Act IV, Scene iii:
The same.

[Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE.]

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

There's not a man I meet but doth salute me

As if I were their well-acquainted friend;

And every one doth call me by my name.

Some tender money to me, some invite me;

Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;

Some offer me commodities to buy;

Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop,

And show'd me silks that he had bought for me,

And therewithal took measure of my body.

Sure, these are but imaginary wiles,

And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

[Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Master, here's the gold you sent me for.

What, have you got the picture of old Adam new apparelled?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

What gold is this? What Adam dost thou mean?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Not that Adam that kept the paradise, but that Adam that keeps

the prison; he that goes in the calf's skin that was killed for

the Prodigal; he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel,

and bid you forsake your liberty.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

I understand thee not.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

No? Why, 'tis a plain case: he that went like a bass-viol in a

case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired,

gives them a sob, and 'rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on

decayed men, and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up his

rest to do more exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

What! thou mean'st an officer?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Ay, sir,—the sergeant of the band: that brings any man to answer

it that breaks his band; one that thinks a man always going to

bed, and says 'God give you good rest!'

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts

forth to-night? may we be gone?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the bark

Expedition put forth to-night; and then were you hindered by the

sergeant, to tarry for the hoy, Delay: here are the angels that

you sent for to deliver you.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

The fellow is distract, and so am I;

And here we wander in illusions:

Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

[Enter a COURTEZAN.]

COURTEZAN:

Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.

I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:

Is that the chain you promis'd me to-day?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Master, is this Mistress Satan?

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

It is the devil.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Nay, she is worse,—she is the devil's dam; and here she comes in

the habit of a light wench; and thereof comes that the wenches

say 'God damn me!' That's as much to say 'God make me a light

wench!' It is written they appear to men like angels of light:

light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light

wenches will burn: come not near her.

COURTEZAN:

Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.

Will you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Master, if you do; expect spoon-meat, or bespeak a long spoon.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

Why, Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

Avoid then, fiend! What tell'st thou me of supping?

Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress;

I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.

COURTEZAN:

Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,

Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis'd,

And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Some devils ask but the paring of one's nail,

A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,

A nut, a cherry-stone; but she, more covetous,

Would have a chain.

Master, be wise; an if you give it her,

The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.

COURTEZAN:

I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain;

I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:

Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE:

Fly pride, says the peacock: Mistress, that you know.

[Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.]

COURTEZAN:

Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad,

Else would he never so demean himself:

A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,

And for the same he promis'd me a chain;

Both one and other he denies me now:

The reason that I gather he is mad,—

Besides this present instance of his rage,—

Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,

Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.

Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,

On purpose shut the doors against his way.

My way is now to hie home to his house,

And tell his wife that, being lunatic,

He rush'd into my house and took perforce

My ring away: this course I fittest choose,

For forty ducats is too much to lose.

[Exit.]