Art any

Sir To. Out o'time? Sir, ye lie. more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

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

Sir To. Thou'rt i'the right. Go, Sir, rub your chain with crums:- A stoop of wine, Maria! Mal. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; shall know of it, by this hand.

Mar. Go shake your ears.

she [Exit.

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 maké 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 to-night; since the youth of the Count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsicur 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, possess us; thing of him.

tell us some

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

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him fike a dog

Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exqui site reason, dear Kuight?

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

or any

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, thing constantly but a time-pleaser; an affection'd ass, that cons state without book, and utters it

by great swarth's: the best persuaded of himself, so cramm'd, 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 cause 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 his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your nie ce; Onl 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, my physick 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. Farewel. [Exit.

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.

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

-Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bed, and one that adores me; What o'that?

Sir And. I was adored once too.

Sir To. Let's to bed, Knight.

need send for more money.,

Thou hadst

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 '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 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.

[Exit 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:

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some savour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?

Vio. A little, by your favour.

Duke. What kind of woman is't?

Vio. Of your complexion.

Duke. She is noth worth thee then. What years, i'faith?

Vio. About your years, my Lord.

Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take Au 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, so ouer lost and worn, 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 display'd, doth fall that very hour. 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 free maids, that weave their thread with.
bones,

Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Clo. Are you ready, Sir?

Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing.

CLO.

SONG.

[Musick.

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
My poor corpse, where my bones shall
be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where

Sad true lover ne'er 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.

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

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and

the