_Adr._ How ill agrees it with your gravity To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, Abetting him to thwart me in my mood! Be it my wrong you are from me exempt, 170 But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine: Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate: 175 If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss; Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion. _Ant. S._ To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme: 180 What, was I married to her in my dream? Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this? What error drives our eyes and ears amiss? Until I know this sure uncertainty, I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy. 185 _Luc._ Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner. _Dro. S._ O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner. This is the fairy land;--O spite of spites! We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites: If we obey them not, this will ensue, 190 They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. _Luc._ Why pratest thou to thyself, and answer’st not? Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot! _Dro. S._ I am transformed, master, am I not? _Ant. S._ I think thou art in mind, and so am I. 195 _Dro. S._ Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. _Ant. S._ Thou hast thine own form. _Dro. S._ No, I am an ape. _Luc._ If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass. _Dro. S._ ’Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass. ’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be 200 But I should know her as well as she knows me. _Adr._ Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, To put the finger in the eye and weep, Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn. Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate. 205 Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day, And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter. Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well. 210 _Ant. S._ Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised? Known unto these, and to myself disguised! I’ll say as they say, and persever so, And in this mist at all adventures go. 215 _Dro. S._ Master, shall I be porter at the gate? _Adr._ Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate. _Luc._ Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late. [_Exeunt._ NOTES: II, 2.