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 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 SCENE IV-A Room in the Duke's Palace. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, 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 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 Clo. Are you ready, sir? 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 part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 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, 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.-- Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty: Vio. Can bide the beating of so strong a passion |