<SPEECH 1><ACT 1><SCENE 1><0%>
<ÆGEON>	<1%>
	Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,
	And by the doom of death end woes and all.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 2><ACT 1><SCENE 1><1%>
<ÆGEON>	<2%>
	Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,
	My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 3><ACT 1><SCENE 1><1%>
<ÆGEON>	<2%>
	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 Syracusa 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 the 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 distinguish'd but by names.
	That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
	A meaner 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 fasten'd 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,
	Fasten'd 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 wished light
	The seas wax'd calm, and we discovered
	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.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 4><ACT 1><SCENE 1><4%>
<ÆGEON>	<5%>
	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 encounter'd 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 ship-wrack'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 misfortune was my life prolong'd,
	To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 5><ACT 1><SCENE 1><5%>
<ÆGEON>	<7%>
	My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
	At eighteen years became inquisitive
	After his brother; and importun'd me
	That his attendant—for his case was like,
	Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name—
	Might bear him company in the quest of him;
	Whom whilst I labour'd of a love to see,
	I hazarded the loss of whom I lov'd.
	Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,
	Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
	And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,
	Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
	Or that or any place that harbours men.
	But here must end the story of my life;
	And happy were I in my timely death,
	Could all my travels warrant me they live.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 6><ACT 1><SCENE 1><7%>
<ÆGEON>	<8%>
	Hopeless and helpless doth Ægeon wend,
	But to procrastinate his lifeless end.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 7><ACT 5><SCENE 1><87%>
<ÆGEON>	<87%>
	Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,
	I see my son Antipholus and Dromio!
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 8><ACT 5><SCENE 1><91%>
<ÆGEON>	<92%>
	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.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 9><ACT 5><SCENE 1><91%>
<ÆGEON>	<92%>
	Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus?
	And is not that your bondman Dromio?
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 10><ACT 5><SCENE 1><92%>
<ÆGEON>	<92%>
	I am sure you both of you remember me.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 11><ACT 5><SCENE 1><92%>
<ÆGEON>	<93%>
	Why look you strange on me? you know me well.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 12><ACT 5><SCENE 1><92%>
<ÆGEON>	<93%>
	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?
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 13><ACT 5><SCENE 1><92%>
<ÆGEON>	<93%>
	Dromio, nor thou?
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 14><ACT 5><SCENE 1><92%>
<ÆGEON>	<93%>
	I am sure thou dost.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 15><ACT 5><SCENE 1><93%>
<ÆGEON>	<93%>
	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.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 16><ACT 5><SCENE 1><93%>
<ÆGEON>	<94%>
	But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,
	Thou know'st we parted: but perhaps, my son,
	Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery.
</ÆGEON>

<SPEECH 17><ACT 5><SCENE 1><95%>
<ÆGEON>	<95%>
	If I dream not, thou art Æmilia:
	If thou art she, tell me where is that son
	That floated with thee on the fatal raft?
</ÆGEON>

