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Because that I familiarly sometimes
Do use you for my fool and chat with you,
Your sauciness will jest upon my love
And make a common of my serious hours.
When the sun shines, let foolish gnats make sport,
But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
If you will jest with me, know my aspect,
And fashion your demeanor to my looks,
Or I will beat this method in your sconce. (2.2.26–34)
Antipholus of Syracuse addresses these lines to his Dromio. This exchange follows his first mix-up with the Ephesian Dromio, who had accosted him in the street earlier, claiming that his wife was waiting for him to appear for the midday meal. Of course, because Antipholus doesn’t yet know there are two Dromios, he assumes that his bondsman is playing a trick on him. Adopting a cautionary tone, Antipholus warns Dromio that even though they often chat cheerfully like familiars, his bondsman shouldn’t jest with him during his more “serious hours.” In effect, Antipholus is reminding Dromio who is really in charge, thereby showing his concern with maintaining the conventional hierarchy between master and servant.
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. (2.2.225–29)
Antipholus of Syracuse speaks these lines to himself just prior to dining with Adriana, who has taken him into her home under the mistaken impression that he is her husband. More confused than ever, Antipholus wonders not just where he is but who he is. Indeed, he suggests that his true identity has somehow been concealed from him, and that he’s the only one who doesn’t know who he is: “Known unto these, and to myself disguised!” The worry expressed here connects to the play’s theme related to belonging and self-knowledge. At this point, Antipholus of Syracuse feels more alone than ever, and therefore less certain of his identity.
Sweet mistress—what your name is else I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine—
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
Than our Earth’s wonder, more than Earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak.
Lay open to my earthy gross conceit,
Smothered in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.
Against my soul’s pure truth why labor you
To make it wander in an unknown field?
Are you a god? Would you create me new?
Transform me, then, and to your power I’ll yield. (3.2.31–42)
Whereas the previous two quotes reveal the Syracusan Antipholus as a master and as a man uncertain of his own identity, this third quote reveals him as a lover. Addressing Luciana in quatrains with an ABAB rhyme scheme, he adopts the persona of a love poet wooing a beautiful young woman. The tropes he conjures here are conventional: the appeal to an as-yet unknown woman whose beauty has captivated him; the favorable comparison to the divinity of the earth; and the subversion of the usual hierarchy between men and women, such that the beloved holds sway over the lover—in this case, to “teach [him] . . . how to think and speak.” Notably, as he concludes his praise for Luciana, he insists that he is not her sister’s husband, as she believes: “But if that I am I, then well I know / Your weeping sister is no wife of mine” (3.2.43–44). His language here is important, since it subtly links his love for Luciana with the rhetoric of self-knowledge. Antipholus has previously expressed a lack of self-certainty. As he falls in love, however, a sense of self-certainty seems to be returning.
