so hot because the meat is cold;
       The meat is cold because you come not home,;
       You come not home because you have no stomach;
       You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
       But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
       Are penitent for your default to-day.

       Stop—in your wind, sir; tell me this, I pray:
       Where have you left the money that I gave you?

       O,—sixpence that I had o'Wednesday last
       To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper;—
       The saddler had it, sir, I kept it not.

       I am not in a sportive humour now;
       Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?
       We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust
       So great a charge from thine own custody?

       I pray you jest, sir, as you sit at dinner:
       I from my mistress come to you in post:
       If I return, I shall be post indeed;
       For she will score your fault upon my pate.
       Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock,
       And strike you home without a messenger.

       Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;
       Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.
       Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

       To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me!

       Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,
       And tell me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge.

       My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
       Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:
       My mistress and her sister stay for you.

       Now, as I am a Christian, answer me,
       In what safe place you have bestow'd my money:
       Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours,
       That stands on tricks when I am undispos'd;
       Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

       I have some marks of yours upon my pate,
       Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders,
       But not a thousand marks between you both.—
       If I should pay your worship those again,
       Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

       Thy mistress' marks! what mistress, slave, hast thou?

       Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phoenix;
       She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,
       And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

       What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
       Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

       What mean you, sir? for God's sake hold your hands!
       Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.

[Exit DROMIO.]

       Upon my life, by some device or other,
       The villain is o'er-raught of all my money.
       They say this town is full of cozenage;
       As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
       Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,
       Soul-killing witches that deform the body,
       Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
       And many such-like liberties of sin:
       If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
       I'll to the Centaur to go seek this slave:
       I greatly fear my money is not safe.


Act Two »

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