Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, sir Toby. Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight? Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd Sir And. What is pourquoy? 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! Sure, my noble lord, Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of If she be so abandoned to her sorrow hair. As it is spoke, she never will admit me. Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. 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 housewife 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 it. 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 To. And I can cut the mutton to't. Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? 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 sinka-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to 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 SCENE IV.-A Room in the Duke's Palace. you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he no stranger. Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord: What then? Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, I'll do my best, Mar. Make that good. Clo. He shall see none to fear. that saying was born, of, I fear no colours. say Clo. Where, good mistress Mary? Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to 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 Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love:way; if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? Val. No, believe me. Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants. Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria. Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO. 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, Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. Oh. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest. Cle. 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 as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. Oli. Can you do it? Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna. 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 mourn'st 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 you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.-Take away the fool, gentlemen. Of. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth be not mend? Mai. 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 two-pence that you are no fool. Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? 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. Who of my people hold him in delay? Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsinan. Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye 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 TOBY BELCH. Oli. By mine honour, half drunk.-What is he at the gate, cousin? Sir To. A gentleman. Oli. A gentleman? What gentleman ? Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here-A plague o' these pickle-herrings!-How now, Clo. Good Sir Toby, sot? Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery: There's one at the gate. 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. [Eait. Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool? Clo. Like a drown'd 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 coroner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: 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. Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. Mal. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of man is he? Mal. Why, of mankind. Oli. What manner of man? Mal. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no. Ol. Of what personage, and years, is he? Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peasMal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those cod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets: with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he doe is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewnothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet ishly; one would think his mother's milk were man, though he do nothing but reprove. Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools! Re-enter MARIA. scarce out of him. Oli. Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman. Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit. Re-enter MARIA. Oli. Give me my veil: come throw it o'er my face: Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentle- We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. man, much desires to speak with you. Cli. From the count Orsino, is it? Mar. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended. Enter VIOLA. Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her: Your will? Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, I pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. Öli. Whence came you, sir? Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, 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? Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then shew 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. Ŏli. 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 began rudely. What are you? what would you? Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me, have I learn'd 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. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather. Vio. "Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy. I will Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; give out divers schedules of my beauty: It shall be inventoried; 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 chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to 'praise me? 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! How does he love me? Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. Oli. Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, Oli. Oli. I cannot love him: let him send no more; Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse; Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be Above my fortunes, yet my state is well; 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 shew you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I was this present: Is't not well done? [Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. I am a gentleman.- -I'll be sworn thou art; soft! soft! Unless the master were the man.-How now? Re-enter MALVOLIO. Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you? Seb. By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone: It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. Seb. No, 'sooth sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know, you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. Art. Alas, the day! Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: bat, though I could not, with such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly Fablish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair; she is drown'd already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eves will tell tales of me. I am bound to the count Orsino's court: farewell. [Exit. Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino's court, Else would I very shortly see thee there: But, come what may, I do adore thee so, Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him : And one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so. Vio. She took the ring of me: I'll none of it. Mal. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit. Vio. I left no ring with her: What means this lady? Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much, That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none. I am the man;-If it be so, (as 'tis,) Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it, for the proper-false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; For, such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly; And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me: What will become of this! As I am man, My state is desperate for my master's love; As I am woman, now alas the day! What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe? O time, thou must entangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me to untie. SCENE III. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. [Exit. Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st, Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late, is to be up late. Sir To. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can: To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives consist of the four elements? Sir And. 'Faith so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking. Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.-Marian, I say!—A stoop of wine! Enter CLOWN. Sir And. Here comes the fool, i'faith. Clo. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three? Sir To. Welcome ass. Now let's have a catch. Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. [Exit. breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such SCENE II-A Street. Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following. Mal. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia? a leg; and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: Hadst it? Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. Sir To. Come on ; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song. Sir And. There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life. SONG. Clo. O mistress mine, where are you roaming? Every wise man's son doth know. Sir And. Excellent good, i'faith. Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i'faith. Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Sir And. Most certain: let our catch be, Thou knave. Clo. Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight. Sir And. "Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold thy peace. Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. Enter MARIA. Mar. What a catterwauling do you keep here! If Sir To. O, the twelfth day of December,- [Singing. Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. Sir To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone. Mar. Nay, good sir Toby. Clo. His eyes do shew his days are almost done. Mal. Is't even so? Sir To. But I will never die. Mal. This is much credit to you. Clo. What an if you do? Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not? [Singing. Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not. Sir To. Out o' time? sir, ye lie.-Art any 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; she shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit. Mar. Go shake your ears. 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 make 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 monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, 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; tell us something of him. Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. dog. Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight? Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't, but I have reason good enough. Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time pleaser; an affection'd ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths⚫ the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, 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 niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. |