I gain’d my freedom; and immediately
Ran hither to your Grace, whom I beseech
To give me ample satisfaction
For these deep shames and great indignities.
Ang.
My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him:
That he din’d not at home, but was lock’d out.
Duke.
But had he such a chain of thee, or no?
Ang.
He had, my lord, and when he ran in here,
These people saw the chain about his neck.
[2. E.] Mer.
Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine
Heard you confess you had the chain of him,
After you first forswore it on the mart,
And thereupon I drew my sword on you;
And then you fled into this abbey here,
From whence I think you are come by miracle.
E. Ant.
I never came within these abbey walls,
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;
I never saw the chain, so help me heaven;
And this is false you burthen me withal.
Duke.
Why, what an intricate impeach is this!
I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.
If here you hous’d him, here he would have been;
If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly.
You say he din’d at home; the goldsmith here
Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?
E. Dro.
Sir, he din’d with her there, at the Porpentine.
Cour.
He did, and from my finger snatch’d that ring.
E. Ant.
’Tis true, my liege, this ring I had of her.
Duke.
Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?
Cour.
As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace.
Duke.
Why, this is strange. Go call the Abbess hither.
I think you are all mated, or stark mad.
Exit one to the Abbess.
Ege.
Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:
Haply I see a friend will save my life,
And pay the sum that may deliver me.
Duke.
Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.
Ege.
Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipholus?
And is not that your bondman, Dromio?
E. Dro.
Within this hour I was his bondman, sir,
But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords:
Now am I Dromio, and his man, unbound.
Ege.
I am sure you both of you remember me.
E. Dro.
Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;
For lately we were bound as you are now.
You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir?
Ege.
Why look you strange on me? You know me well.
E. Ant.
I never saw you in my life till now.
Ege.
O! grief hath chang’d me since you saw me last,
And careful hours with time’s deformed hand
Have written strange defeatures in my face:
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
E. Ant.
Neither.
Ege.
Dromio, nor thou?
E. Dro.
No, trust me, sir, nor I.
Ege. I am sure thou dost!
E. Dro. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not—and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.
Ege.
Not know my voice! O time’s extremity,
Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue
In seven short years, that here my only son
Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares?
Though now this grained face of mine be hid
In sap-consuming winter’s drizzled snow,
And all the conduits of my blood froze up,
Yet hath my night of life some memory,
My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:
All these old witnesses—I cannot err—
Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.
E. Ant.
I never saw my father in my life.
Ege.
But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,
Thou know’st we parted, but perhaps, my son,
Thou sham’st to acknowledge me in misery.
E. Ant.
The Duke, and all that know me in the city,
Can witness with me that it is not so.
I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life.
Duke.
I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
Have I been patron to Antipholus,
During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa:
I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.
Enter the Abbess with Antipholus [of] Syracusa and Dromio [of] Syracusa.
Abb.
Most mighty Duke, behold a man much wrong’d.