ACT I

SCENE I. DUKE ORSINO's palace.

Enter DUKE ORSINO, CURIO, and other Lords; Musicians attending

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

What, Curio?

The hart.

Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purged the air of pestilence!
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.

Enter VALENTINE

How now! what news from her?

So please my lord, I might not be admitted;
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd
Her sweet perfections with one self king!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

Exeunt

SCENE II. The sea-coast.

Enter VIOLA, a Captain, and Sailors

What country, friends, is this?

This is Illyria, lady.

And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd: what think you, sailors?

It is perchance that you yourself were saved.

O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you and those poor number saved with you
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself,
Courage and hope both teaching him the practise,
To a strong mast that lived upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.

For saying so, there's gold:
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.

Who governs here?

A noble duke, in nature as in name.

What is the name?

Orsino.

Orsino! I have heard my father name him:
He was a bachelor then.

And so is now, or was so very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 'twas fresh in murmur,--as, you know,
What great ones do the less will prattle of,--
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.

What's she?

A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.

O that I served that lady
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is!

That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.

There is a fair behavior in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke:
Thou shall present me as an eunuch to him:
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing
And speak to him in many sorts of music
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

I thank thee: lead me on.

Exeunt

SCENE III. OLIVIA'S house.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of
her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'
nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great
exceptions to your ill hours.

Why, let her except, before excepted.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest
limits of order.

Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am:
these clothes are good enough to drink in; and so be
these boots too: an they be not, let them hang
themselves in their own straps.

That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard
my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish
knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Ay, he.

He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

What's that to the purpose?

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats:
he's a very fool and a prodigal.

Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the
viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages
word for word without book, and hath all the good
gifts of nature.

He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that
he's a fool, he's a great quarreller: and but that
he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he
hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent
he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors
that say so of him. Who are they?

They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to
her as long as there is a passage in my throat and
drink in Illyria: he's a coward and a coystrill
that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn
o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter SIR ANDREW

Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

Sweet Sir Andrew!

Bless you, fair shrew.

And you too, sir.

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

What's that?

My niece's chambermaid.

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

My name is Mary, sir.

Good Mistress Mary Accost,--

You mistake, knight; 'accost' is front her, board
her, woo her, assail her.

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this
company. Is that the meaning of 'accost'?

Fare you well, gentlemen.

An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst
never draw sword again.

An you part so, mistress, I would I might never
draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have
fools in hand?

Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

Now, sir, 'thought is free:' I pray you, bring
your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.

Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?

It's dry, sir.

Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can
keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

A dry jest, sir.

Are you full of them?

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry,
now I let go your hand, I am barren.

Exit

O knight thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I
see thee so put down?

Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary
put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit
than a Christian or an ordinary man has: but I am a
great eater of beef and I believe that does harm to my wit.

No question.

An I thought that, I'ld forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

What is 'Pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had
bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in
fencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, had I but
followed the arts!

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Why, would that have mended my hair?

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I
hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs
and spin it off.

Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece
will not be seen; or if she be, it's four to one
she'll none of me: the count himself here hard by woos her.

She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above
her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I
have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't,
man.

I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the
strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques
and revels sometimes altogether.

Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare
with an old man.

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Faith, I can cut a caper.

And I can cut the mutton to't.

And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong
as any man in Illyria.

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have
these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to
take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost
thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in
a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not
so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What
dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in?
I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy
leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

Taurus! That's sides and heart.

No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the
caper; ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent!

Exeunt

SCENE IV. DUKE ORSINO's palace.

Enter VALENTINE and VIOLA in man's attire

If the duke continue these favours towards you,
Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he hath
known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.

You either fear his humour or my negligence, that
you call in question the continuance of his love:
is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

No, believe me.

I thank you. Here comes the count.

Enter DUKE ORSINO, CURIO, and Attendants

Who saw Cesario, ho?

On your attendance, my lord; here.

Stand you a while aloof, Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.

Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds
Rather than make unprofited return.

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

O, then unfold the passion of my love,
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect.

I think not so, my lord.

Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair. Some four or five attend him;
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company. Prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.

I'll do my best
To woo your lady:

Aside

yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Exeunt

SCENE V. OLIVIA'S house.

