lenge, or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword,1 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.

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

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

Sir An. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

Sir To. What, for being a puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

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

Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned 3 ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

1 Byword.

2 Inform us.

3 Affected.

A swarth is as much grass or corn as a mower cuts down at one stroke of his scythe.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the color 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.

Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device.

Sir An. I have 't in my nose too.

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

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color. Sir An. And your horse now would make him an

ass.

Mar. Ass, I doubt not.

Sir An. O, 'twill be admirable.

Mar. 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.

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.1

Sir An. Before me, she's a good wench.

[Exit.

Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?

1 Amazon.

2 A popular adjuration.

Sir An. I was adored once too.

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

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

Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut.1

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

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

SCENE IV.

A room in the Duke's palace.

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.

Duke. 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 2 terms,
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.-
Come, but one verse.

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

Duke. Who was it?

1 Horse.

2 Studied.

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

Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [Exit Curio.-Music. 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? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.

Duke.

Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favor 1 that it loves;

Hath it not, boy?

Vio.

A little, by your favor.2

Duke. What kind of woman is 't?

Vio.

Of your complexion.

Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years,

i' faith?

Vio. About your years, my lord.

Duke. 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.

Vio.

I think it well, my lord.

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

Re-enter CURIO, and CLOWN.

Duke. 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 1 maids, that weave their thread with

bones,2

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,3

And dallies with the innocence of love,