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- Edition: The Comedy of Errors
The Comedy of Errors (Folio 1, 1623)
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272Actus Secundus.
273Enter Adriana, wife to Antipholis Sereptus, with
274Luciana her Sister.
277Sure Luciana it is two a clocke.
279And from the Mart he's somewhere gone to dinner:
280Good Sister let vs dine, and neuer fret;
281A man is Master of his libertie:
287Luc. Oh, know he is the bridle of your will.
290There's nothing situate vnder heauens eye,
295Lord of the wide world, and wilde watry seas,
298Are masters to their females, and their Lords:
299Then let your will attend on their accords.
301Luci. Not this, but troubles of the marriage bed.
305Luc. Till he come home againe, I would forbeare.
307They can be meeke, that haue no other cause:
309We bid be quiet when we heare it crie.
310But were we burdned with like waight of paine,
312So thou that hast no vnkinde mate to greeue thee,
313With vrging helpelesse patience would releeue me;
314But if thou liue to see like right bereft,
315This foole-beg'd patience in thee will be left.
316Luci. Well, I will marry one day but to trie:
317Heere comes your man, now is your husband nie.
318Enter Dromio Eph.
320E.Dro. Nay, hee's at too hands with mee, and that my
321two eares can witnesse.
323his minde?
324E.Dro. I, I, he told his minde vpon mine eare,
327his meaning.
329feele his blowes; and withall so doubtfully, that I could
334Adri. Horne mad, thou villaine?
335E.Dro. I meane not Cuckold mad,
337When I desir'd him to come home to dinner,
338He ask'd me for a hundred markes in gold:
339'Tis dinner time, quoth I: my gold, quoth he:
340Your meat doth burne, quoth I: my gold quoth he:
341Will you come, quoth I: my gold, quoth he;
342Where is the thousand markes I gaue thee villaine?
343The Pigge quoth I, is burn'd: my gold, quoth he:
346Luci. Quoth who?
I know quoth he, no house,
349tongue, I thanke him, I bare home vpon my shoulders:
350for in conclusion, he did beat me there.
352Dro. Goe backe againe, and be new beaten home?
H 2 Adri. Backe
88 The Comedie of Errors.
356Betweene you, I shall haue a holy head.
359That like a foot-ball you doe spurne me thus:
362Luci. Fie how impatience lowreth in your face.
365Hath homelie age th' alluring beauty tooke
366From my poore cheeke? then he hath wasted it.
369Vnkindnesse blunts it more then marble hard.
372What ruines are in me that can be found,
373By him not ruin'd? Then is he the ground
374Of my defeatures. My decayed faire,
376But, too vnruly Deere, he breakes the pale,
377And feedes from home; poore I am but his stale.
380I know his eye doth homage other-where,
381Or else, what lets it but he would be here?
382Sister, you know he promis'd me a chaine,
383Would that alone, a loue he would detaine,
384So he would keepe faire quarter with his bed:
387That others touch, and often touching will,
388Where gold and no man that hath a name,
390Since that my beautie cannot please his eie,
391Ile weepe (what's left away) and weeping die.
393 Exit.