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Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

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

another.

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal!a-I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing.-Farewell. [Exit Clown. Duke. Let all the rest give place.

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.
Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yon' 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 't is that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir?
Duke. I cannot be so answer'd.

'Sooth, but you must.

Vio.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as 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?
Duke. 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.

Vio.

Ay, but I know,—

Duke. What dost thou know?

Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe:

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

a Opal-a gem whose colours change as it is viewed in different lights.

My father had a daughter lov'd a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

Duke.

And what's her history?
Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd 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.

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio. 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?

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

[Exeunt

TIMON

"ATHENS

then

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