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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?
Oli. What manner of man?
Mal. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no.
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 appear'd 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
Oli. Of what personage, and years, is he? Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a pease-cod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favour-other's, profanation. ed, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him. Oli. Let him approach: Call in my gentle
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.
Oli. 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 show you the heart of my
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 likely to be feigned; I nray 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
Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [Exit MARIA.] Now, Sir, what is your text?
Vio. Most sweet lady,
Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be 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 negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show 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. Oli. "Tis in grain, Sir'; 'twill endure wind and weather.
Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Oli. O, Sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will 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.
Oli. How does he love me?
Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulg'd,† free, learn'd, and valiant,
And, in dimension, and the shape of nature, A gracious person but yet I cannot love him; He might have took his answer long ago.
Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it.
Oli. Why, what would you?
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Holla your name to the reverberate hills, And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me.
Oli. You might do much: What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.
Oli. Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Oli. What is your parentage? Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.- -I'll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon :§-Not too fast:soft! soft!
Unless the master were the man.-How now?
Mal. Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. 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: If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio. Mal. Madam, I will.
Oli. I do I know not what: and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force: Ourselves we do not owe;¶
What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
SCENE I.-The Sea-coast. Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.
Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you hot, 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
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.
Ant. Alas, the day!
Seb. 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
Ant. Pardon me, Sir, your bad entertain
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 eyes 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,
SCENE II-A Street.
Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following. Mal. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia?
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 if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your her; and her will is, it should be so returned: eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit. Vio. I left no ring with her: What means
[her! Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd She made good view of me; indeed, so much, That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her For she did speak in starts distractedly. tongue, She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none. Invites me in this churlish messenger. I am the man;-If it be so, (as 'tis,)
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
SCENE III-A Room in OLIVIA'S House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.
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
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 excelent breast. I had rather than forty shillings had such 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 bottleale 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.
Sir And. Excellent good, i' faith!
Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am truc knight.
Sir To. A contageous breath.
Sir And. Very sweet and contageous, i' faith. Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?
Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
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. Sir And. Good, i' faith! Come, begin." [They sing a catch.
here! If my lady have not called Mar. What a catterwauling do you keep her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
Sir To. My lady's a Cataian,t we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men we be. Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley, lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, ludy, lady? [Singing.
Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural, Sir To. O, the twelfth day of December,— [Singing. Mar. For the love of God, peace. Enter MALVOLIO.
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.
* Drink till the sky turns round.
Equivalent to filly fally, shilly shally.
Mal. This is much credit to you. Sir To. Shall I bid him go?
Clo. What an if you do?
Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare 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 prized 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 mucb out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nay-word, 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.
Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a 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 affectioned ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths:¶ the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, 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
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.
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.
Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
* Stewards anciently wore a chain. ✰ Bye-word. Inform us. The row of grass left by a mower.
Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass.
Mar. Ass, 1 doubt not.
Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.
Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and 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. Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; What o' that?
Sir And. I was adored once too. Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.-Thou hadst need send for more money.
Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i'the end, call me Cut.t
Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-A Room in the DUKE's Palace.
Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others. Duke. Give me some music:-Now, good Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, morrow, friends :That old and antique song we heard last night; Methought, it did relieve my passion much; Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:More than light airs and recollected terms, Come, but one verse.
that should sing it. Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship,
Duke. Who was it?
Cur. Festo, the jester, my lord; a fool, that he is about the house. the lady Olivia's father took much delight in :
Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine
Vio. A little, by your favour.
Duke. She is not worth thee then. What
Vio. About your years, my lord.
Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
Than women's are.
Vio. I think it well, my lord.
Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
+Method of life. Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: || Affected
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 night :
Mark it, Cesario; it is old, and plain :
Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,t
Clo. Are you ready, Sir?
Clo. Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
Vio. Ay, but I know,
Duke. What dost thou know?
Vio. Too well what love women to men may
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
Duke. And what's her history?
Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
[Music. But let concealment, like a worm i'the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in
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,
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
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.-
Once more, Cesario,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but, in
deed, [prove Our shows are more than will; for still we Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy! Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, [not:
And all the brothers too;-and yet I know 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 denay.* [Exeunt.
SCENE V-OLIVIA'S Garden. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK, 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 boiled to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally 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.
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 sun, 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! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou, there; [throws down a letter.] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit MARIA.