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These are the parents to these children,
Which accidentally are met together.-
Antipholus, thou cam'st from Corinth first.
Ant. S. No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.
Duke. Stay, stand apart; I know not which
is which.

Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord.

Dro. E. And I with him.

Ant. E. Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,

Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle. Adr. Which of you two did dine with me to-day? Ant. S. I, gentle mistress.

Adr.

And are not you my husband?

Ant. E. No, I say nay to that.

Ant. S. And so do I, yet did she call me so;
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,
Did call me brother.-What I told you then,
I hope I shall have leisure to make good;
If this be not a dream I see and hear.

Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.
Ant. S. I think it be, sir; I deny it not.
Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.
Ang. I think I did, sir; I deny it not.

Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail, By Dromio; but I think he brought it not

Dro. E. No, none by me.

Ant. S. This purse of ducats I received from you, And Dromio, my man, did bring them me. I see we still did meet each other's man, And I was ta'en for him, and he for me; And thereupon these Errors are arose.

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And all that are assembled in this place.
That by this sympathiséd one day's error
Have suffered wrong, go, keep us company,
And we shall make full satisfaction.-
Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail
Of you, my sons; nor, till this present hour,
My heavy burdens are delivered.

The Duke, my husband, and my children both,
And you the calendars of their nativity,
Go to a gossip's feast, and go with me:
After so long grief, such nativity!
Duke. With all my neart, I'll gossip at this feast.
[Exeunt DUKE, Abbess, ÆGEON, Courtesan,
Merchant, ANGELO, and Attendants.
Dro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from
shipboard?

Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou
embarked?

Dro. S. Your goods, that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

Ant. S. He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio:

Come, go with us; we'll look to that anon:
Embrace thy brother there, rejoice with him.
[Exeunt the two ANTIPHOLUSES,
ADRIANA, and LUCIANA.
Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master's
house,

That kitchened me for you to-day at dinner:
She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

Dro. E. Methinks you are my glass, and not

my brother:

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SCENE I.-Venice. A Street.

ACT I.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO.
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 't is made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea.
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,

That courtesy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Solan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still

Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind;
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads;
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me sad.
Salar.
My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats;
And see my wealthy Andrew docked in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone,

And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream;
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks;
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought

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Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time :
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar aspect,

That they'll not shew their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO. Solan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare you well;
We leave you now with better company.
Salar. I would have stayed till I had made you

merry,

If worthier friends had not prevented me.

Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it your own business calls on you,
And you embrace the occasion to depart.

Salar. Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh?
say when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so? Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

[Exeunt SALARINO and SOLANIO. Lor. My lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,

We two will leave you: but at dinner-time
I pray you have in mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.

Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously changed.
Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gra-

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With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles coine;
And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio
(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks),
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dressed in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips let no dog bark !”
O, my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers, fools.

I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion.—
Come, good Lorenzo.-Fare ye well a while;
I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor. Well, we will leave you, then, till dinnertime :

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years

more,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear Gra. Thanks, i' faith; for silence is only com

mendable

In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. [Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO. Ant. Is that anything, now? Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing; more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you have them, they are not worth the search.

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is this same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you, to-day, promised to tell me of?

Bass. "T is not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate, By something shewing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance: Nor do I now make moan to be abridged From such a noble rate; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,

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