Paul. I did not well, I meant well: All my services, You have paid home; but that you have vouchsaf'd With your crown'd brother, and these your contracted Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit; It is a surplus of your grace, which never My life may last to answer,

Lean

O Paulina,
We honour you with trouble: But we came
To see the statue of our queen: your gallery
Have we pass'd through, not without much content
In many singularities; but we saw not

That which my daughter came to look upon,
The statue of her mother.

Paul.
As she liv'd peerless,
So her dead likeness, I do well believe,
Excels whatever yet you look'd upon,
Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it
Lonely, apart: But here it is: prepare
To see the life as lively mock'd, as ever
Still sleep mock'd death: behold; and say, 'tis well.
[PAULINA undraws a curtain, and discovers a statue.
I like your silence, it the more shows off
Your wonder: But yet speak ;-first, you, my liege.
Comes it not something near?

Leon. Her natural posture! Chide me, dear stone; that I may say, indeed, Thou art Hermione: or, rather, thou art she, In thy not chiding; for she was as tender, As infancy, and grace. - But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled; nothing So aged, as this seems.

O, not by much.

Pol Paul. So much the more our carver's excellence; Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her As she liv'd now.

Leon. As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort, as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty, (warm life, As now it coldly stands,) when first I woo'd he! I am asham'd: Does not the stone rebuke me, For being more stone than it? — O, royal piece, There's magick in thy majesty; which has My evils conjur'd to remembrance; and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee!

Per.

And give me leave; And do not say, 'tis superstition, that I kneel, and then implore her blessing. — Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours, to kiss.

Paul.

O, patience : The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's Not dry.

Cam My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on: Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers, dry: scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow,

What you can make her do, I am content to look on: what to speak, I am content to hear; for 'tis as easy To make her speak, as move.

Paul.

It is requir'd,

You do awake your faith: Then, all stand still;
Or those, that think it is unlawful business
I am about, let them depart.
Leon.
No foot shall stir.

Paul.

Proceed;

Musick; awake her: strike. [Musick.

Come;

'Tis time; descend; be stone no more: approach;
Strike all that look upon with marvel.
I'll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

There's time enough for tha

Paul. Lest they desire, upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to every one. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither'd bough; and ther My mate, that's never to be found again, Lament till I am lost.

Leon. O peace, Paulina ; Thou should'st a husband take by my consent, As I by thine, a wife; this is a match, And made between's by vows. Thou hast four mine;

But how, is to be question'd: for I saw her, As I thought, dead; and have, in vain, said man A prayer upon her grave: I'll not seek far (For him, I partly know his mind,) to find thee An honourable husband: - Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand: whose worth, and h nesty,

Is richly noted; and here justified

By us, a pair of kings. — Let's from this place. What? Look upon my brother: - both you pardons,

That e'er I put between your holy looks
My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law,
And son unto the king, (whom heavens directing
Is troth-plight to your daughter. - Good Paulina
Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely
Each one demand, and answer to his part
Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first
We were dissever'd: Hastily lead away. [Exeunt

SCENE I.-A Hall in the Duke's Palace.

Eater DUKE, ÆGEON, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

Ege. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, And, by the doom of death, end woes and all. Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, 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 gilders to redeem their lives, Have sealed his rigorous statutes with their bloods, Excludes all pity from our threat'ning looks. For, since the mortal and intestine jars 'Twist thy seditious countrymen and us, It hath in solemn synods been decreed, Both by the Syracusans and ourselves, To admit no traffick to our adverse towns: Nay, more,

If

Αν

any,

born at Ephesus, be seen any Syracusan marts and fairs, Again, If any Syracusan 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 ransome him. Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; Therefore, by law thou art condemn'd to die. Ege. Yet this my comfort; when your words are done,

My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

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

Ege. 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 Syracusa 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 she had 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 distinguish'd but by names.
That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
A poor 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 tragick 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 fasten'd 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,
Fasten'd 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 discovered
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.

Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name,)
Might bear him company in the quest of him:
Whom whilst I labour'd 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.
Duke. Hapless Egeon, whom the fates hav
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.

so;

For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

Ege. 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 encounter'd 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 helpful welcome to their shipwreck'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.

Duke. And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,

Do me the favour to dilate at full'

What hath befall'n of them, and thee, till now.
Ege. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and impórtun'd me,
That his attendant, (for his case was like,

Merchant.

Mer. Therefore, give out, you are of Epidamnum Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate. This very day, a Syracusan 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.

Ant. S. 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.

Dro. S. Many a man would take you at you word,

And go indeed, having so good a mean.

[Erit DRO.

Ant. S. 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?

Mer. 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 afterwards consort you till bed-time; My present business calls me from you now.

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

Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own content.
[Exit Merchant.
Ant. S. He that commends me to mine own
content,

Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
Ito the world am like a drop of water,
That in the ocean seeks another drop;
Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:
So I, to find a mother, and a brother
la quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Enter DROMIO of Ephesus.

Here comes the almanack of my true date. —
What now? How chance, thou art return'd so soon?
Dr. E. 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.

Aat. S. Stop in your wind, sir; tell me this, I pray; Where have you left the money that I gave you? Dr. E. 0,-sixpence, that I had o'Wednesday Last,

To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper ; ·
The saddler had it, sir, I kept it not.

Ant. &. 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

great a charge from thine own custody?

Dra. E. 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. Aut. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;

the mart

Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner; My mistress, and her sister, stay for you.

Ant. S. 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?

Dro. E. 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.
Ant. S. Thy mistress' marks! what mistress, slave,
hast thou?

Dro. E. 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.
Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my
face,

Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.
Dro. E. What mean you, sir? for God's sake,
hold your hands;
Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take

my

heels.

[Exit DRO. E. Ant. S. 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.

[Exit.

SCENE I. — A publick Place.

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.

Ar. Neither my husband, nor the slave return'd, That in such haste I sent to seek his master! Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.

Luc. Perhaps, some merchant hath invited him,
And from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.
(rood sister, let us dine, and never fret:
A man is master of his liberty:

Time is their master; and, when they see time,
They'll go, or come: If so, be patient, sister.
Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be

more ?

Luc. Because their business still lies out o'door.
Air. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.
Luc. O, know, he is the bridle of your will.
Ar. There's none, but asses, will be bridled so.

Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with

woe.

There's nothing, situate under heaven's eye,
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
Are their males' subject, and at their controls:
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,
Lords of the wide world, and wild wat'ry seas,
Indued with intellectual sense and souls,
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,
Are masters to their females and their lords:
Then let your will attend on their accords.

Adr. This servitude makes you to keep unwed.
Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.
Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear