Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of
her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'
nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great
exceptions to your ill hours.

Why, let her except, before excepted.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest
limits of order.

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.

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.

Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Ay, he.

He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

What's that to the purpose?

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats:
he's a very fool and a prodigal.

Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the
viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four ********s
word for word without book, and hath all the good
gifts of nature.

He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that
he's a fool, he's a great quarreller: and but that
he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he
hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent
he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors
that say so of him. Who are they?

They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to
her as long as there is a passage in my throat and
drink in Illyria: he's a coward and a coystrill
that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn
o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.
Enter SIR ANDREW

Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

Sweet Sir Andrew!

Bless you, fair shrew.

And you too, sir.

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

What's that?

My niece's chambermaid.

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

My name is Mary, sir.

Good Mistress Mary Accost,--

You mistake, knight; 'accost' is front her, board
her, woo her, assail her.

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this
company. Is that the meaning of 'accost'?

Fare you well, gentlemen.

An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst
never draw sword again.

An you part so, mistress, I would I might never
draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have
fools in hand?

Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

Now, sir, 'thought is free:' I pray you, bring
your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.

Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your ****phor?

It's dry, sir.

Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can
keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

A dry jest, sir.

Are you full of them?

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry,
now I let go your hand, I am barren.
Exit

O knight thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I
see thee so put down?

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.

No question.

An I thought that, I'ld forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

What is 'Pourquoi'? 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!

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Why, would that have mended my hair?

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I
hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs
and spin it off.

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 woos her.

She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above
her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I
have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't,
man.

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.

Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare
with an old man.

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Faith, I can cut a caper.

And I can cut the mutton to't.

And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong
as any man in Illyria.

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have
these gifts a curtain before 'em? 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.

Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

Taurus! That's sides and heart.

No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the
caper; ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent!
Exeunt

Enter MARIA and Clown

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.

Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this
world needs to fear no colours.

Make that good.

He shall see none to fear.

A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that
saying was born, of 'I fear no colours.'

Where, good Mistress Mary?

In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those
that are fools, let them use their talents.

Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or,
to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and,
for turning away, let summer bear it out.

You are resolute, then?

Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.

That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both
break, your gaskins fall.

Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if
Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a
piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my
lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.
Exit

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.'
Enter OLIVIA with MALVOLIO
God bless thee, lady!

Take the fool away.

Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you:
besides, you grow dishonest.

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.

Sir, I bade them take away you.

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

Can you do it?

Dexterously, good madonna.

Make your proof.

I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse
of virtue, answer me.

Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.

Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Good fool, for my brother's death.

I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's
soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him:
infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the
better fool.

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.

How say you to that, Malvolio?

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, no better
than the fools' zanies.

Oh, 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.

Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou
speakest well of fools!
Re-enter MARIA

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

From the Count Orsino, is it?

I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

Who of my people hold him in delay?

Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

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.

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

By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?

A gentleman.

A gentleman! what gentleman?

'Tis a gentle man here--a plague o' these
pickle-herring! How now, sot!

Good Sir Toby!

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

Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

Ay, marry, what is he?

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give
me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
Exit

What's a drunken man like, fool?

Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one
draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads
him; and a third drowns him.

Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my
coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's
drowned: go, look after him.

He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look
to the madman.
Exit
Re-enter MALVOLIO

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 foreknowledge of that too, and therefore
comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? he's fortified against any denial.

Tell him he shall not speak with me.

Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your
door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to
a bench, but he'll speak with you.

What kind o' man is he?

Why, of mankind.

What manner of man?

Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

Of what personage and years is he?

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for
a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a
cooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him
in 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.

Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.

Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Exit
Re-enter MARIA

Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face.
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter VIOLA, and Attendants

The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

Speak to me; I shall answer for her.
Your will?

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.

Whence came you, sir?

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.

Are you a comedian?

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?

If I do not usurp myself, I am.

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.

Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

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.

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little
longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet
lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when
the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

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 fun of peace as matter.

Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I
learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I
would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears,
divinity, to any other's, profanation.

Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
Exeunt MARIA and Attendants
Now, sir, what is your ****?

Most sweet lady,--

A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
Where lies your ****?

In Orsino's bosom.

In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

Good madam, let me see your face.

