Although against her will, as it appears
In the true course of all the question.

ANT. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. BENE. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

LEON. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And, when I send for you, come hither mask'd: The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour To visit me:-you know your office, brother; You must be farther to your brother's daughter, And give her to young Claudio. [Exeunt Ladies. ANT. Which I will do with confirm'd counte

Enter DON PEDRO, and CLAUDIO, with Attendants.
D. PEDRO. Good morrow to this fair assembly.
LEON. Good morrow, prince; good morrow,
Claudio;

We here attend you; are you yet determined
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?

CLAUD. I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.
LEON. Call her forth, brother, here's the friar
ready.
[Exit ANTONIO.

D. PEDRO. Good morrow, Benedick: why, what's the matter,

That vou have such a February face,

So fun of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?

CLAUD. I think, he thinks upon the savage bull:Tush, fear not, man, we 'll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,

As once Europa did at lusty Jove,

When he would play the noble beast in love.

BENE. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low,

LEON. No, that you shall not, till you take her

One Hero died defil'd; but I do live,
And, surely as I live, I am a maid.

D. PEDRO. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! LEON. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv'd.

FRIAR. All this amazement can I qualify,
When, after that the holy rites are ended,
I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:
Mean time, let wonder seem familiar,
And to the chapel let us presently.

BENE. Soft and fair, friar.-Which is Beatrice?
BEAT. I answer to that name; what is your will?
[Unmasking

BENE. Do not you love me?
BEAT.
Why no, no more than reason.
BENE. Why, then your uncle, and the prince, and
Claudio,

Have been deceived; they swore you did.
BEAT. Do not you love me?
BENE.

Troth, no, no more than reason. BEAT. Why, then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,

Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did.
BENE. They swore that you were almost sick for

me.

BEAT. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for

me.

BENE. 'Tis no such matter:-then you do not love me?

BEAT. No, truly, but in friendly recompense.
LEON. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentle-

man.

CLAUD. And I'll be sworn upon 't, that he loves her;

For here's a paper written in his hand,
A halting sonnet, of his own pure brain,
Fashion'd to Beatrice.

HERO.

And here's another, Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick.

BENE. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts! Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

BEAT. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and, partly, to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

BENE. Peace, I will stop your mouth.

[Kissing her. D. PEDRO. How dost thou, Benedick the married man?

BENE. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think, I care for a satire, or an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome about him; in brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. -For thy part; Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.

CLAUD. I had well hoped, thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

BENE. Come, come, we are friends:-let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wives' heels.

LEON. We'll have dancing afterwards.

BENE. First, o' my word; therefore, play music.Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with

DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.That strain again; it had a dying fall:

O, it came o'er my ear, like the sweet sound

'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, not withstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,

Even in a minute! so full of shapes is, fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.

CUR. Will you go hunt, my lord?
DUKE.

What? Curio.
CUR.
The hart.
DUKE. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought, she purg'd the air of pestilence!

That instant was I turn'd into a hart:
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.-

Enter VALENTINE.

How now! what news from her? VAL. 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 kill'd the flock of all affections else That live in her!-when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'dHer sweet perfection,-with one self king!Away before me to sweet beds of flowers; Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.

[Exeunt.

That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

CAP. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!
VIO. I thank thee: lead me on.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-A Room in Olivia's House.

Enter Str TOBY BELCH and MARIA.

SIR TO. What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care 's an enemy to life.

MAR. By my troth, sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

SIR TO. Why, let her except before excepted. MAR. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

SIR TO. 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.

that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK.

SIR AND. Sir Toby Belch! how now, sir Toby Belch!

SIR TO. Sweet Sir Andrew!

SIR AND. Bless you, fair shrew.
MAR. And you too, sir.

SIR TO. Accost, sir Andrew, accost.
SIR AND. What's that?

SIR TO. My niece's chamber-maid.

SIR AND. Good mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

MAR. My name is Mary, sir.

SIR AND. Good mistress Mary Accost,

SIR To. You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

SIR AND. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?

MAR. Fare you well, gentlemen.

SIR TO. An thou let part so, sir Andrew, would thou might'st never draw sword again.

VIO. Orsino! I have heard my father name him: He was a bachelor then.

CAP. And so is now, or was so very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 'twas fresh in murmur (as, you know,
What great ones do, the less will prattle of),
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.
VIO. What's she?

CAP. 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,
They say, she hath abjur'd the company
And sight of men.
VIO.
O, that I served that lady,
And might not be deliver'd to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow
What my estate is!
CAP.
That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.

VIO. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee

I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pr'ythee, (and I'll pay thee bounteously,)
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him,
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,

MAR. 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 TO. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
MAR. Ay, he.

SIR TO. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria,
MAR. What's that to the purpose?

SIR TO. Why, he has three thousand ducats a

year.

MAR. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool and a prodigal.

SIR TO. Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.

MAR. 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 TO. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors, that say so of him. Who are they? MAR. They that add moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

SIR TO. 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,

SIR AND. An you part so, mistress, I would I night never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MAR. Sir, I have not you by the hand.

SIR AND. Marry, but you shall have, and here's my hand.

MAR. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink.

SIR AND. Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor?

MAR. It's dry, sir.

SIR AND. Why, I think so: I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? MAR. A dry jest, sir.

SIR AND. Are you full of them? MAR. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[Exit MARIA. SIR TO. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down?

