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Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

       DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

       And he will bless that cross with other beating:

       Between you I shall have a holy head.

       ADRIANA.

       Hence, prating peasant: fch thy master home.

       DROMIO OF EPHESUS.

       Am I so round with you, as you with me,

       That like a football you do spurn me thus?

       You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:

       If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

       [Exit.]

       LUCIANA.

       Fie, how impatience low’reth in your face!

       ADRIANA.

       His company must do his minions grace,

       Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.

       Hath homely age the alluring beauty took

       From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:

       Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?

       If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d,

       Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:

       Do their gay vestments his affections bait?

       That’s not my fault; he’s master of my state:

       What ruins are in me that can be found

       By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground

       Of my defeatures: my decayed fair

       A sunny look of his would soon repair;

       But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale

       And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

       LUCIANA.

       Self-harming jealousy!—fie, beat it hence.

       ADRIANA.

       Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.

       I know his eye doth homage otherwhere;

       Or else what lets it but he would be here?

       Sister, you know he promis’d me a chain;—

       Would that alone, alone he would detain,

       So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!

       I see the jewel best enamelled

       Will lose his beauty; yet the gold ‘bides still

       That others touch, yet often touching will

       Wear gold; and no man that hath a name

       By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.

       Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,

       I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die.

       LUCIANA.

       How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

       [Exeunt.]

      SCENE 2. The same.

       [Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.]

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up

       Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave

       Is wander’d forth in care to seek me out.

       By computation and mine host’s report

       I could not speak with Dromio since at first

       I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

       [Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

       How now, sir! is your merry humour alter’d?

       As you love strokes, so jest with me again.

       You know no Centaur? you receiv’d no gold?

       Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?

       My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,

       That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Even now, even here, not half-an-hour since.

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       I did not see you since you sent me hence,

       Home to the Centaur with the gold you gave me.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt;

       And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner;

       For which, I hope, thou felt’st I was displeas’d.

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       I am glad to see you in this merry vein:

       What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?

       Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

       [Beating him.]

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       Hold, sir, for God’s sake: now your jest is earnest:

       Upon what bargain do you give it me?

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Because that I familiarly sometimes

       Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,

       Your sauciness will jest upon my love,

       And make a common of my serious hours.

       When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,

       But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.

       If you will jest with me, know my aspect,

       And fashion your demeanour to my looks,

       Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sconce, call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and ensconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders.—But I pray, sir, why am I beaten?

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Dost thou not know?

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Shall I tell you why?

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for, they say, every why hath a wherefore.—

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Why, first,—for flouting me; and then wherefore,

       For urging it the second time to me.

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,

       When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason?—

       Well, sir, I thank you.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       Thank me, sir! for what?

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

       ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.

       I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing for something.—

       But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

       DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

       No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

       ANTIPHOLUS

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