THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. William Shakespeare

been decreed,

       Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,

       To admit no traffic to our adverse towns;

       Nay, more,

       If any born at Ephesus be seen

       At any Syracusian marts and fairs;—

       Again, if any Syracusian born

       Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,

       His goods confiscate to the Duke’s dispose;

       Unless a thousand marks be levied,

       To quit the penalty and to ransom him.—

       Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,

       Cannot amount unto a hundred marks:

       Therefore by law thou art condemn’d to die.

       AEGEON.

       Yet this my comfort,—when your words are done,

       My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

       DUKE.

       Well, Syracusan, say, in brief, the cause

       Why thou departedst from thy native home,

       And for what cause thou cam’st to Ephesus.

       AEGEON.

       A heavier task could not have been impos’d

       Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable!

       Yet, that the world may witness that my end

       Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,

       I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.

       In Syracuse was I born; and wed

       Unto a woman, happy but for me,

       And by me too, had not our hap been bad.

       With her I liv’d in joy; our wealth increas’d

       By prosperous voyages I often made

       To Epidamnum, till my factor’s death,

       And he,—great care of goods at random left,—

       Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:

       From whom my absence was not six months old,

       Before herself,—almost at fainting under

       The pleasing punishment that women bear,—

       Had made provision for her following me,

       And soon and safe arrived where I was.

       There had she not been long but she became

       A joyful mother of two goodly sons;

       And, which was strange, the one so like the other

       As could not be disdnguish’d but by names.

       That very hour, and in the selfsame inn,

       A mean woman was delivered

       Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:

       Those,—for their parents were exceeding poor,—

       I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.

       My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,

       Made daily motions for our home return:

       Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon!

       We came aboard:

       A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d

       Before the always-wind-obeying deep

       Gave any tragic instance of our harm;

       But longer did we not retain much hope:

       For what obscured light the heavens did grant

       Did but convey unto our fearful minds

       A doubtful warrant of immediate death;

       Which though myself would gladly have embrac’d,

       Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,

       Weeping before for what she saw must come,

       And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,

       That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear,

       Forc’d me to seek delays for them and me.

       And this it was,—for other means was none.—

       The sailors sought for safety by our boat,

       And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us;:

       My wife, more careful for the latter-born,

       Had fast’ned him unto a small spare mast,

       Such as seafaring men provide for storms:

       To him one of the other twins was bound,

       Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.

       The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I,

       Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d,

       Fast’ned ourselves at either end the mast,

       And, floating straight, obedient to the stream,

       Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.

       At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,

       Dispers’d those vapours that offended us;

       And, by the benefit of his wish’d light,

       The seas wax’d calm, and we discover’d

       Two ships from far making amain to us,—

       Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:

       But ere they came—O, let me say no more!—

       Gather the sequel by that went before.

       DUKE.

       Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so;

       For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

       AEGEON.

       O, had the gods done so, I had not now

       Worthily term’d them merciless to us!

       For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,

       We were encount’red by a mighty rock,

       Which being violently borne upon,

       Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;

       So that, in this unjust divorce of us,

       Fortune had left to both of us alike

       What to delight in, what to sorrow for.

       Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened

       With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,

       Was carried with more speed before the wind;

       And in our sight they three were taken up

       By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.

       At length another ship had seiz’d on us;

       And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,

       Gave healthful welcome to their shipwreck’d guests;

       And would have reft the fishers of their prey,

       Had not their bark been very slow of sail,

       And therefore homeward did they bend their course.—

       Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss;

       That by misfortunes was my life prolong’d,

       To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

       DUKE.

       And, for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,

       Do me the favour to dilate at full

       What have befall’n of them and thee till now.

       AEGEON.

       My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,

       At eighteen