Vio. Then think you right: I am not what I am.
Oli

. I would you were as I would have you bel
Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish I might; for now I am your fool.

Oli. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
Do not extort 'wry reasons from this clause,
For that I woo; thou therefore hast no cause:
But, rather, reason thus with reason fetter ;
Love sought is good; but given unfought is better.

Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has, nor never none
Shall mistress be of it.

Oli. Save I alone!

Vio. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

Oli. Yet come again ; for thou, perhaps, may'st move That heart, which now abhors to like his love. [Exeunt.

SCEN E IV.

Olivia's house.
Enter for Toby, fir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir And. TO, ’faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
Fab. You must needs yield your reason, fir Andrew.
Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the
Vol. II.

duke's

N°

Nnn

duke's serving-man than ever she bestow'd on me. I saw't i'th' orchard.

Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? tell me that.
Sir And. As plain as I see you now.
Fab. This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
Sir And. 'Slight! will you make an ass o'me?

Fab. I prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.

Sir To. And they have been grand jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.

Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart, and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have bang’d the youth into dumbness: this was look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk’d. The double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sail'd into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some attempt, either of valour, or policy.

Sir And. An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate : I had as lief be a Brownist, as a politician.

Sir To. Why then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour; challenge me the duke's youth to fight with him, hurt him in eleven places, my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with women, than report of valour.

Fab. There is no way but this, fir Andrew.
Sir And. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand, be curst, and brief: it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention; taunt him with the licence of ink; if thou thou'f him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, fet ’em down, and go about it. Let there be gall

enough

enough in thy ink, though thou write it with a goose-pen, no matter : about it.

Sir And. Where shall I find you?
Sir To. We'll call thee at thy cubiculo : go.

[Exit fir Andrew. SCENE V. Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, fir Toby.

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him; but you'll not deliver't.

Sir To. Never trust me then ; and by all means ftir on the youth to an answer. I think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were open’d, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a Aea, I'll eat the rest of th' anatomy.

Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.

Enter Maria.
Sir To. Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourfelves into stitches, follow me: yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no christian, that means to be fav’d by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grofinels. He's in yellow stockings.

Sir To. And cross-garter'd?

Mar. Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school i'th? church. I have dogg’d him like his murderer: he does obey every point of the letter that I drop'd to betray him; he does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies; you have not seen such a thing as

*, The wren is remarkable for laying many eggs at a time, nine or ten and sometimes more : and as the is the smallest of birds, the last of so large á brood may be supposed to be little indeed, which is the image intended here to be given of Maria.

Nnn 2

'tis;

'tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know, my lady will strike him; if she do, he'll smile, and take't for a great favour.

Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. [Exeunt.

The Street.

Enter Sebastian, and Antonio.
Seb. Would not, by my will, have troubled you:

But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.

Ant. I could not stay behind you; my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth,
And not all love to see you, though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage;
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; (which to a stranger
Unguided and unfriended often prove
Rough and unhospitable) my willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.

Seb. My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks; and ever thanks: and oft good turns
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay;
But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,
You should find better dealing: what's to do?
Shall we go see the relicks of this town?
Ant. To-morrow,

best first

go
fee

your lodging
Seb. I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials, and the things of fame,
That do renown this city.

Ant. Would you'd pardon me!

fir;

I do not without danger walk these streets.
Once in a seafight ’gainst the duke his gallies
I did some service; of such note, indeed,
That were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answer'd.

Seb. Belike, you slew great number of his people.

Ant. Th’offence is not of such a bloody nature;
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument:
It might have since been answer’d, in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffick's fake,
Most of our city did: only myself stood out;
For which if I be lapsed in this place
I shall pay dear.

Seb. Do not then walk too open.

Ant. It doth not fit me: hold, sir, here's my purse.
In the south suburbs at the elephant
Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time, and feed

your knowledge With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.

Seb. Why I your purse?

Ant. Haply, your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, fir.
: Seb. I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for
An hour.

Ant. To th' elephant.
Seb. I do remember.

[Exeunt.