Enter MARIA and Clown

Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will
not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in
way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this
world needs to fear no colours.

Make that good.

He shall see none to fear.

A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that
saying was born, of 'I fear no colours.'

Where, good Mistress Mary?

In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those
that are fools, let them use their talents.

Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or,
to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and,
for turning away, let summer bear it out.

You are resolute, then?

Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.

That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both
break, your gaskins fall.

Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if
Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a
piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my
lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

Exit

Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling!
Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft
prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may
pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus?
'Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.'

Enter OLIVIA with MALVOLIO

God bless thee, lady!

Take the fool away.

Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you:
besides, you grow dishonest.

Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel
will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is
the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend
himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if
he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing
that's mended is but patched: virtue that
transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that
amends is but patched with virtue. If that this
simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,
what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but
calamity, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take
away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.

Sir, I bade them take away you.

Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non
facit monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not
motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to
prove you a fool.

Can you do it?

Dexterously, good madonna.

Make your proof.

I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse
of virtue, answer me.

Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.

Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Good fool, for my brother's death.

I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's
soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him:
infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the
better fool.

God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the
better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be
sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his
word for two pence that you are no fool.

How say you to that, Malvolio?

I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a
barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day
with an ordinary fool that has no more brain
than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard
already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to
him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men,
that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better
than the fools' zanies.

Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste
with a distempered appetite. To be generous,
guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those
things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets:
there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do
nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet
man, though he do nothing but reprove.

Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou
speakest well of fools!

Re-enter MARIA

Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much
desires to speak with you.

From the Count Orsino, is it?

I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

Who of my people hold him in delay?

Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but
madman: fie on him!

Exit MARIA

Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I
am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.

Exit MALVOLIO

Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and
people dislike it.

Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest
son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with
brains! for,--here he comes,--one of thy kin has a
most weak pia mater.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH

By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?

A gentleman.

A gentleman! what gentleman?

'Tis a gentle man here--a plague o' these
pickle-herring! How now, sot!

Good Sir Toby!

Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

Ay, marry, what is he?

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give
me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

Exit

What's a drunken man like, fool?

Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one
draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads
him; and a third drowns him.

Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my
coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's
drowned: go, look after him.

He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look
to the madman.

Exit

Re-enter MALVOLIO

Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with
you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to
understand so much, and therefore comes to speak
with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to
have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore
comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? he's fortified against any denial.

Tell him he shall not speak with me.

Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your
door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to
a bench, but he'll speak with you.

What kind o' man is he?

Why, of mankind.

What manner of man?

Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

Of what personage and years is he?

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for
a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a
cooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him
in standing water, between boy and man. He is very
well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one
would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.

Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

Exit

Re-enter MARIA

Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face.
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

Enter VIOLA, and Attendants

The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

Speak to me; I shall answer for her.
Your will?

Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,--I
pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house,
for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away
my speech, for besides that it is excellently well
penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good
beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very
comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

Whence came you, sir?

I can say little more than I have studied, and that
question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me
modest assurance if you be the lady of the house,
that I may proceed in my speech.

Are you a comedian?

No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs
of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you
the lady of the house?

If I do not usurp myself, I am.

Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp
yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours
to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will
on with my speech in your praise, and then show you
the heart of my message.

Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you,
keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates,
and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you
than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if
you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of
moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little
longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet
lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when
the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of
war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my
hand; my words are as fun of peace as matter.

Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I
learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I
would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears,
divinity, to any other's, profanation.

Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

Exeunt MARIA and Attendants

Now, sir, what is your text?

Most sweet lady,--

A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
Where lies your text?

In Orsino's bosom.

In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

Good madam, let me see your face.

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate
with my face? You are now out of your text: but
we will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't
not well done?

Unveiling

Excellently done, if God did all.

'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy.

O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give
out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be
inventoried, and every particle and utensil
labelled to my will: as, item, two lips,
indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to
them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were
you sent hither to praise me?

I see you what you are, you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you: O, such love
Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

How does he love me?

With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant;
And in dimension and the shape of nature
A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;
He might have took his answer long ago.

If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense;
I would not understand it.

Why, what would you?

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me!

You might do much.
What is your parentage?

Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.

Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;
And let your fervor, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

Exit

'What is your parentage?'
'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast:
soft, soft!
Unless the master were the man. How now!
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.
What ho, Malvolio!

Re-enter MALVOLIO

Here, madam, at your service.

Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I or not: tell him I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't: hie thee, Malvolio.

Madam, I will.

Exit

I do I know not what, and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be, and be this so.

Exit

ACT II

SCENE I. The sea-coast.

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN

Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?

By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over
me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps
distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your
leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad
recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
ANTONIO: Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.

No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a
touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me
what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges
me in manners the rather to express myself. You
must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Roderigo. My father was that
Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard
of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both
born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased,
would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;
for some hour before you took me from the breach of
the sea was my sister drowned.

Alas the day!

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled
me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but,
though I could not with such estimable wonder
overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly
publish her; she bore a mind that envy could not but
call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt
water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

If you will not murder me for my love, let me be
your servant.

If you will not undo what you have done, that is,
kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not.
Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness,
and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that
upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell
tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.

Exit

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there.
But, come what may, I do adore thee so,
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

Exit

SCENE II. A street.

Enter VIOLA, MALVOLIO following

Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?

Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since
arrived but hither.

She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have
saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself.
She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord
into a desperate assurance she will none of him:
and one thing more, that you be never so hardy to
come again in his affairs, unless it be to report
your lord's taking of this. Receive it so.

She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her
will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth
stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be
it his that finds it.

Exit

I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman,--now alas the day!--
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

Exit

SCENE III. OLIVIA's house.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW

Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after
midnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo
surgere,' thou know'st,--

Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up
late is to be up late.

A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can.
To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is
early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go
to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the
four elements?

Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists
of eating and drinking.

Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

Enter Clown

Here comes the fool, i' faith.

How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture
of 'we three'?

Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I
had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg,
and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In
sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last
night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the
Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas
very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy
leman: hadst it?

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose
is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the
Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all
is done. Now, a song.

Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.

There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

A love-song, a love-song.

Ay, ay: I care not for good life.

[Sings]
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

Excellent good, i' faith.

Good, good.

[Sings]
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

A contagious breath.

Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? shall we
rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three
souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?

An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.

By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'

'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be
constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.

'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to
call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

Good, i' faith. Come, begin.

Catch sung

Enter MARIA

What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady
have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him
turn you out of doors, never trust me.

My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's
a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not
I consanguineous? am I not of her blood?
Tillyvally. Lady!

Sings

'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'

Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do
I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it
more natural.

[Sings] 'O, the twelfth day of December,'--

For the love o' God, peace!

Enter MALVOLIO

My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye
no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like
tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an
alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your
coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse
of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor
time in you?

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me
tell you, that, though she harbours you as her
kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If
you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you
are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please
you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid
you farewell.

'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

Nay, good Sir Toby.

'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'

Is't even so?

'But I will never die.'

Sir Toby, there you lie.

This is much credit to you.

'Shall I bid him go?'

'What an if you do?'

'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'

'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a
steward? Dost thou think, because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the
mouth too.

Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with
crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any
thing more than contempt, you would not give means
for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand.

Exit

Go shake your ears.

'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's
a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to
break promise with him and make a fool of him.

Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll
deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the
youth of the count's was today with thy lady, she is
much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me
alone with him: if I do not gull him into a
nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not
think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed:
I know I can do it.

Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!

What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason,
dear knight?

I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason
good enough.

The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing
constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,
that cons state without book and utters it by great
swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so
crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is
his grounds of faith that all that look on him love
him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find
notable cause to work.

What wilt thou do?

I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of
love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape
of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure
of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find
himself most feelingly personated. I can write very
like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we
can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Excellent! I smell a device.

I have't in my nose too.

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop,
that they come from my niece, and that she's in
love with him.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

And your horse now would make him an ass.

Ass, I doubt not.

O, 'twill be admirable!

Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will
work with him. I will plant you two, and let the
fool make a third, where he shall find the letter:
observe his construction of it. For this night, to
bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

Exit

Good night, Penthesilea.

Before me, she's a good wench.

She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me:
what o' that?

I was adored once too.

Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for
more money.

If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i'
the end, call me cut.

If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late
to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

Exeunt

SCENE IV. DUKE ORSINO's palace.

