Go fetch me something. I’ll break ope the gate.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE (within the Phoenix)

Break any breaking here, and I’ll break your knave’s pate.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS

A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind;

Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE (within the Phoenix)

It seems thou want’st breaking. Out upon thee, hind!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS

Here’s too much ‘Out upon thee!’ I pray thee, let me in.

DROMIO or SYRACUSE (within the Phoenix)

Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS

Well, I’ll break in.—Go borrow me a crow.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS

A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?

For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather.

(To Dromio of Syracuse)

If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS

Go, get thee gone. Fetch me an iron crow.

BALTHASAR

Have patience, sir. O, let it not be so!

Herein you war against your reputation,

And draw within the compass of suspect

Th’unviolated honour of your wife.

Once this: your long experience of her wisdom,

Her sober virtue, years, and modesty,

Plead on her part some cause to you unknown;

And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse

Why at this time the doors are made against you.

Be ruled by me. Depart in patience,

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner,

And about evening come yourself alone

To know the reason of this strange restraint.

If by strong hand you offer to break in

Now in the stirring passage of the day,

A vulgar comment will be made of it,

And that supposed by the common rout

Against your yet ungallèd estimation,

That may with foul intrusion enter in

And dwell upon your grave when you are dead.

For slander lives upon succession,

For ever housed where once it gets possession.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS

You have prevailed. I will depart in quiet,

And in despite of mirth mean to be merry.

I know a wench of excellent discourse,

Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle.

There will we dine. This woman that I mean,

My wife—but, I protest, without desert—

Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal.

To her will we to dinner. (To Angelo) Get you home

And fetch the chain. By this, I know, ’tis made.

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porcupine,

For there’s the house. That chain will I bestow—

Be it for nothing but to spite my wife—

Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste:

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,

I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me.

ANGELO

I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence.

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS

Do so.

⌈Exit Angelo⌉

This jest shall cost me some expense.

Exeunt ⌈Dromio of Syracuse within the Phoenix, and the others into the Porcupine⌉

3.2 Enter ⌈from the Phoenix⌉ Luciana with Antipholus of Syracuse

LUCIANA

And may it be that you have quite forgot

A husband’s office? Shall, Antipholus,

Even in the spring of love thy love-springs rot?

Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?

If you did wed my sister for her wealth,

Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more

kindness;

Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth:

Muffle your false love with some show of blindness.

Let not my sister read it in your eye.

Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator.

Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;

Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger.

Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted:

Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint.

Be secret-false. What need she be acquainted?

What simple thief brags of his own attaint?

‘Tis double wrong to truant with your bed,

And let her read it in thy looks at board.

Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;

III deeds is doubled with an evil word.

Alas, poor women, make us but believe—

Being compact of credit—that you love us.

Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve.

We in your motion turn, and you may move us.

Then, gentle brother, get you in again.

Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:

’Tis holy sport to be a little vain

When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE

Sweet mistress—what your name is else I know not,

Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine.

Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not

Than our earth’s wonder, more than earth divine.

Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak.

Lay open to my earthy gross conceit,

Smothered in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,

The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.

Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you

To make it wander in an unknown field?

Are you a god? Would you create me new?

Transform me, then, and to your power I’ll yield.

But if that I am I, then well I know