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Let's take the instant by the forward top,
For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of time
Steals, ere we can effect them. You remember
The daughter of this lord.

Ber.

My liege, at first

Admiringly.

I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue:
Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
Which warp'd the line of every other favour,
Scorn'd a fair colour, or express'd it stolen,
Extended or contracted all proportions,
To a most hideous object. Thence it came,
That she, whom all men prais'd, and whom myself,
Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye
The dust that did offend it.

Well excus'd:

That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,
Hath not in nature's mystery more science,
Than I have in this ring: 'twas mine, 'twas Helen's,
Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know
That you are well acquainted with't yourself,
Confess 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement
You got it from her. She call'd the saints to surety,
That she would never put it from her finger,
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,
Where you have never come, or sent it us
Upon her great disaster.

King. That thou didst love her strikes some scores away From the great compt. But love, that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, that's good that's gone. Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have, Not knowing them, until we know their grave: Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust: Our own love, waking, cries to see what's done, While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon. Be this sweet Helen's knell, and now forget her. Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin: The main consents are had; and here we'll stay To see our widower's second marriage-day. Laf. Which better than the first, O, dear heaven, bless! Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cease! Come on, my son, in whom my house's name Must be disgested, give a favour from you, To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter, That she may quickly come.-By my old beard, And every hair that's on't, Helen, that's dead, Was a sweet creature; such a ring as this, The last time ere she took her leave at court, I saw upon her finger.

Ber.

Hers it was not.

King. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to't.— This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen, I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood Necessitied to help, that by this token

Ber.

She never saw it.

-

King. Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour,
And mak'st conjectural fears to come into me,
Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove
That thou art so inhuman,-'twill not prove so;-
And yet I know not:-thou didst hate her deadly,
And she is dead;-which nothing, but to close
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe,
More than to see this ring.-Take him away.-
[Guards seize BERTRAM.
My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,
Shall tax my fears of little vanity,
Having vainly fear'd too little.-Away with him!
We'll sift this matter farther.
Ber.
If you shall prove
This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,
Where yet she never was. [Exit BERTRAM, guarded.
Enter the Gentleman, a Stranger.
King. I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings.

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her
Of what should stead her most?

Ber.
My gracious sovereign,
Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,
The ring was never hers.

Count.

Son, on my life,

I have seen her wear it; and she reckon'd it
At her life's rate.
Laf.
Ber. You are deceiv'd: my lord, she never saw it.
In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,
Wrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name
Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought
I stood engag'd; but when I had subscrib'd
To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully
I could not answer in that course of honour
As she had made the overture, she ceas'd,
In heavy satisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.
King.

I am sure I saw her wear it.

Plutus himself,

Gent.
Gracious sovereign,
Whether I have been to blame, or no, I know not;
Here's a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath, for four or five removes, come short
To tender it herself. I undertook it,
Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech
Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,
Is here attending: her business looks in her
With an importing visage; and she told me,
In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern
Your highness with herself.

King. [Reads.] "Upon his many protestations to marry me, when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the count Rousillon a widower: his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour's paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is undone.

"DIANA CAPILET."

Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll him: for this, I'll none of him.

King. The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu, To bring forth this discovery.-Seek these suitors.Go speedily, and bring again the count.

[Exeunt Gentleman, and some Attendants.
I am afeard, the life of Helen, lady,
Was foully snatch'd.
Count.

Now, justice on the doers!
Re-enter BERTRAM, guarded.

King. I wonder, sir, for wives are monsters to you, And that you fly them as you swear them lordship, Yet you desire to marry.-What woman's that?

[Kneeling.

Re-enter Gentleman, with Widow, and DIANA. Dia. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived from the ancient Capilet: My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore know how far I may be pitied. Wid. I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour

Both suffer under this complaint we bring,
And both shall cease, without your remedy.
King. Come hither, county. Do you know these And give me mine again.
women?

Ber. My lord, I neither can, nor will deny
But that I know them. Do they charge me farther?
Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your wife?

Ber. She's none of mine, my lord.
Dia.

[Rising.

If you shall marry,
You give away this hand, and that is mine;
You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine;
You give away myself, which is known mine;
For I by vow am so embodied yours,

That she which marries you must marry me;
Either both, or none.

Laf. [To BERTRAM.] Your reputation comes too short for my daughter: you are no husband for her. Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature, Whom sometime I have laugh'd with. Let your highness

Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour,
Than so to think that I would sink it here.

Till

King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend, deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour,

your

Than in my thought it lies.

Dia.

Good my lord,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think

He had not my virginity.

King. What say'st thou to her?

Ber.

She's impudent, my lord;
And was a common gamester to the camp.

Dia. He does me wrong, my lord: if I were so,
He might have bought me at a common price:
Do not believe him. O! behold this ring,
Whose high respect, and rich validity,
Did lack a parallel; yet, for all that,
He gave it to a commoner o' the camp,
If I be one.

Count. He blushes, and 'tis his.

Of six preceding ancestors, that gem

Conferr'd by testament to the sequent issue,
Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his wife:
That ring's a thousand proofs.
King.

Methought, you said,
You saw one here in court could witness it.
Dia. I did, my lord, but loth am to produce
So bad an instrument: his name's Parolles.
Laf. I saw the man to-day, if man he be.
King. Find him, and bring him hither.

Ber.

(Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband)
Send for your ring; I will return it home,
I have it not.
King. What ring was yours, I pray you?

Ber.

Dia.

The same upon your finger.

Sir, much like

King. Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.
Dia. And this was it I gave him, being a-bed.
King. The story then goes false, you threw it him
Out of a casement.

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Is this the man you speak of?

Dia.

