Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen. Sir To. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me Sir To. An thou let part so, sir Andrew, 'would see thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha excellent! thou might'st never draw sword again. Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. Sir And. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. Mar. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. Sir And, Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor ? Mar. It's dry, sir. Sir And. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? Mar. A dry jest, sir. Sir And. Are you full of them? Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. [Exit Maria. Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?. Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down: Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man has but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit. Sir To. No question. [Exeunt. SCENE IV.A Room in the Duke's Palace. Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire. Val. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. gence, that you call in question the continuance of Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. Vio. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll As it is spoke, she never will admit me. ride home to-morrow, sir Toby. Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight? Sir And. What is pourquoy do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts! Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for thou seest, it will not curl by nature. Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does't not? Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. Sir And. Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the count himself, here hard by, wooes her. Sir Te. She'll none o' the count; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man. Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight ? Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper. Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't. Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria. Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels. Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus P Sir And. Taurus? that's sides and heart. Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, For they shall yet belie thy happy years, Vio. To woo your lady: yet, [Aside.] a barful strife! SCENE V.A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Maria and Clown. Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips, so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence. Clo. Let her hang me: he, that is well hanged in this world, needs to fear no colours. Mar. Make that good. Clo. He shall see none to fear. Mar. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where say in your foolery. and those that are fools, let them use their talents. Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. Mar. You are resolute then? Clo. Not so neither; but I am resolved on two points. Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall. Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you; besides, you grow dishonest. Mar. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man; and well attended. Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ? Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.. Oli. Fetch him off, 1 pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye on him! [Exit Maria.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit Malvolio.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater. Enter Sir Toby Belch. Oli. By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin? Sir To. A gentleman. Oli, A gentleman? What gentleman ? Sir To. Tis a gentleman here-A plague o'these sot? now, Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dis-pickle-herrings!-How Clo. Good Sir Toby, honest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him: Any thing that's mended, is but patched: virtue, that transgresses, is but patched with sin; and sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue: If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower:-the lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away, Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery: There's one at the gate. Oli. Ay, marry; what is he? Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. [Exit. Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool? Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: Clo. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, Cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much as to one draught above heat makes him a fool; the sesay, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madon-cond mads him; and a third drowns him. na, give me leave to prove you a fool. Oli. Can you do it? Clo. Dexterously, good madonna. Oli. Make your proof. Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna; Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof. Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou ? Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. Clo. I think, his soul is in hell, madonna. Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. Clo. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.-Take away the fool, gentlemen. Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend? Mal. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him: Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn, that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool. Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies. than a stone. Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets: There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools! Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o'my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd; go, look after him. Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool [Exit Clown. shall look to the madman. Re-enter Malvolio. 2 Mal. Madam, yond' young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you; I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady ? he's fortified against any denial. Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. ཝཱཡཱཝེĄ 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 Mal. Why, of mankind. Sas Oli. What manner of man? Mal. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no. 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 peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him. Oli. Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman, Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. Re-enter Maria. [Exit. Mar, Madam, there is at the gate a young gen will? tleman, much desires to speak with you. Oli. From the count Orsino, is it? A 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 red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is ex- one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent cellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to hither to 'praise me? 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 message. 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 like to be feigned; I pray. 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 way. Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Vio. I see you what you are: you are too proud; * Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Oli. Tell me your mind. 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? Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [Exit Maria.] Now, sir, what is your text? Vio. Most sweet lady, Oli. Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be With an invisible and subtle stealth, 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. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. weather. Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white If you will lead these graces to the grave, To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be Mal. Re-enter Malvolio. Here, madam, at your service. Oli. I do I know not what: and fear to find ACT II SCENE 1.The Sea coast.” Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you? 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 over me; the malignancy of my fate might, per. Seb. By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly haps, 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 are bound. And I, poor monster, fond as much on him pe SCENE III.-A Room in Olivia's House. [Exit. 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 my-Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. self. 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 more. Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. 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, Else would I very shortly see thee there: But, come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. SCENE II-A Street. Enter Viola; Malvolio following. after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo 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 betimės. Do not our lives consist of the four elements ? ther consists of eating and drinking. Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.-Marian, I say!a stoop of wine! Enter Clown. 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 excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I 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, 1 faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy le man: 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 bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fool[Exit.ing, when all is done. Now, a song. Mal. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia 21 Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither, Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might Fio. 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. In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly; 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. SONG. Clo. O mistress mine, where are you roaming? Clo. What is love ? 'tis not hereafter; Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. Sir To. A contagious breath. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, 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. trust me. Sir To. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsay, and Three merry men he we. Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley, lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, 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,- Enter Malvolio. [Singing. 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 misdemeanours, 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. Clo. His eyes do shew his days are almost done. Sir To. But I will never die. Clo. What an if you do? [Singing. 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 priz'd 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 much out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recrea [tion, 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 affection'd ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks with excellencies, 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 to work. Sir To. What wilt thou do? of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles 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 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, Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass. Mar. Ass, I doubt not. Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable. Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physick 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. 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 musick :-Now, good mor. row, friends : Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. Duke. Who was it? ་ Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is ' about the house. Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. Exit Curio.-Musick. Come hither, boy; If ever thou shalt love, |