Enter DUKE ORSINO, VIOLA, CURIO, and others

Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night:
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:
Come, but one verse.

He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.

Who was it?

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady
Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

Exit CURIO. Music plays

Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me;
For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves:
Hath it not, boy?

A little, by your favour.

What kind of woman is't?

Of your complexion.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

About your years, my lord.

Too old by heaven: let still the woman take
An elder than herself: so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart:
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are.

I think it well, my lord.

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter CURIO and Clown

O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Are you ready, sir?

Ay; prithee, sing.

Music

SONG.

Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!

There's for thy pains.

No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the
tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for
thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such
constancy put to sea, that their business might be
every thing and their intent every where; for that's
it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

Exit

Let all the rest give place.

CURIO and Attendants retire

Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems
That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

I cannot be so answer'd.

Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love a great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?

There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.

Ay, but I know--

What dost thou know?

Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

And what's her history?

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but indeed
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.
Sir, shall I to this lady?

Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.

Exeunt

SCENE V. OLIVIA's garden.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport,
let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly
rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o'
favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will
fool him black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?

An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Here comes the little villain.

Enter MARIA

How now, my metal of India!

Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the
sun practising behavior to his own shadow this half
hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I
know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of
him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there,

Throws down a letter

for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

Exit

Enter MALVOLIO

'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told
me she did affect me: and I have heard herself come
thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one
of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more
exalted respect than any one else that follows her.
What should I think on't?

Here's an overweening rogue!

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock
of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!

'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

Peace, I say.

To be Count Malvolio!

Ah, rogue!

Pistol him, pistol him.

Peace, peace!

There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy
married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Fie on him, Jezebel!

O, peace! now he's deeply in: look how
imagination blows him.

Having been three months married to her, sitting in
my state,--

O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet
gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left
Olivia sleeping,--

Fire and brimstone!

O, peace, peace!

And then to have the humour of state; and after a
demure travel of regard, telling them I know my
place as I would they should do theirs, to for my
kinsman Toby,--

Bolts and shackles!

O peace, peace, peace! now, now.

Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make
out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind
up watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby
approaches; courtesies there to me,--

Shall this fellow live?

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar
smile with an austere regard of control,--

And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on
your niece give me this prerogative of speech,'--

What, what?

'You must amend your drunkenness.'

Out, scab!

Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with
a foolish knight,'--

That's me, I warrant you.

'One Sir Andrew,'--

I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

What employment have we here?

Taking up the letter

Now is the woodcock near the gin.

O, peace! and the spirit of humour intimate reading
aloud to him!

By my life, this is my lady's hand these be her
very C's, her U's and her T's and thus makes she her
great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

Her C's, her U's and her T's: why that?

[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes:'--her very phrases! By your leave, wax.
Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she
uses to seal: 'tis my lady. To whom should this be?

This wins him, liver and all.

[Reads]
Jove knows I love: But who?
Lips, do not move;
No man must know.
'No man must know.' What follows? the numbers
altered! 'No man must know:' if this should be
thee, Malvolio?

Marry, hang thee, brock!

[Reads]
I may command where I adore;
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.

A fustian riddle!

Excellent wench, say I.

'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' Nay, but first, let
me see, let me see, let me see.

What dish o' poison has she dressed him!

And with what wing the staniel cheques at it!

'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command
me: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is
evident to any formal capacity; there is no
obstruction in this: and the end,--what should
that alphabetical position portend? If I could make
that resemble something in me,--Softly! M, O, A,
I,--

O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent.

Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as
rank as a fox.

M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.

Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is
excellent at faults.

M,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel;
that suffers under probation A should follow but O does.

And O shall end, I hope.

Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry O!

And then I comes behind.

Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see
more detraction at your heels than fortunes before
you.

M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former: and
yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for
every one of these letters are in my name. Soft!
here follows prose.

Reads

'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I
am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some
are born great, some achieve greatness, and some
have greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy Fates open
their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them;
and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be,
cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be
opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let
thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into
the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee
that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy
yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever
cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art
made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see
thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and
not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell.
She that would alter services with thee,
THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.'
Daylight and champaign discovers not more: this is
open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross
acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man.
I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade
me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady
loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of
late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered;
and in this she manifests herself to my love, and
with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits
of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will
be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and
cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting
on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a
postscript.