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate
with my face? You are now out of your ****: but
we will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't
not well done?
Unveiling

Excellently done, if God did all.

'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

'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.

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?

I see you 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
Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

How does he love me?

With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

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 divulged, 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.

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.

Why, what would you?

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!

You might do much.
What is your parentage?

Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.

Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;
And let your fervor, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
Exit

'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!
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.
What ho, Malvolio!
Re-enter MALVOLIO

Here, madam, at your service.

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.

Madam, I will.
Exit

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.
Exit

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN

Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?

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.
ANTONIO: Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.

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.

Alas the day!

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.

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

If you will not murder me for my love, let me be
your servant.

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

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.
Exit

Enter VIOLA, MALVOLIO following

Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?

Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since
arrived but hither.

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.

She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

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

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 sure 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 'tis,
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 of, 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 to untie!
Exit

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW

Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after
midnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo
surgere,' thou know'st,--

Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up
late is to be up late.

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. Does not our life consist of the
four elements?

Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists
of eating and drinking.

Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!
Enter Clown

Here comes the fool, i' faith.

How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture
of 'we three'?

Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

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, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy
leman: hadst it?

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.

Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all
is done. Now, a song.

Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.

There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

A love-song, a love-song.

Ay, ay: I care not for good life.

[Sings]
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

Excellent good, i' faith.

Good, good.

[Sings]
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

A contagious breath.

Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

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?

An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.

By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'

'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be
constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.

'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to
call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

Good, i' faith. Come, begin.
Catch sung
Enter MARIA

What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady
have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him
turn you out of doors, never trust me.

My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's
a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not
I consanguineous? am I not of her blood?
Tillyvally. Lady!
Sings
'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'

Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

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.

[Sings] 'O, the twelfth day of December,'--

For the love o' God, peace!
Enter MALVOLIO

My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye
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?

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

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.

'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

Nay, good Sir Toby.

'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'

Is't even so?

'But I will never die.'

Sir Toby, there you lie.

This is much credit to you.

'Shall I bid him go?'

'What an if you do?'

'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'

'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a
steward? Dost thou think, because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the
mouth too.

Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with
crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

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

Go shake your ears.

'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's
a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to
break promise with him and make a fool of him.

Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll
deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the
youth of the count's was today with thy 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 recreation, do not
think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed:
I know I can do it.

Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!

What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason,
dear knight?

I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason
good enough.

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 excellencies, that it is
his grounds of faith that all that look on him love
him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find
notable cause to work.

What wilt thou do?

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.

Excellent! I smell a device.

I have't in my nose too.

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop,
that they come from my niece, and that she's in
love with him.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

And your horse now would make him an ass.

Ass, I doubt not.

O, 'twill be admirable!

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

Good night, Penthesilea.

Before me, she's a good wench.

She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me:
what o' that?

I was adored once too.

Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for
more money.

If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i'
the end, call me cut.

If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late
to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.
Exeunt

Enter DUKE ORSINO, VIOLA, CURIO, and others

Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night:
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:
Come, but one verse.

He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.

Who was it?

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady
Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
Exit CURIO. Music plays
Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me;
For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves:
Hath it not, boy?

A little, by your favour.

What kind of woman is't?

Of your complexion.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

About your years, my lord.

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.

I think it well, my lord.

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.

And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
Re-enter CURIO and Clown

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 bones
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Are you ready, sir?

Ay; prithee, sing.
Music
SONG.

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,
O, 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, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!

There's for thy pains.

No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the
tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, 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

Let all the rest give place.
CURIO and Attendants retire
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond 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.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

I cannot be so answer'd.

Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love a 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?

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--

What dost thou know?

Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

And what's her history?

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined 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.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

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.
Exeunt

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport,
let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly
rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o'
favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will
fool him black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?

An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Here comes the little villain.
Enter MARIA
How now, my ****l of India!

Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the
sun practising behavior to his own shadow this half
hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I
know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of
him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there,
Throws down a letter
for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.
Exit
Enter MALVOLIO

'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?

Here's an overweening rogue!

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock
of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!

'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

Peace, I say.

To be Count Malvolio!

Ah, rogue!

Pistol him, pistol him.

Peace, peace!

There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy
married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Fie on him, Jezebel!

O, peace! now he's deeply in: look how
imagination blows him.

