Enter Adriana and Luciana
Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so? Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead in earnest? yea or no? Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily? What observation madest thou in this case Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?
I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still; My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. He is deformed, crooked, old and sere, Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.
Ah, but I think him better than I say, And yet would herein others' eyes were worse. Far from her nest the lapwing cries away: My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.
Enter Dromio of Syracuse
No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell. A devil in an everlasting garment hath him; One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel; A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff; A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands; A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well; One that before the judgement carries poor souls to hell.
I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell. Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?
Go fetch it, sister.
This I wonder at, That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. Tell me, was he arrested on a band?
Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?
No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone: It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.
Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's worth, to season. Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say That Time comes stealing on by night and day? If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way, Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?
Re-enter Luciana with a purse
Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight; And bring thy master home immediately. Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit— Conceit, my comfort and my injury.