Ay, my lord.
King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge you,
Not fearing the displeasure of your master,
(Which, on your just proceeding, I'll keep off)
By him, and by this woman here, what know you?

Par. So please your majesty, my master hath been
an honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him,
which gentlemen have.

King. Come, come; to the purpose. Did he love
this woman?

Par. 'Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?
King. How, I pray you?

Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a
woman.

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Dia. Do you know, he promised me marriage?
Par. 'Faith, I know more than I'll speak.
King. But wilt thou not speak all thou know'st?
Par. Yes, so please your majesty. I did go between
them, as I said; but more than that, he loved her,—
for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talked of Satan,
and of limbo, and of furies, and I know not what: yet
I was in that credit with them at that time, that I
knew of their going to bed, and of other motions, as
promising her marriage, and things that would derive
me ill will to speak of: therefore, I will not speak

What of him? what I know.

He's quoted for a most perfidious slave,
With all the spots o' the world tax'd and debauch'd,
Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.
Am I or that, or this, for what he'll utter,
That will speak any thing?
King.
She hath that ring of yours.
Ber. I think, she has certain it is, I lik'd her,
And boarded her i' the wanton way of youth.
She knew her distance, and did angle for me,
Madding my eagerness with her restraint,
As all impediments in fancy's course
Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine,
Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace,
Subdued me to her rate: she got the ring,
And I had that, which any inferior might
At market-price have bought.

Dia.
I must be patient:
You, that turn'd off a first so noble wife,
May justly diet me. I pray you yet,

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F

To prison with her; and away with him.-
Unless thou tell'st me where thou had'st this ring,
Thou diest within this hour.
Dia.
I'll never tell you.

King. Take her away.

Dia.
I'll put in bail, my liege.
King. I think thee now some common customer.
Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.
King. Wherefore hast thou accus'd him all this
while?

Dia. Because he's guilty, and he is not guilty.
He knows I am no maid, and he'll swear to't:
I'll swear I am a maid, and he knows not.
Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life!
I am either maid, or else this old man's wife.

[Pointing to LAFEU.
King. She does abuse our ears. To prison with her!
Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail.-[Exit Widow.]
Stay, royal sir:

The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,
And he shall surety me. But for this lord,
Who hath abus'd me, as he knows himself,
Though yet he never harm'd me, here I 'quit him.
He knows himself my bed he hath defil'd,
And at that time he got his wife with child:
Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick:
So there's my riddle, one that's dead is quick;
And now behold the meaning.

King.

Re-enter Widow, with HELENA,

Hel.
No, my good lord:
"Tis but the shadow of a wife you see;
The name, and not the thing.

Ber.

Both, both! O, pardon! [Kneeling. Hel. O! my good lord, when I was like this maid, I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring; And, look you, here's your letter: this it says: "When from my finger you can get this ring, And are by me with child," &c.-This is done: Will you be mine, now you are doubly won? Ber. If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly, [Rising.

I'll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

Hel. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
Deadly divorce step between me and you!-
O! my dear mother, do I see you living?

Laf. Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep anon.Good Tom Drum, [To PAROLLES.] lend me a handkerchief: so, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I'll make sport with thee: let thy courtesies alone, they are scurvy ones.

King. Let us from point to point this story know,
To make the even truth in pleasure flow.-
[TO DIANA.] If thou be'st yet a fresh uncropped flower,
Choose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower;
For I can guess, that by thy honest aid
Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.—
Of that, and all the progress, more and less,
Resolvedly more leisure shall express:

Is there no exorcist All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. [Flourish.

Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
Is't real, that I see?

EPILOGUE BY THE KING.

The king's a beggar, now the play is done.
All is well ended, if this suit be won,
That you express content; which we will pay,

With strife to please you, day exceeding day:
Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;
Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.
[Exeunt omnes.

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

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SCENE I.-An Apartment in the DUKE's Palace.
Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords. Music playing.
Duke. 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 south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.-Enough! no more:
[Music ceases.

'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.

Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord?
Duke.

What, Curio?

The hart.

Cur.
Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.
O! when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd 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.-How now! what news from her?
Enter VALENTINE.

Val. 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.

Duke. O! she that hath a heart of that fine frame,
Το 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, Captain, and Sailors.

Vio. What country, friends, is this?
Cap.

This is Illyria, lady.
Vio. And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance, he is not drown'd:-what think you, sailors?
Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.
Vio. O, my poor brother! and so, perchance, may
he be.

Cap. 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 practice)
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.

Vio.

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? Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born, Not three hours' travel from this very place. Vio. Who governs here?

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Cap. 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 abjur'd the company,
And sight of men.

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

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

Vio. There is a fair behaviour 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 pr'ythee, (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 shalt 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.

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be: When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. Vio. I thank thee. Lead me on.

Sir To. 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.

Mar. He hath, indeed,-all most 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.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and MARIA.

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels, and substractors that say so of him." Who are they?

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

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

I'll

Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece. drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He's a coward, and a coistril, 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 Ague-face.

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

Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted. Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Sir To. 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.

Mar. 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.

Sir To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar. Ay, he.

Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
Mar. What's that to the purpose?

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, sir Toby Belch?
Sir To. Sweet sir Andrew.

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew.
Mar. And you too, sir.

Sir To. Accost, sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And. What's that?

Sir To. My niece's chamber-maid.

Sir And. Good mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

Mar. My name is Mary, sir.

Sir And. Good mistress Mary Accost,

Sir To. You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats: he's a very fool, and a prodigal.

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost? Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir To. An thou let her part so, sir Andrew, would thou might'st never draw sword again!

Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would I 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 great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit.

Sir To. No question.

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

Sir To. Pourquoi, my dear knight?

Sir And. 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!

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