Having been three months married to her, sitting in
my state,--

O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet
gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left
Olivia sleeping,--

Fire and brimstone!

O, peace, peace!

And then to have the humour of state; and after a
demure travel of regard, telling them I know my
place as I would they should do theirs, to for my
kinsman Toby,--

Bolts and shackles!

O peace, peace, peace! now, now.

Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make
out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind
up watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby
approaches; courtesies there to me,--

Shall this fellow live?

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar
smile with an austere regard of control,--

And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on
your niece give me this prerogative of speech,'--

What, what?

'You must amend your drunkenness.'

Out, scab!

Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with
a foolish knight,'--

That's me, I warrant you.

'One Sir Andrew,'--

I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

What employment have we here?
Taking up the letter

Now is the woodcock near the gin.

O, peace! and the spirit of humour intimate reading
aloud to him!

By my life, this is my lady's hand these be her
very C's, her U's and her T's and thus makes she her
great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

Her C's, her U's and her T's: why that?

[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes:'--her very phrases! By your leave, wax.
Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she
uses to seal: 'tis my lady. To whom should this be?

This wins him, liver and all.

[Reads]
Jove knows I love: But who?
Lips, do not move;
No man must know.
'No man must know.' What follows? the numbers
altered! 'No man must know:' if this should be
thee, Malvolio?

Marry, hang thee, brock!

[Reads]
I may command where I adore;
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.

A fustian riddle!

Excellent wench, say I.

'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' Nay, but first, let
me see, let me see, let me see.

What dish o' poison has she dressed him!

And with what wing the staniel cheques at it!

'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command
me: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is
evident to any formal capacity; there is no
obstruction in this: and the end,--what should
that alphabetical position portend? If I could make
that resemble something in me,--Softly! M, O, A,
I,--

O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent.

Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as
rank as a fox.

M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.

Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is
excellent at faults.

M,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel;
that suffers under probation A should follow but O does.

And O shall end, I hope.

Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry O!

And then I comes behind.

Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see
more detraction at your heels than fortunes before
you.

M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former: and
yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for
every one of these letters are in my name. Soft!
here follows prose.
Reads
'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I
am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some
are born great, some achieve greatness, and some
have greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy Fates open
their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them;
and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be,
cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be
opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let
thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into
the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee
that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy
yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever
cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art
made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see
thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and
not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell.
She that would alter services with thee,
THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.'
Daylight and champaign discovers not more: this is
open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross
acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man.
I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade
me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady
loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of
late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered;
and in this she manifests herself to my love, and
with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits
of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will
be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and
cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting
on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a
post******.
Reads
'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling;
thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my
presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.'
Jove, I thank thee: I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me.
Exit

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension
of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

I could marry this wench for this device.

So could I too.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

Nor I neither.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Re-enter MARIA

Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

Or o' mine either?

Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy
bond-slave?

I' faith, or I either?

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when
the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark
his first approach before my lady: he will come to
her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she
abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;
and he will smile upon her, which will now be so
unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him
into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow
me.

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

I'll make one too.
Exeunt

Enter VIOLA, and Clown with a tabour

Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by
thy tabour?

No, sir, I live by the church.

Art thou a churchman?

No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for
I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by
the church.

So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a
beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy
tabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.

You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is
but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the
wrong side may be turned outward!

Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with
words may quickly make them wanton.

I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

Why, man?

Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that
word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words
are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.

Thy reason, man?

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and
words are grown so false, I am loath to prove
reason with them.

I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.

Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my
conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be
to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she
will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and
fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to
herrings; the husband's the bigger: I am indeed not
her fool, but her corrupter of words.

I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun,
it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but
the fool should be as oft with your master as with
my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.

Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.
Hold, there's expenses for thee.

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for
one;
Aside
though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy
lady within?

Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

Yes, being kept together and put to use.

I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring
a Cressida to this Troilus.

I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.

The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but
a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is
within, sir. I will construe to them whence you
come; who you are and what you would are out of my
welkin, I might say 'element,' but the word is over-worn.
Exit

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And, like the haggard, cheque at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practise
As full of labour as a wise man's art
For folly that he wisely shows is fit;
But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.
Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, and SIR ANDREW

Save you, gentleman.

