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Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fie 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 he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater *.


Oli. By mine honour, half drunk.-What

is he at the gate, cousin?

Sir To. A gentleman.

Oli. A gentleman! What gentleman?

voured, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

Oli. Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman.

Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit.
Re-enter MARIA.

Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er
my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

Enter VIOLA.

Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. Your will?

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatch

Sir To. Tis a gentleman here-A plague o' able beauty,-I pray you, tell me if this be 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 the gate.

Oli. Ay, marry; what is he? Sir To. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all [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.

the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penu'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible t, 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 shew 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.

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: 1 told him you were asleep; he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore Oli. It is the more like to be feigned; I comes to speak with you. What is to be said pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. at my gates; and allowed your approach, raOli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.ther to wonder at you than to hear you. If Mal. He has been told so; and he says, he'll you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me, be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

with you.

Oli. What kind of man is he?
Mal. Why, of man kind.
Oli. What manner of man?
Mul. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with
you, will you, or no.

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your


Vio. No, good swabber; I am to bull here a little longer.-Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind.

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: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-fano overture of war, no taxation of bomage;

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.


The cover of the brain.

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring

+ Accountable.

appears from several parts of this play, that the original actress of Maria was very short.

I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.

Oli. Yet you began rudely. you? what would you?

What are

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, 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 mai-I denhead: 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,

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,
would not understand it.


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,

Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may And make the babbling gossip of the air be said of it. Where lies your text?

Vio. In Orsino's bosom.

Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his 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 shew you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I was this present: Is't not well done? [Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent t, 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, labelled 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


Vio. I see you what you are: you are too

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
The nonpareil of beauty!
How does he love me?
Fio. With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of
[cannot love him:
Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged t, free, learn'd, and



*Presents. Cantos, verses.

Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me. [parentage?
Oli. You might do much: What is your
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is
I am a gentleman.



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

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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
[fast:-soft! soft!
Do give thee five-fold blazon **:-Not too
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.
What, ho, Malvolio !—

Well, let it be.

Re-enter MALVOLIÓ.
Mal. Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's tt 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.


Oli. I do I know not what: and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, shew thy force: Ourselves we do not

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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.

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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 pleased, 'would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered 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

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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 I have many enemies in Orsino's court, [thee! 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.

SCENE II. A Street.


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Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace 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


For she did speak in starts distractedly.
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
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.
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
How easy is it, for the proper-false
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

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me :
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
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.

SCENE III. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed 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.-Marian, I say!—a stoop of wine!

+ Dexterous, ready fiend,

+Fair deceiver. § Suit.

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Enter Clown.

Sir And. Here comes the fool, i'faith. 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 breastt. 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,ofthe Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it?

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 T, 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-valClo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Mal-ley it, lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, volio's nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottleale houses.

Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

Sir To. Come on; there is 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.

lady, lady!

[Singing. Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be
disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a
better grace, but I do it more natural.
Sir To. O, the twelfth day of December,-

Mar. For the love o' God, peace.

Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor ho

Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life. nesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time


Clo. O mistress mine, where are you ing?

of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my la dy's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' roam-catches without any mitigation or remorse of [coming, voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, O, stay and hear; your true love's nor time in you? 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

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.

Loggerheads be.

+ Voice. Drink till the sky turns round,

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 harbours 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 you farewell.


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

Mar. Nay, good sir Toby.

Clo. His eyes do shew 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?
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 ale?

Co. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hat i'the mouth, too.

Sir To. Thou'rt i'the right.-Go, sir, rub

lib 1.6 1.9 511
Mistress. § I did impetticoat thy gratuity. ›
Romancer. ** Name of an old song.
9 Hang yourself.

it Equivalem to filly, fally, shilly, shally. ‡‡ Cobblers.

your chain with crums:-A stoop of wine, Maria!

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rulet; she shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit. Mar. Go shake your ears.

Sir And. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry, to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him.

Sir To. Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for tonight; 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 nay-word, 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 ý, possess us; tell us something of him.

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

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

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or ny thing constantly but a time pleaser; an affectioned || ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths T: the best per naded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, 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 canse to work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of is 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 And. 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 colour.

Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass.

Mar. Ass, I doubt not.

Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable. Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you; I know, ny physick will work with him. I will jlant 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. [Exit. Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea **. Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench. Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; What o'that?

Sir And. I was adored once too..

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

Sir And. 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 Cuttt.

Sir And. 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, CURTO, and others.

Duke. Give me some musick:-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 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?

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. [Erit CURIO.-Musick. 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 belov'd.-How dost thou like this tune? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: [eye My life upon't, young though thou art, thine Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?

A little, by your favour.
Duke. What kind of woman is't?
Of your complexion.
Duke.She is not worth thee then. What years,
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.

tt Horse.

• Stewards anciently wore a chain. + Method of life. Bye-word. § Inform us. Affected. The row of grass left by a mower. ‡‡ Countenance.

** Amazon.

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