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A little, by your favour.
Duhe. What kind of woman is't?

Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years,

i'faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. . Pidin

Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, 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. Vio.

I think it well, my lord. 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

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

Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

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


free -] Is, perhaps, artless, free from art. ? silly south,] It is plain, simple truth. 8 And dallies with the -] Plays or trifles. ' the old age.) The ages past, times of simplicity,

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.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

0, 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 shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,

To weep there.
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 inakes a good voyage of nothing:--Farewell. [Exit Clown. Duke. Let all the rest give place.

[Exeunt Cúrio and Attendants.

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a very opal!]


Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yon’ same 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 answerd.

'Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, i
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
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 suffer 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.

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..
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?

* That nature pranks her in,] i.e. adorný.

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 patience 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 died 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?

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



Olivia's Garden.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,

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 niggårdly rascally sheep-biter coine 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;

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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 ?4

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 hiin, 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.

Enter Malvolio. Mal. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told 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 advanced plumes!

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

. - nettle of India ?] The nettle of India is the plant that produces what is called cow-itch, a substance only used for the purpose of tormenting, by its itching quality.

how he jets ~] To jet is to strut,

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