And you, sir.

Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous
you should enter, if your trade be to her.

I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the
list of my voyage.

Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

My legs do better understand me, sir, than I
understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we
are prevented.
Enter OLIVIA and MARIA
Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain
odours on you!

That youth's a rare courtier: 'Rain odours;' well.

My matter hath no voice, to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed ear.

'Odours,' 'pregnant' and 'vouchsafed:' I'll get 'em
all three all ready.

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.
Exeunt SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA
Give me your hand, sir.

My duty, madam, and most humble service.

What is your name?

Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:
You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with me!

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf.

O, by your leave, I pray you,
I bade you never speak again of him:
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.

Dear lady,--

Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse
Myself, my servant and, I fear me, you:
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: what might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

I pity you.

That's a degree to love.

No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.

Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again.
O, world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf!
Clock strikes
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your were is alike to reap a proper man:
There lies your way, due west.

Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition
Attend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Stay:
I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me.

That you do think you are not what you are.

If I think so, I think the same of you.

Then think you right: I am not what I am.

I would you were as I would have you be!

Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause,
But rather reason thus with reason fetter,
Love sought is good, but given unsought better.

By innocence I swear, and by my youth
I have one heart, one bosom and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam: never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
Exeunt

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the
count's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me;
I saw't i' the orchard.

Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

As plain as I see you now.

This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?

I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of
judgment and reason.

And they have been grand-jury-men since before Noah
was a sailor.

She did show favour to the youth in your sight only
to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to
put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
You should then have accosted her; and with some
excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should
have banged the youth into dumbness. This was
looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the
double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash
off, and you are now sailed into the north of my
lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle
on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by
some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy
I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a
politician.

Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of
valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight
with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall
take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's
commendation with woman than report of valour.

There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief;
it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun
of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink:
if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be
amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of
paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it.
Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou
write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.

Where shall I find you?

We'll call thee at the cubiculo: go.
Exit SIR ANDREW

This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.

I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand
strong, or so.

We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll
not deliver't?

Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the
youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes
cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were
opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as
will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of
the anatomy.

And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no
great presage of cruelty.
Enter MARIA

Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself
into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is
turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no
Christian, that means to be saved by believing
rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages
of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

And cross-gartered?

Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school
i' the church. I have dogged him, like his
murderer. He does obey every point of the letter
that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his
face into more lines than is in the new map with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such
a thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things
at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do,
he'll smile and take't for a great favour.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
Exeunt

Enter OLIVIA and MARIA

I have sent after him: he says he'll come;
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.
I speak too loud.
Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes:
Where is Malvolio?

He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He
is, sure, possessed, madam.

Why, what's the matter? does he rave?

No. madam, he does nothing but smile: your
ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if
he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in's wits.

Go call him hither.
Exit MARIA
I am as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.
Re-enter MARIA, with MALVOLIO
How now, Malvolio!

Sweet lady, ho, ho.

Smilest thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some
obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but
what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is
with me as the very true sonnet is, 'Please one, and
please all.'

Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?

Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It
did come to his hands, and commands shall be
executed: I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.

Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I'll come to thee.

God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss
thy hand so oft?

How do you, Malvolio?

At your request! yes; nightingales answer daws.

Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

'Be not afraid of greatness:' 'twas well writ.

What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?

'Some are born great,'--

Ha!

'Some achieve greatness,'--

What sayest thou?

'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'

Heaven restore thee!

'Remember who commended thy yellow stocking s,'--

Thy yellow stockings!

'And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'

Cross-gartered!

'Go to thou art made, if thou desirest to be so;'--

Am I made?

'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'

Why, this is very midsummer madness.
Enter Servant

Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is
returned: I could hardly entreat him back: he
attends your ladyship's pleasure.

I'll come to him.
Exit Servant
Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's
my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special
care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the
half of my dowry.
Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA

O, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than
Sir Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with
the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may
appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that
in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says she;
'be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants;
let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put
thyself into the trick of singularity;' and
consequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad
face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the
habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have
limed her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me
thankful! And when she went away now, 'Let this
fellow be looked to:' fellow! not Malvolio, nor
after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing
adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no
scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous
or unsafe circumstance--What can be said? Nothing
that can be can come between me and the full
prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the
doer of this, and he is to be thanked.
Re-enter MARIA, with SIR TOBY BELCH and FABIAN

Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all
the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion
himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him.

Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir?
how is't with you, man?

Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private: go
off.

Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not
I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a
care of him.

Ah, ha! does she so?

Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently
with him: let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how
is't with you? What, man! defy the devil:
consider, he's an enemy to mankind.

Do you know what you say?

La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes
it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched!

Carry his water to the wise woman.

Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I
live. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.

How now, mistress!

O Lord!

Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the way: do
you not see you move him? let me alone with him.

No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is
rough, and will not be roughly used.

Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck?

Sir!

Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for
gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang
him, foul collier!

Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

My prayers, minx!

No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow
things: I am not of your element: you shall know
more hereafter.
Exit

Is't possible?

If this were played upon a stage now, I could
condemn it as an improbable fiction.

His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.

Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

The house will be the quieter.

Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My
niece is already in the belief that he's mad: we
may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance,
till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt
us to have mercy on him: at which time we will
bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a
finder of madmen. But see, but see.
Enter SIR ANDREW

More matter for a May morning.

Here's the challenge, read it: warrant there's
vinegar and pepper in't.

Is't so saucy?

Ay, is't, I warrant him: do but read.

Give me.
Reads
'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.'

Good, and valiant.

[Reads] 'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind,
why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'

A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.

[Reads] 'Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my
sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy
throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.'

Very brief, and to exceeding good sense--less.

[Reads] 'I will waylay thee going home; where if it
be thy chance to kill me,'--

Good.

[Reads] 'Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain.'

Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: good.

[Reads] 'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon
one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but
my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy
friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,
ANDREW AGUECHEEK.
If this letter move him not, his legs cannot:
I'll give't him.

You may have very fit occasion for't: he is now in
some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

Go, Sir Andrew: scout me for him at the corner the
orchard like a bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest
him, draw; and, as thou drawest swear horrible; for
it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a
swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood
more approbation than ever proof itself would have
earned him. Away!

Nay, let me alone for swearing.
Exit

Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behavior
of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good
capacity and breeding; his employment between his
lord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this
letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no
terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a
clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by
word of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a notable report
of valour; and drive the gentleman, as I know his
youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous
opinion of his rage, skill, fury and impetuosity.
This will so fright them both that they will kill
one another by the look, like cockatrices.
Re-enter OLIVIA, with VIOLA

Here he comes with your niece: give them way till
he take leave, and presently after him.

I will meditate the while upon some horrid message
for a challenge.
Exeunt SIR TOBY BELCH, FABIAN, and MARIA

I have said too much unto a heart of stone
And laid mine honour too unchary out:
There's something in me that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof.

With the same 'havior that your passion bears
Goes on my master's grief.

Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture;
Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you;
And I beseech you come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me that I'll deny,
That honour saved may upon asking give?

Nothing but this; your true love for my master.

How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?

I will acquit you.

Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well:
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.
Exit
Re-enter SIR TOBY BELCH and FABIAN

Gentleman, God save thee.

And you, sir.

That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what
nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know
not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as
the hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end:
dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for
thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly.

You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel
to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from
any image of offence done to any man.

You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore,
if you hold your life at any price, betake you to
your guard; for your opposite hath in him what
youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal.

I pray you, sir, what is he?

He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on
carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private
brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and
his incensement at this moment is so implacable,
that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death
and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give't or take't.

I will return again into the house and desire some
conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard
of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on
others, to taste their valour: belike this is a man
of that quirk.

Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a
very competent injury: therefore, get you on and
give him his desire. Back you shall not to the
house, unless you undertake that with me which with
as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on,
or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you
must, that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.

This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me
this courteous office, as to know of the knight what
my offence to him is: it is something of my
negligence, nothing of my purpose.

I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this
gentleman till my return.
Exit

Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a
mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.

I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by
his form, as you are like to find him in the proof
of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful,
bloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly
have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk
towards him? I will make your peace with him if I
can.

I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one that
had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I
care not who knows so much of my mettle.
Exeunt
Re-enter SIR TOBY BELCH, with SIR ANDREW

Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a
firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and
all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal
motion, that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he
pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they
step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.

Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.

Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can
scarce hold him yonder.