Reads

'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling;
thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my
presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.'
Jove, I thank thee: I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me.

Exit

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension
of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

I could marry this wench for this device.

So could I too.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

Nor I neither.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

Re-enter MARIA

Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

Or o' mine either?

Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy
bond-slave?

I' faith, or I either?

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when
the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark
his first approach before my lady: he will come to
her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she
abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;
and he will smile upon her, which will now be so
unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him
into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow
me.

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

I'll make one too.

Exeunt

ACT III

SCENE I. OLIVIA's garden.

Enter VIOLA, and Clown with a tabour

Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by
thy tabour?

No, sir, I live by the church.

Art thou a churchman?

No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for
I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by
the church.

So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a
beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy
tabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.

You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is
but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the
wrong side may be turned outward!

Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with
words may quickly make them wanton.

I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

Why, man?

Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that
word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words
are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.

Thy reason, man?

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and
words are grown so false, I am loath to prove
reason with them.

I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.

Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my
conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be
to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she
will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and
fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to
herrings; the husband's the bigger: I am indeed not
her fool, but her corrupter of words.

I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun,
it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but
the fool should be as oft with your master as with
my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.

Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.
Hold, there's expenses for thee.

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for
one;

Aside

though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy
lady within?

Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

Yes, being kept together and put to use.

I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring
a Cressida to this Troilus.

I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.

The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but
a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is
within, sir. I will construe to them whence you
come; who you are and what you would are out of my
welkin, I might say 'element,' but the word is over-worn.

Exit

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And, like the haggard, cheque at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practise
As full of labour as a wise man's art
For folly that he wisely shows is fit;
But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, and SIR ANDREW

Save you, gentleman.

And you, sir.

Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous
you should enter, if your trade be to her.

I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the
list of my voyage.

Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

My legs do better understand me, sir, than I
understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we
are prevented.

Enter OLIVIA and MARIA

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain
odours on you!

That youth's a rare courtier: 'Rain odours;' well.

My matter hath no voice, to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed ear.

'Odours,' 'pregnant' and 'vouchsafed:' I'll get 'em
all three all ready.

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

Exeunt SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA

Give me your hand, sir.

My duty, madam, and most humble service.

What is your name?

Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:
You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with me!

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf.

O, by your leave, I pray you,
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.

Dear lady,--

Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse
Myself, my servant and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: what might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

I pity you.

That's a degree to love.

No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.

Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again.
O, world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf!

Clock strikes

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your were is alike to reap a proper man:
There lies your way, due west.

Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition
Attend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Stay:
I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me.

That you do think you are not what you are.

If I think so, I think the same of you.

Then think you right: I am not what I am.

I would you were as I would have you be!

Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause,
But rather reason thus with reason fetter,
Love sought is good, but given unsought better.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth
I have one heart, one bosom and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam: never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

Exeunt

SCENE II. OLIVIA's house.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the
count's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me;
I saw't i' the orchard.

Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

As plain as I see you now.

This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?

I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of
judgment and reason.

And they have been grand-jury-men since before Noah
was a sailor.

She did show favour to the youth in your sight only
to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to
put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
You should then have accosted her; and with some
excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should
have banged the youth into dumbness. This was
looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the
double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash
off, and you are now sailed into the north of my
lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle
on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by
some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy
I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a
politician.

Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of
valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight
with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall
take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's
commendation with woman than report of valour.

There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief;
it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun
of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink:
if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be
amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of
paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it.
Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou
write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.

Where shall I find you?

We'll call thee at the cubiculo: go.

Exit SIR ANDREW

This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.

I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand
strong, or so.

We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll
not deliver't?

Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the
youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes
cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were
opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as
will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of
the anatomy.

And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no
great presage of cruelty.

Enter MARIA

Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself
into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is
turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no
Christian, that means to be saved by believing
rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages
of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

And cross-gartered?

Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school
i' the church. I have dogged him, like his
murderer. He does obey every point of the letter
that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his
face into more lines than is in the new map with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such
a thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things
at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do,
he'll smile and take't for a great favour.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

Exeunt

SCENE III. A street.

Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO

I would not by my will have troubled you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.

I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you, though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.