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Unless the master were the man.-How now?
Here, madam, at your service. Olivia. Run after that same peevish messenger, The county's man: he left this ring behind him, Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes! I am not for him :
Malvolio. Madam, I will.
Olivia. I do I know not what: and fear to find
ACT II. SCENE I.
Sebastian. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not, with such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair: she is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.
Viola. I left no ring with her: What means this lady?
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
For, such as we are made of, such we be.
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe?
It is too hard a knot for me to untie.
Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him, she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
I think it well, my lord.
Viola. And so they are: alas, that they are so ;
Duke. Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty :
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
'Sooth, but you must.
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ;
Duke. What dost thou know?
Viola. 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,
Ay, but I know,
And what's her history?
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought;
She sat like patience on a monument,
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? Viola. 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?
ACT III. SCENE I.
Olivia. O, by your leave, I pray you ;
Olivia. Give me leave, 'beseech you: I did send,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom,
Hides my heart: So let me hear you speak.
Viola. I pity you.
Olivia. That's a degree to love.
Olivia. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,