Plague on't, an I thought he had been valiant and so
cunning in fence, I'ld have seen him damned ere I'ld
have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip,
and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.

I'll make the motion: stand here, make a good show
on't: this shall end without the perdition of souls.
Aside
Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.
Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA
To FABIAN
I have his horse to take up the quarrel:
I have persuaded him the youth's a devil.

He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and
looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.

[To VIOLA] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight
with you for's oath sake: marry, he hath better
bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now
scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for
the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.

[Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would
make me tell them how much I lack of a man.

Give ground, if you see him furious.

Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman
will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you;
he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has
promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he
will not hurt you. Come on; to't.

Pray God, he keep his oath!

I do assure you, 'tis against my will.
They draw
Enter ANTONIO

Put up your sword. If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me:
If you offend him, I for him defy you.

You, sir! why, what are you?

One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
They draw
Enter Officers

O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers.

I'll be with you anon.

Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promised you,
I'll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily
and reins well.

This is the man; do thy office.

Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino.

You do mistake me, sir.

No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.
Take him away: he knows I know him well.

I must obey.
To VIOLA
This comes with seeking you:
But there's no remedy; I shall answer it.
What will you do, now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;
But be of comfort.

Come, sir, away.

I must entreat of you some of that money.

What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have show'd me here,
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something: my having is not much;
I'll make division of my present with you:
Hold, there's half my coffer.

Will you deny me now?
Is't possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.

I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice or any feature:
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.

O heavens themselves!

Come, sir, I pray you, go.

Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death,
Relieved him with such sanctity of love,
And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

What's that to us? The time goes by: away!

But O how vile an idol proves this god
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there's no blemish but the mind;
None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind:
Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil
Are empty trunks o'erflourish'd by the devil.

The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.

Lead me on.
Exit with Officers

Methinks his words do from such passion fly,
That he believes himself: so do not I.
Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!

Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian: we'll
whisper o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

He named Sebastian: I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such and so
In favour was my brother, and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate: O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love.
Exit

A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than
a hare: his dishonesty appears in leaving his
friend here in necessity and denying him; and for
his cowardship, ask Fabian.

A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.

Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

An I do not,--

Come, let's see the event.

I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.
Exeunt

Enter MARIA and Clown

Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard;
make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate: do
it quickly; I'll call Sir Toby the whilst.
Exit

Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself
in't; and I would I were the first that ever
dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to
become the function well, nor lean enough to be
thought a good student; but to be said an honest man
and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a
careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.
Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA

Jove bless thee, master Parson.

Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit of
Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily
said to a niece of King Gorboduc, 'That that is is;'
so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for,
what is 'that' but 'that,' and 'is' but 'is'?

To him, Sir Topas.

What, ho, I say! peace in this prison!

The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.

[Within] Who calls there?

Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio
the lunatic.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man!
talkest thou nothing but of ladies?

Well said, Master Parson.

Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged: good Sir
Topas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me
here in hideous darkness.

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most
modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones
that will use the devil himself with courtesy:
sayest thou that house is dark?

As hell, Sir Topas.

Why it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes,
and the clearstores toward the south north are as
lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of
obstruction?

I am not mad, Sir Topas: I say to you, this house is dark.

Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness
but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than
the Egyptians in their fog.

I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though
ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there
was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you
are: make the trial of it in any constant question.

What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?

That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

What thinkest thou of his opinion?

I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness:
thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will
allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest
thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

My most exquisite Sir Topas!

Nay, I am for all waters.

Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and
gown: he sees thee not.

To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how
thou findest him: I would we were well rid of this
knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I
would he were, for I am now so far in offence with
my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this
sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.
Exeunt SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA

[Singing]
'Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.'

Fool!

'My lady is unkind, perdy.'

Fool!

'Alas, why is she so?'

Fool, I say!

'She loves another'--Who calls, ha?

Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my
hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink and paper:
as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to
thee for't.

Master Malvolio?

Ay, good fool.

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused: I
am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.

But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no
better in your wits than a fool.

They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness,
send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to
face me out of my wits.

Advise you what you say; the minister is here.
Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore!
endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain
bibble babble.

Sir Topas!

Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I,
sir? not I, sir. God be wi' you, good Sir Topas.
Merry, amen. I will, sir, I will.

