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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 affectioned 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 expresware of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall tad 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. 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. [colour.

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that
Sir And. And your horse now could make him
Mar. Ass, I doubt not.
[an ass.

Ser And. O, 'twill be admirable. Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic will work with him. I will plant you two,

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. [Exit. Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.

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

Ser To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; what o'that?

Sir And. I was adored once too.

Der To. Let's to bed, knight.-Thou hadst need send for more money.

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a fool way out.

Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her Bot in the end, call me Cut.

[you will.

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how
Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack,
Ts too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come,
Aaight.
[Exeunt.

SCENE IV-A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.
Duke. Give me some music:-Now, good mor-
row, friends:-~

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night;
M-thought 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.
[should sing it.
Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that
Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is out the house.

Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. (Exit Curio.-Music. Come hither, boy; if ever thou shalt love, le the sweet pangs of it remember me: Fr, such as I am, all true lovers are; Instaid and skittish in all motions else, have, in the constant image of the creature That is belov'd.-How dost thon like this tune? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is thron'd.

Duke. Thon dost speak masterly:

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Bath it not, boy?
A little, by your favour.

Vio.

Duke. What kind of woman is't? Vio. Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, Vio. About your years, my lord. [i'faith? Duke. Too old, by heaven: let still the woman An elder than herself; so wears she to him, [take 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, Than women's are. I think it well, my lord.

Vio.

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
Mark it, Cesario; it is old, and plain: [night:-
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with
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.

SONG.

Clo. Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath;

[bones,

(Music.)

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 [thrown; My poor corpse, where my bones shall be A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, 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 tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal!-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. [Exit Clown.

Duke. Let all the rest give place.--
[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 bestow'd 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 answer'd.

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 answer'd?
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

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