06/15/2020
Act 1, Scene 1
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Enter the DUKE, EGEON, JAILER, and other attendants
EGEON
Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall,
And by the doom of death end woes and all.
Go on, Solinus, sentence me to death.
That will put me out of my misery.
DUKE
Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more.
I am not partial to infringe our laws.
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The enmity and discord which of late
Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,
Who, wanting guilders to redeem their lives,
Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods,
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Excludes all pity from our threatening looks.
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed
Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,
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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,
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His goods confiscate to the Duke’s dispose,
Unless a thousand marks be levièd
To quit the penalty and to ransom him.
Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
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Therefore by law thou art condemned to die.
Merchant of Syracuse, stop pleading. I'm not in the mood to violate our laws. All this recent hostility and chaos is your resentful duke's fault. When our honest merchants don't have the money to pay their ransoms, he's been using his own strict laws to execute our honest merchants. So, we're not going to show any pity. Ever since the fatal civil wars between your unruly countrymen and our people, it's been decreed in parliaments both by the people of Syracuse and by us that no one will be allowed to enter the opposing town. And, what's more, if anyone born in Ephesus is seen in any markets or fairs in Syracuse, or if anyone born in Syracuse comes to the bay of Ephesus, he dies. In addition, the Duke takes possession of his goods unless a thousand marks are paid to lift the sentence and pay the ransom. Even at the highest rate, you can't be worth a hundred marks. So, by law, you are condemned to die.
EGEON
Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
Still, I do have one comfort: when you stop speaking, my miseries will be gone like the setting sun.
DUKE
Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause
Why thou dep-artedst from thy native home
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And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.
Well, Syracusian, quickly say what led you to leave your native home and why you came to Ephesus.
EGEON
A heavier task could not have been imposed
Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable;
Yet, that the world may witness that my end
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offense,
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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, had not our hap been bad.
With her I lived in joy. Our wealth increased
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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
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Before herself— almost at fainting under
The pleasing punishment that women bear—
Had made provision for her following me
And soon and safe arrivèd where I was.
There had she not been long but she became
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A joyful mother of two goodly sons,
And, which was strange, the one so like the other
As could not be distinguished but by names.
That very hour, and in the selfsame inn,
A meaner woman was deliverèd
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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.
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Unwilling, I agreed. Alas, too soon
We came aboard.
A league from Epidamnum had we sailed
Before the always-wind-obeying deep
Gave any tragic instance of our harm;
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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 embraced,
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Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,
Weeping before for what she saw must come,
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,
That mourned for fashion, ignorant what to fear,
Forced me to seek delays for them and me.
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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 fastened him unto a small spare mast,
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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 disposed, my wife and I,
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fixed,
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Fastened ourselves at either end the mast
And, floating straight, obedient to the stream,
Was carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
Dispersed those vapors that offended us,
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And by the benefit of his wished light
The seas waxed calm, and we discoverèd
Two ships from far, making amain to us,
Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this.
But ere they came,— O, let me say no more!
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Gather the sequel by that went before.
There couldn't be a more severe punishment than making me speak my unspeakable sorrows. However, so that everyone knows that the end of my life was due to natural love for my son, not due to vile crime, I'll say as much as my pain allows me. I was born in Syracuse and I married a woman who I would have made happy if we hadn't had bad fortune. We lived together in joy. We got wealthier since I was frequently making prosperous trips to Epidamnum, but, when my agent died, I had to leave my wife's kind embraces to deal with all the goods left over. I hadn't been gone six months before my wife, almost fainting because of her pregnancy, had made plans to follow me and soon safely joined me. She hadn't been there long before she became the happy mother of two wonderful sons, and, strangely, they were so similar that they couldn't be told apart except by their names. The same hour, in the same inn, a poorer woman gave birth to male identical twins. The parents were extremely poor, so I bought those twins to be my sons' servants. My wife, who was extremely proud of our kids, tried to convince me every day that we should go home. Reluctantly, I agreed. Unfortunately, we set sail too soon. We'd sailed a league from Epidamnum before the waters, which always obey the wind, gave some sign of danger. Hope quickly faded because the stormy sky made us believe we were all doomed to die immediately. I would have gladly embraced death, but when I heard my wife's incessant weeping when she saw what was coming, and her compassionate laments for our beautiful babies who were sobbing in imitation of their mother although they didn't understand why they should be afraid, I looked for ways to delay our deaths. This was the only means I could come up with: the sailors took our boat to seek safety and left the sinking ship to us. My wife, taking more care of the younger twin, tied him to a small, extra mast, one of the ones sailors have ready in case of storms. One of the other twins was tied to him, while I was similarly watching over the other. Having taken care of the kids in this way, my wife and I, always watching the children, tied ourselves to either end of the mast and, floating straight, following the current, were carried towards what we thought was Corinth. Finally, the sun, looking down on the earth, cleared up the stormy winds that were assaulting us, and, thanks to the lucky sunlight, the seas calmed down, and we saw two faraway ships coming towards us, one from Corinth, one from Epidaurus. But before they came—oh, don't make me go on! Predict what comes next from what I've already told you.
DUKE
Nay, forward, old man. Do not break off so,
For we may pity though not pardon thee.
No, go on, old man. Don't stop here, for we might just pity you and not pardon you.
