TWELFTH NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. ACT I. SCENE I.-An Apartment in the DUKE's Palace. The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again;—it had a dying fall: Stealing, and giving odour.-Enough; no more; O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou! That it alone is high-fantastical. Curio. Will you go hunt, my lord? Duke. Curio. What, Curio? The hart. Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er since pursue me.-How now? what news from her? Enter VALENTINE. Valentine. 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, To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft, Hath killed the flock of all affections else That live in her! when liver, brain, and heart, SCENE II.-The Sea-Coast. Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and SAILORS. Viola. What country, friends, is this? Viola. And what should I do in Illyria? [Exeunt. Illyria, lady. Perchance, he is not drown'd:- -What think you, sailors? Captain. It is perchance, that you yourself were saved. Viola. Omy poor brother! and so, perchance, may he be. Captain. True, madam: and to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and that poor number saved with you, Most provident in peril, bind himself (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, Viola. 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? Captain. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born, Not three hours' travel from this very place. Viola. Who governs here? Captain. As in his name. Viola. Captain. A noble duke, in nature, What is his name? Orsino. Viola. Orsino! I have heard my father name him! He was a bachelor then. Captain. And so is now, Or was so very late: for but a month Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh The love of fair Olivia. Viola. What's she? Captain. 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, Viola. O, that I served that lady: And might not be delivered to the world, What my estate is. Captain. That were hard to compass; Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the duke's. Viola. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; Captain. Be you his page, and I your mute will be: [Exeunt. SCENE III. -A Room in OLIVIA'S House. Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, and MARIA. Sir Toby. What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life. Maria. By troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. Sir Toby. Why, let her except before excepted. Maria. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. Sir Toby. 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. Maria. 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 Toby. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek? Sir Toby. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. Sir Toby. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. Maria. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. Sir Toby. Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de gambo, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. Maria. He hath, indeed,—almost 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. Sir Toby. By this hand, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that say so of him. Who are they? Maria. They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company. Sir Toby. With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a coward, and a coystril,1 that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. Here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. Sir Andrew. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch? Sir Toby. Sweet Sir Andrew! Sir Andrew. Bless you, fair shrew. Maria. And you too, sir. Sir Toby. Accost, sir Andrew, accost. Sir Andrew. What's that? Sir Toby. My niece's chamber-maid. Sir Andrew. Good mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. 1 Keystril, a bastard hawk. |