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might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand.

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

Mar. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. Sir And. Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor?

Mar. It's dry, sir.

Sir And. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? Mar. A dry jest, sir.

Sir And. Are you full of them? Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[Exit MARIA. Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?.

Sir And. 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 greater eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit.

Sir To. No question.

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Enter Duke, CURIO, and Attendants. Vio. I thank you. Here comes the count. Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho?

Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. Duke. Stand you awhile 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 deny'd access, stand at her doors,

Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, ride home to-morrow, sir Toby.

Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight?

Sir And. What is pourquoy? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: 0, had I but followed the arts!

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for thou seest, it will not curl by nature.

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

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

Sir And. '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.

Sir To. She'll none of the count; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o the strangest mind in the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper.

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Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't. Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? 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.

Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colored stock.3 Shall we set about some revels?

a Cinque-pace, the name of a dance.

Stocking.

Till thou have audience. Vio.

Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. [then? Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord: What Duke. 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 of grave aspect. Vio. I think not so, my lord. Duke.

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 its 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.

Vio.

I'll do my best To woo your lady: yet [Aside] a barful1 strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt. SCENE V.-A Room in Olivia's House. Enter MARIA and Clown.

Mar. 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 theo for thy absence.

Clo. Let her hang me; he, that is well-hanged in this world, needs to fear no colors. Mar. Make that good.

Clo. He shall see none to fear. Mar. A good lentens answer: I can tell the where that saying was born, of, I fear no colors. Clo. Where, good mistress Mary?

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

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

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Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad mar- | guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those riage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. things for bird-bolts,6 that you deem cannon-bullets: Mar. You are resolute then? 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. Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing,7 for thou speakest well of fools.

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

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

Clo. 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.

Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that; here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [Exit.

Enter OLIVIA, and MALVOLIO.

Clo. Wit, and'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.God bless thee, lady!

Oli. Take the fool away.

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool: I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.

Clo. Two faults, madonna,4 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.

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you.

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

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexterously, good madonna.
Oli. Make your proof.

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

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

Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou ?
Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death.
Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

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

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

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

Clo. 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.

Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? Mal. 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 fool's zanies.5

Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, Fools' baubles.

• Dalian, mistress, dame.

Re-enter MARIA.

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

Oli. From the count Orsino, is it?

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

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay?
Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye 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.

Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here comes one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.8

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH.

Oli. By mine honor, half drunk.-What is he at the gate, cousin?

Sir To. A gentleman.

Oli. A gentleman! What gentleman?

Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here-A plague o' these pickle-herrings !-How now, sot? Clo. Good sir Toby,

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

Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery: there's one at Oli. Ay, marry; what is he? [the gate. Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. [Exit. Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool?

Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

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

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

Re-enter MALVOLIO.

Mal. 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 fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. Oli. Tell him he shall not speak with me. Mal. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of a man is he? Mal. Why, of man kind.

Oli. What manner of man?

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

Oli. Of what personage, and years, is he?

Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple; 'tig with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well favored, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his mother's mil were scarce out of him.

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she?

Enter VIOLA.

Vio. The honorable lady of the house, which is Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. Your will? Vio. 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 loth to ast away my speech; for, besides that it is excelently well penn'd, 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. Oli. Whence came you, sir?

Vio. 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. Oli. Are you a comedian?

Vio. 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?

Oli If I do not usurp myself, I am. Vio. 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.

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

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

Oli. It in 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.

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind.
Vio. I am a messenger.

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

Vio. 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 full of peace as matter. Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

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

Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [Exit MARIA.] Now, sir, what is your text? Vio. Most sweet lady,

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

Vio. In Orsino's bosom.

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

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

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.

Oli. 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 as I was
[Unveiling.
this present: Is't not well done?
Vio, Excellently done, if God did all.
Oli. "Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and
weather.

Vio. "Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,

And leave the world no copy.

Oli. 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, la-
belled 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?

Vio. 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 recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

Oli.

How does he love me?
Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli. 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 divulg'd, 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.

Vio. 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.

Oli.
Why, what would you!
Vio. 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;
Holla 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.

Oh. You might do much: What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.

Oli.

I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Get you to your lord;
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.

Vio. 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,

Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom? And let your fervor, like my master's, be

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Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Ext 3 Well spoken of by the world.

2 Presents.

4 Cantos, verses.

Oli. 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.

Oli. 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.
Mal. Madam, I will.
[Exit

Oli. 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!

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АСТ II.

[Exit

SCENE I-The Sea-coast.

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you?

Seb. 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.

Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.

Seb. 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 Rodorigo: 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 pleas'd, would we had so ended! but you, sir, alter'd that: for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. Ant. Alas, the day!

Seb. 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.

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

Seb. 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.

Ant. 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.
Mal. Were not you even now with the countess
Olivia?

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

Mal. 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.

Vio. She took the ring of me; I'll none of it. Mal. 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.

Vio. 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 met
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.

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after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st,

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

Sir To. 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. Do not our lives consist of the four elements?

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

Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.-Maria, I say!— a stoop of wine! Enter Clown.

Sir And. Here comes the fool.

Clo. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?"

Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch. Sir And. 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?

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whip-stock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

Sir To. Come on; there is a sixpence for you:

let's have a song.

Sir And. There's a testril of me too; if one knight give a

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

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song.

Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
SONG.

Clo. 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.
Sir And. Excellent good, i' faith!
Sir To. Good, good.

Clo. 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.

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir To. A contagious breath.

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. Sir To. 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?

Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am dog

at a catch.

Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Sir And. Most certain: let our catch be, Thou knave.

Clo. Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight! I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.

Sir And. "Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold thy peace.

Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. Sir And. Good, i' faith! Come, begin. [They sing a catch.

Enter MARIA.

Mar. What a catterwauling 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.

Sir To. My lady's a Cataian,' we are politicians: Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men we be. Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley, lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady! [Singing.

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fool

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Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an ale-house 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?

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches, Sneck up!5

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbors 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.

Sir To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.

Mar. Nay, good sir Toby.

Clo. His eyes do show his days are almost done
Mal. Is't even so?

Sir To. But I will never die.

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to you.
Sir To. Shall I bid him go?
Clo. What an if you do?

[Singin

Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not? Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To. Out o' time? sir, ye lie.-Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and alc

Clo. Yes, by saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.

Sir To. Thou'rt i'the right.-Go, sir, rub you chain with crums:-A stoop of wine, Maria!

Mal. Mistress Mary, you prized my lady favor at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

Mar. Go shake your ears.

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• Cobblers.

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