Act 3 - Scene 2
Enter LUCIANA and ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse
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,
for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness:
Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
false love with some show of blindness:
Let not my sister read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own
Look sweet, be 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
And let her read it in thy looks at board:
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
Ill deeds are
doubled with an evil word.
Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
Being compact of credit, that you love
Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;
We in your motion turn and you may move us.
gentle brother, get you in again;
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:
'Tis holy sport to be a little
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.
Sweet mistress--what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,--
your knowledge and your grace you show not
Than our earth's wonder, more than earth divine.
me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother'd in errors,
feeble, shallow, weak,
The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
Against my soul's pure truth why labour
To make it wander in an unknown field?
Are you a god? would you create me new?
then, and to your power I'll yield.
But if that I am I, then well I know
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
to her bed no homage do I owe
Far more, far more to you do I decline.
O, train me not, sweet mermaid,
with thy note,
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote:
the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take them and there lie,
And in that glorious supposition
He gains by death that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!
What, are you mad, that you do reason so?
Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
It is a fault that springeth from your eye.
For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.
Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.
As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.
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