SIR AND. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has: but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

SIR TO. No question.

SIR AND. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. 171 ride home to morrow, Sir Toby.

SIR TO. Pourquoi, my dear knight?

SIR AND. What is pourquoi? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts!

SIR TO. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

SIR AND. Why, would that have mended my hair?

SIR TO. Past question; for thou seest, it will not curl by nature.

SIR AND. But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

SIR TO. Excellent! it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.

SIR AND. Faith, I'll home to-morrow, sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me; the count himself, here hard by, wooes her.

SIR To. She'll none o' the count; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear 't. Tut, there's life in 't,

man.

SIR AND. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

SIR TO. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?

SIR AND. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

SIR TO. What is thy excellence? in a galliard, knight?

SIR AND. Faith, I can cut a caper. SIR TO. And I can cut the mutton to 't. SIR AND. And I think I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

SIR TO. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water, but in a sinkWhat dost thou mean? is it a world to a-pace. hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

SIR AND. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR TO. What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

SIR AND. Taurus? that's sides and heart. SIR TO. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha!-excellent!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-A Room in the Duke's Palace. Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire. VAL. If the duke continues these favours towards

Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
DUKE. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.

VIO. Say, I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

DUKE. O, then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. VIO. I think not so, my lord. DUKE. Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man. Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill, and sound, And all is semblative a woman's part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair:-some four or five attend him; All, if you will; for I myself am best, When least in company: prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. VIO. I'll do my best, To woo your lady: yet, [Aside.] a barful strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.-A Room in Olivia's House.

Enter MARIA and Clown.

MAR. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

CLO. Let her hang me: he, that is well hanged in this world, needs to fear no colours. MAR. Make that good.

CLO. He shall see none to fear.

MAR. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours. CLO. Where, good mistress Mary?

MAR. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

CLO. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

MAR. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned away,-is not that as good as a hanging to you?

CLO. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. MAR. You are resolute, then?

CLO. Not so neither, but I am resolved on two points.

MAR. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.

CLO. Apt, in good faith; very apt! Well, go thy way; if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

MAR. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [Exit.

CLO. Wit, and 't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.

Enter OLIVIA, MALVOLIO, and Attendants.

God bless thee, lady!

OLI. Take the fool away.

CLO. Do you not hear, fellows? take away the lady.

ÓLI. Go to, you 're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.

CLO. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him: any thing that's mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower.-The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.

OLI. Sir, I bade them take away you.

CLO. Misprision in the highest degree!-Lady, Cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much to say as, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

OLI. Can you do it?

CLO. Dexterously, good madonna.
OLI. Make your proof.

CLO. I must catechize you for it, madonna; good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

OLI. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.

CLO. Good madonna, why mournest thou?
OLI. Good fool, for my brother's death.
CLO. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
OLI. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

CLO. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

OLI. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

MAL. Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

CLO. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for pence that you are no fool. OLI. How say you to that, Malvolio?

two

MAL. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.

OLI. O, you are sick of self-icve, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man. though he do nothing but reprove.

CLO. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools.

Re-enter MARIA. MAR. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires to speak with you.

OLI. From the count Orsino, is it?

MAR. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man,

and well attended.

OLI. Who of my people hold him in delay? 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.

Enter Sir TORY BELCH.

VIO. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,-I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well house, for I never saw her: I would be loth to cast Good penned, I have taken great pains to con it. beauties let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

OLI. Speak to me, I shall answer for her: your give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inwill? ventoried, 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 me? chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise

OLI. Whence came you, sir?

that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, VIO. I can say little more than I have studied, and 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?

SIR TO. A gentleman.

OLI. A gentleman! what gentleman?

SIR TO. 'Tis a gentleman here-a plague o' these pickle-herring!-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. the gate.

There's one at

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 one. [Exit. OLI. What's a drunken man like, fool? CLO. Like a drowned 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 crowner, and let him sit o my coz; for he 's in the third degree of drink,—he's drowned: go, look after him. CLO. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown.

Re-enter MALVOLIO.

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: I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he 's fortified against any denial.

ÓLI. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. MAL. H'as been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he 'll speak with you.

OLI. What kind o' man is he?

MAL. Why, of man kind.

OLI. What manner of man?

MAL. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

OLI. Of what personage and years is he?

MAL. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enougn for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a códling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, 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.

OLI. If I do not usurp myself, I am. VIO. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show 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.

OLI. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MAR. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.-Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

OLI. Tell me your mind.

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. VIO. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter. OLI. Yet you begun rudely. What are you? what would you?

VIO. The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead: 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,

OLI. A comfortable doctrine, and much may 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 show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: [Unveiling.

is 't not well done?

VIO. Excellently done, if God did all.
OLI. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and

weather.

she?

OLI. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will

VIO. I see you what you are,-you are too proud; 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 crown'd The nonpareil of beauty!

OLI.
How does he love me?
VIO. With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
OLI. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love
him:

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd, and valiane,
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. 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;
I would not understand it.
OLI.
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,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.

OLI. You might do much. What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
OLI.

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 purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint, that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exil.
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 spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon:-not too fast:-soft!

soft!

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. Well, let it be.---
What ho, Malvolio!

MAL.

Re-enter MALVOLIO.

Here, madam, at your service. OLI. Run after that same peevish messenger, The county's 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. [Exit. 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, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be;-and be this so! [Exeunt.