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, my physic will work with him. I will plant 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.

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.

Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.

[Exit.

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 Cut.'

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, CURIO, and others.

Duke. Give me some music:-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.

1 i. e. Call me a gelding: this was a common expression of reproach.

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.

[Exit CURIO.-Music.

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 beloved.-How dost thou like this tune?
Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.

Duke.

Thou dost speak masterly:

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favor that it loves;

Hath it not, boy?

Vio.

Duke. What kind of woman is't?

Vio.

A little, by your favor.

Of your complexion.

Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years,

i'faith?

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,1
Than women's are.

Vio.

I think it well, my lord. Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:

For women are as roses; whose fair flower,

Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

1 i. e. consumed, worn out.

Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter CURIO and Clown.

Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night: Mark it, Cesario; it is old, and plain :

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free1 maids that weave their thread with

bones,

Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,2

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.3

Clo. Are you ready, sir?

Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing.

SONG.

Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it;

My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

[Music.

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where

Sad true-love never find my grave,
To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

1 Merry, gay.

2 Silly sooth is simple truth.

3 The old age is the ages past, times of simplicity.

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

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.1

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal.2-I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.-Farewell.

Duke. Let all the rest give place.

[Exit Clown.

[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 bestowed 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 she cannot love you, sir?
Duke. I cannot be so answered.

Vio.
'Sooth, but you must
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 answered?
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 called 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

1 This is probably an error of the press, and should read, "I give thee now leave to leave me."

2 The opal is a gem which varies its hues, as it is viewed in different lights.

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.
My father had a daughter loved 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 pined 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.'

SCENE V. Olivia's Garden.

[Exeunt.

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.

Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian.

Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

1 Denial.