that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Fare

wel.

[Exit.

Duke. Let all the reft give place. Once more, Ce fario,

Get thee to yond fame fovereign 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.
Vio. But if the cannot love you, Sir,
Duke. It cannot be so answer'd.
Vio. Sooth, but you must.

Say, that fome 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 fo; muft she not then be answer'd?
Duke. There is no Woman's Sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a paffion,
As Love doth give my heart: no Woman's heart
So big to hold fo much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite:
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That fuffers furfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the fea,

And can digeft 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 doft thou know?

Vie. Too well what love Women to Men may owe; In faith, they are as true of heart, as we.

My Father had a Daughter lov'd a Man,

"Because, a Man, that fuffers himself to run with every Wind, and fo "makes his Business every where, cannot be faid to have any Intent ; "for that Word fignifies a Determination of the Mind to Something. "Befides, the Conclufion, of making a good Voyage out of Nothing,

66

" evidently directs to this Emendation.

As

As it might be, perhaps, were I a Woman,
I should your Lordship.

Duke. And what's her Hiftory?

Vio. A Blank, my Lord: the never told her Love,
But let Concealment, like a worm i'th' bud,
Feed on her damask Cheek: (9) fhe pin'd in thought,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She fat like Patience on a Monument,

Smiling at Grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We Men may fay more, fwear more, but, indeed,
Our fhews are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But dy'd thy Sifter of her love, my Boy?
Vio. I'm all the Daughters of my Father's House,
And all the Brothers too-and yet I know not-
Sir, fhall I to this Lady?

Duke. Ay, that's the theam.

To her in hafte; give her this Jewel: fay,

My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt.

(9)

She pined in Thought;

And, with a green and yellow Melancholy,

She fate like Patience on a Monument,

Smiling at Grief.] This very fine Image, which has been fo univerfally applauded, it is not impoffible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Affembly of Foules.

And her befidis wonder difcretlie,

Dame Pacience yfittinge there I fonde

With Face pale, upon an hill of fonde.

If he was indebted, however, for the first rude Draught, how amply has he repaid that Debt in heightning the Picture! How much does the green and yellow Melancholy tranfcend the Old Bard's Face pale; the Monument, his Hill of Sand; and what an additional Beauty is, fmiling at Grief, for which there are no Ground, nor Traces, in the Original! Our Author has given us this fine Picture again in another Place, but, to shew the Power and Extent of his Genius, with Features and Lineaments varied.

yet Thou

Doft look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'Graves,
And fmiling [barfb] Extremity out of A&t.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This abfurd Old Play, I have elsewhere taken Notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a Number of Mafter-Touches, fo peculiar to himself, that a knowing Reader may with Eafe and Certainty distinguish the Traces of his Pencil.

SCENE

SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.

Sir To.

Ome thy ways, Signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, I'll coine; if I lose a scruple of this fport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Would'ft thou not be glad to have the nig gardly rafcally fheep-biter come by fome notable fhame? Fab. I would exult, man; you know, he brought me out of favour with my Lady, about a bear-baiting

here.

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

Sir And. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.

Enter Maria.

Sir To. Here comes the little villain: how now, my nettle of India?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's coming down this Walk, he has been yonder i'th' Sun practifing behaviour to his own fhadow this half hour. Obferve him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this Letter will make a contemplative Ideot of him. Close, in the name of jefting! lye thou there; for here comes the Trout that must be caught with tickling. [Throws down a Letter, and Exit. Enter Malvolio.

Maria once

· Mal. 'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. told me, She did affect me; and I have heard her felf come thus near, that fhould fhe fancy, it fhould be one of my complexion. Befides, fhe ufes me with a more exalted refpect, than any one elfe that follows her. What fhould I think on't?

Sir To. Here's an over-weaning rogue.

Fab.

Fab. Oh, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!

Sir And. 'Slife, I could fo beat the rogue.
Sir To. Peace, I fay.

Mal. To be Count Malvolio,

Sir Tob. Ah, rogue!

Sir And. Pistol him, piftol him.

Sir To. Peace, peace.

Mal. There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy married the Yeoman of the Wardrobe.

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fab. O, peace, now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.

Mal. Having been three months married to her, fitting in my State

Sir To. O for a ftone-bow, to hit him in the eye! → Mal. Calling my Officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come down from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia fleeping.

Sir To. Fire and brimftone!

Fab. O, peace, peace.

Mal. 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 fhould do theirs to ask for my Uncle Toby

Sir To. Bolts and Shackles!

Fab, Oh, peace, peace, peace; now, now.

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

Sir To. Shall this Fellow live?

Fab. Tho' our filence be drawn from us with cares, yet, peace.

Mal. I extend my hand to him thus; quenching my familiar fmile with an auftere regard of controul.

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a Blow o'th' lips then?

Mal

Mal. Saying, Uncle Toby, my fortunes having caft me on your Neice, give me this prerogative of fpeech Sir To. What, what?

Mal. You must amend your Drunkenness.

Sir To. Out, scab!

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the finews of our

plot.

Mal. Befides, you wafte the treasure of your time with a foolish Knight

Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.

Mal. One Sir Andrew,

Sir And. I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me Fool.

Mal. What employment have we here?

[Taking up the Letter. Fab. Now is the Woodcock near the gin.

Sir To. Oh peace! now the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!

Mal. By my life, this is my Lady's hand: thefe be her very C's, her U's, and her T's, and thus makes The her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her T's: why that? Mal. To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good wishes; her very Phrases: By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impreffure her Lucrece, with which the uses to feal; 'tis my Lady to whom should this be?

Fab. This wins him, liver and all.

Mal. Jove knows I love, but who, lips do not move, no Man must know. No Man muft know what follows? the number's alter'd-no Man must know if this should be thee, Malvolio?

Sir To. Marry, hang thee, Brock!

Mal. I may command where I adore, but filence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless ftroke my heart doth gore, M. O. A. I. doth fway my life.

Fab. A fuftian riddle.

Sir To. Excellent Wench, fay I.

Mal