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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 a filly footh,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Clo. Are you ready, sir?
Duke. Ay; pr’ythee, sing.


Come away, come away, death,
And in Sad cypress. let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am sain by a fair cruel maid.
My shrowd 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 all be thrown:
A thousand thousand fighs to save,

Lay me, O! where
Sad true-lover ne'er find my grave,

To weep there.

y free)-blithe--fair and free were common epithets of the sex.

z silly footh, and dallies with the innocence of love, like the old age.) fimple truth, and sports with the subject of innocent love, like the songs in days of yore, the golden age. a sad cypress ]-a throud made of that stuff.


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 other.

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the taylor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very bopal ! 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.–Farewel.

[Exit. -
Duke. Let all the rest give place. -
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yon fame 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

o opal!]-fickle, wavering, from the stone so called, which reflects all colours.

giddily)--carelessly. d that miracle, and queen of gems, that nature pranks her in,)--that ex- ' quisite beauty, with which nature hath adorned her.


So big, to hold so much : they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.

Vio. Ay, but I know,
Duke. What dost thou know?

Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe :
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter lov'd a man,'
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship. .

Duke. And what's her history?

Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like pacience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ? .
We men may say more, swear more : but, indeed,

Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But dy'd thy sister of her love, my boy?

Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too ; and yet I know not: Sir, shall I to this lady?

Duke. Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel ; say, My love can give no place, bide no 8 denay. (Exeunt.

e with a green and yellow melancholy, ]-though expiring under the pressure of an inveterate melancholy.

Our shows are more than will;]We pretend more than we feel. 6 denay. ]-denial.


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Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian.

Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boild to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally b sheep-biter come by some notable shame ?

Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.

Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again ; and we will fool him black and blue: Shall we not, sir, Andrew?

Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter Maria. Sir To. Here comes the little villain :-How now, my nettle of India ?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree : Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i'the lun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour : observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative ideot of him. Close, in, the name of jesting! Lie thou there ; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and Exit.


Enter Malvolio. Mal. 'Tis but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria once told to seep-biter)--thief.

i nettle of India?]-urtica marina-genius of mischief. mettle of India-girl of gold.



me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she "fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't ?

Sir To. Here's'an over-weening rogue !

Fab. O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare turkey. cock of him ; how he 'jets under his advanc'd plumes !

Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue :
Sir To. Peace, I say.
Mal. To be count Malvolio ;
Sir To. Ah, rougue !
Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir To. Peace, peace !

Mal. There is example for’t; the lady of them strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir And, Fie on him, Jezebel !

Fab. O, peace ! now he's deeply in ; look, how imagination "blows him.

Mal. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,

Sir To. O for a ° stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown ; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia Neeping.

Sir To. Fire and brimstone !
Fab. O, peace, peace!
Mal. And then to have the humour of state : and P af.

* fancy, ]--fall in love, it would be with, &c.

jets under his advanc'd plumes ! ]-struts under his bristling feathers. mftarchery—of Trachyna, a city in Thessaly, married the yeoman of her wardrobe.

n blows him.]-swells, puffs him up.
ftone-bow,)-a cross-bow, that shoots stones.

P after a demure travel of regard, )-after passing my eye over them demurely calling up a consequential look.


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