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Enter OLIVIA, and MALVOLIO.

Clo. Wit, an 't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man for what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.-God bless thee, lady!

Óli. Take the fool away.

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.

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 dishonest: 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.

Clo. Misprision in the highest degree!-Lady, cucullus non facit monachum: that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexteriously, 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, 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 twopence 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 than a stone. 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, to be no better than the fools' zanies.

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 birdbolts, 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.

Re-enter MARIA.

Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.

Oli. From the count Orsino, is it?

Mar. I know not, madam: 't is 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, I pray you he speaks nothing but madman. Fie 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 comes one of thy kin, that 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. 'T is a gentleman here.—A plague o' these pickle-herrings !-How now, sot? Clo. Good sir Toby,—

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

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: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him.

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 shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown.

Re-enter MALVOLIO.

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.

1

Mal. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, or2 be the supporter to a bench, but he 'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of man is he? Mal. Why, of man kind.

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 't is a peascod, or a codling when 't is almost an apple: 't is 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.

1 A post at the door of a sheriff, to which proclamations and placards were affixed. 2 and in f. e. 3 An unripe pod.

[Exit.

Re-enter MARIA.

negotiate with my face? you are now out of your text: Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face. but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picWe'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. ture. Look you, sir; such a one I am at this present is 't not well done? [Unveiling.

Enter VIOLA.

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 penned, 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 fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. you the lady of the house?

very Are

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 't is 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: 't is 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 giant3, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: 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?

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Vio. Excellently done, if God did all.

Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir: 't will endure wind and weather.

Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.

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 what you are you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you: O! such love
Should be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

Oli.

How does he love me?
Vio. With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love
him :

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 veliant,
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;
Halloo 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 · Vio. The rudeness that hath appear'd in me, have II am a gentleman. learn'd from my entertainment. What I am. and Oli. what I would, are as secret as maidenhead: to your I cannot love him. Let him send no more,

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Vio. Most sweet lady,—

Get you to your lord:

Unless, perchance, you come
To tell me how he takes it.
I thank you for your pains.

to me again,
Fare you well:
Spend this for me.
[Offering her purse.

Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse :

Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said My master, not myself, lacks recompense. 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

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
Oli. What is your parentage?

"Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

[Exit.

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!

1 Sensitive. 2 Lie, or remain. 3 An allusion to the wardens of ladies in old romances. 4 I was this present in f. e. 5 An old word

for cantos.

6 Not in f. e.

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SCENE I.-The Sea-coast. Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.

ACT II.

Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, 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 are bound. 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 Roderigo. 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 self-estimation wander so far to believe that3; yet thus far I will boldly publish hershe 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 I am bound to the count Orsino's court: fare

of me. well.

[Exit.

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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 no ring of me !-I'll none of it. Mal. Come, sir; you peevishly threw it to her, and her will is, it should be so returned if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit.

:

Vio. I left no ring with her: what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much, That, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring? why he sent her none. I am the man :-if it be so, as 't is, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it, for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we, For such as we are made, if such we be. How will this fadge". My master loves her dearly; And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master's love; As I am woman, now, alas the day! What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time! thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me t' untie.

[Exit.

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1 Foolish. 2 Own. 3 with such estimable wonder overfar believe that in f. e. mum est. An adage quoted in Lily's Latin Grammar.

4 the: in f. e. 5 Suit. 6 diluculo surgere saluberri

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