TWELFTH NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. ACT I. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending. Duke. Ir musick be the food of love, play on; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, Stealing, and giving odour. - Enough; no more; 'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou! But falls into abatement and low price, That it alone is high-fantastical." 1 Of what validity and pitch soever.] Validity is here used for value. MALONE, who reads soe'er. 2 That it alone is high-fantastical.] High-fantastical, means funtastical to the height. What, Curio? The hart. Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord? Duke. Cur. Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have: And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, her? How now? what news from Enter VALENTINE. Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, Duke. O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame, Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else That live in her! when liver, brain, and heart, The element itself, till seven years heat,] [Exeunt. Heat for heated. The air, till it shall have been warmed by seven revolutions of the sun, shall not, &c. ✦ (Her sweet perfections,)] Liver, brain, and heart, are admitted in poetry as the residence of passions, judgement, and sentiments. These are what Shakspeare calls, her sweet perfections, though he has not very clearly expressed what he might design to have said. STEEVENS. SCENE II. The Sea-coast. Enter VIOLA, Captain, and Sailors. Vio. What country, friends, is this? Cap. + Illyria, lady. Vio. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance, he is not drown'd:- What think you, sailors? Cap. It is perchance, that you yourself were saved. Vio. O my poor brother! and so, perchance, may he be. Cap. True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and that poor number saved with you, (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) the sea; Vio. For saying so, there's gold: Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know'st thou this country? Not three hours travel from this very place. Vio. Who governs here? Cap. As in his name. Vio. A noble duke, in nature, What is his name? "This is Illyria, lady." MALONE. Cap. Vio. Orsino! I have heard He was a bachelor then. Cap. Orsino. my father name him: And so is now, Or was so very late: for but a month Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh The love of fair Olivia. Vio. What's she? Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died: for whose dear love, They say, she hath abjur'd the company And sight of men. Vio. O, that I served that lady: And might not be delivered to the world, What my estate is. Cap. That were hard to compass; Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the duke's. Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits 5 That will allow me-] To allow is to approve. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be; SCENE III. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and MARIA. [Exeunt. Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus ? I am sure, care's an enemy to life. Mar. By my troth, sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted. Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. Sir To. Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you : I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you brought in one night here, to be her wooer. Sir To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek? Mar. Ay, he. 6 Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. Mar. What's that to the purpose? Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. |