Fool, fool, fool, I say!

Alas, sir, be patient. What say you sir? I am
shent for speaking to you.

Good fool, help me to some light and some paper: I
tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

Well-a-day that you were, sir

By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper and
light; and convey what I will set down to my lady:
it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing
of letter did.

I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you
not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.

Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his
brains. I will fetch you light and paper and ink.

Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I
prithee, be gone.

[Singing]
I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I'll be with you again,
In a trice,
Like to the old Vice,
Your need to sustain;
Who, with dagger of lath,
In his rage and his wrath,
Cries, ah, ha! to the devil:
Like a mad lad,
Pare thy nails, dad;
Adieu, good man devil.
Exit

Enter SEBASTIAN

This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't;
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant:
Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service;
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
And wrangle with my reason that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad
Or else the lady's mad; yet, if 'twere so,
She could not sway her house, command her followers,
Take and give back affairs and their dispatch
With such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing
As I perceive she does: there's something in't
That is deceiveable. But here the lady comes.
Enter OLIVIA and Priest

Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by: there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth. What do you say?

I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine,
That they may fairly note this act of mine!
Exeunt

Enter Clown and FABIAN

Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

Any thing.

Do not desire to see this letter.

This is, to give a dog, and in recompense desire my
dog again.
Enter DUKE ORSINO, VIOLA, CURIO, and Lords

Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.

I know thee well; how dost thou, my good fellow?

Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse
for my friends.

Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

No, sir, the worse.

How can that be?

Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me;
now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by
my foes, sir I profit in the knowledge of myself,
and by my friends, I am abused: so that,
conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives
make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for
my friends and the better for my foes.

Why, this is excellent.

By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be
one of my friends.

Thou shalt not be the worse for me: there's gold.

But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would
you could make it another.

O, you give me ill counsel.

Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once,
and let your flesh and blood obey it.

Well, I will be so much a sinner, to be a
double-dealer: there's another.

Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old
saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex,
sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of
Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.

You can fool no more money out of me at this throw:
if you will let your lady know I am here to speak
with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake
my bounty further.

Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come
again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think
that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness:
but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I
will awake it anon.
Exit

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
Enter ANTONIO and Officers

That face of his I do remember well;
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war:
A bawbling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable;
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet,
That very envy and the tongue of loss
Cried fame and honour on him. What's the matter?

Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy;
And this is he that did the Tiger board,
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg:
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.

He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side;
But in conclusion put strange speech upon me:
I know not what 'twas but distraction.

Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies?

Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me:
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,
Though I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there by your side,
From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was:
His life I gave him and did thereto add
My love, without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication; for his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him when he was beset:
Where being apprehended, his false cunning,
Not meaning to partake with me in danger,
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
And grew a twenty years removed thing
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,
Which I had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.

How can this be?

When came he to this town?

To-day, my lord; and for three months before,
No interim, not a minute's vacancy,
Both day and night did we keep company.
Enter OLIVIA and Attendants

Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth.
But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness:
Three months this youth hath tended upon me;
But more of that anon. Take him aside.

What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

Madam!

Gracious Olivia,--

What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,--

My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.

Still so cruel?

Still so constant, lord.

What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out
That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?

Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.

Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love?--a savage jealousy
That sometimes savours nobly. But hear me this:
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still;
But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,
Where he sits crowned in his master's spite.
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:
I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven's heart within a dove.

And I, most jocund, apt and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.

Where goes Cesario?

After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above
Punish my life for tainting of my love!

Ay me, detested! how am I beguiled!

Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong?

Hast thou forgot thyself? is it so long?
Call forth the holy father.

Come, away!

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

Husband!

Ay, husband: can he that deny?

Her husband, sirrah!

No, my lord, not I.

Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear
That makes thee strangle thy propriety:
Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up;
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear'st.
Enter Priest
O, welcome, father!
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,
Here to unfold, though lately we intended
To keep in darkness what occasion now
Reveals before 'tis ripe, what thou dost know
Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me.

A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony:
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave
I have travell'd but two hours.

O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow,
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

My lord, I do protest--

O, do not swear!
Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.
Enter SIR ANDREW

For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently
to Sir Toby.

What's the matter?

He has broke my head across and has given Sir Toby
a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of God, your
help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.

Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

The count's gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for
a coward, but he's the very devil incardinate.

My gentleman, Cesario?

'Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for
nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do't
by Sir Toby.

Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:
You drew your sword upon me without cause;
But I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.

If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: I
think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb.
Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and Clown
Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more:
but if he had not been in drink, he would have
tickled you othergates than he did.

How now, gentleman! how is't with you?

That's all one: has hurt me, and there's the end
on't. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot?

O, he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes
were set at eight i' the morning.

Then he's a rogue, and a passy measures panyn: I
hate a drunken rogue.

Away with him! Who hath made this havoc with them?

I'll help you, Sir Toby, because well be dressed together.

Will you help? an ass-head and a coxcomb and a
knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull!

Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to.
Exeunt Clown, FABIAN, SIR TOBY BELCH, and SIR ANDREW
Enter SEBASTIAN

I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman:
But, had it been the brother of my blood,
I must have done no less with wit and safety.
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you:
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons,
A natural perspective, that is and is not!

Antonio, O my dear Antonio!
How have the hours rack'd and tortured me,
Since I have lost thee!

Sebastian are you?

Fear'st thou that, Antonio?

How have you made division of yourself?
An apple, cleft in two, is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Most wonderful!

Do I stand there? I never had a brother;
Nor can there be that deity in my nature,
Of here and every where. I had a sister,
Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd.
Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What countryman? what name? what parentage?

Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;
Such a Sebastian was my brother too,
So went he suited to his watery tomb:
If spirits can assume both form and suit
You come to fright us.

A spirit I am indeed;
But am in that dimension grossly clad
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,
And say 'Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!'

My father had a mole upon his brow.

And so had mine.

And died that day when Viola from her birth
Had number'd thirteen years.

O, that record is lively in my soul!
He finished indeed his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years.

If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurp'd attire,
Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola: which to confirm,
I'll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserved to serve this noble count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.

[To OLIVIA] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook:
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid;
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived,
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.

Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck.
To VIOLA
Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

And all those sayings will I overswear;
And those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbed continent the fire
That severs day from night.

Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.

The captain that did bring me first on shore
Hath my maid's garments: he upon some action
Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit,
A gentleman, and follower of my lady's.

He shall enlarge him: fetch Malvolio hither:
And yet, alas, now I remember me,
They say, poor gentleman, he's much distract.
Re-enter Clown with a letter, and FABIAN
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banish'd his.
How does he, sirrah?

Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the staves's end as
well as a man in his case may do: has here writ a
letter to you; I should have given't you to-day
morning, but as a madman's epistles are no gospels,
so it skills not much when they are delivered.

Open't, and read it.

Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers
the madman.
Reads
'By the Lord, madam,'--

How now! art thou mad?

No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship
will have it as it ought to be, you must allow Vox.

Prithee, read i' thy right wits.

So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to
read thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.

Read it you, sirrah.
To FABIAN

[Reads] 'By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the
world shall know it: though you have put me into
darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over
me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as
your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced
me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt
not but to do myself much right, or you much shame.
Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little
unthought of and speak out of my injury.
THE MADLY-USED MALVOLIO.'

Did he write this?

Ay, madam.

This savours not much of distraction.

See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him hither.
Exit FABIAN
My lord so please you, these things further
thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you,
Here at my house and at my proper cost.

Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer.
To VIOLA
Your master quits you; and for your service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you call'd me master for so long,
Here is my hand: you shall from this time be
Your master's mistress.

A sister! you are she.
Re-enter FABIAN, with MALVOLIO

Is this the madman?

Ay, my lord, this same.
How now, Malvolio!

Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.

Have I, Malvolio? no.

Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand:
Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase;
Or say 'tis not your seal, nor your invention:
You can say none of this: well, grant it then
And tell me, in the modesty of honour,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you,
To put on yellow stockings and to frown
Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people;
And, acting this in an obedient hope,
Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gull
That e'er invention play'd on? tell me why.

Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,
Though, I confess, much like the character
But out of question 'tis Maria's hand.
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me thou wast mad; then camest in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presupposed
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be *******:
This practise hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee;
But when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.

Good madam, hear me speak,
And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come
Taint the condition of this present hour,
Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it shall not,
Most freely I confess, myself and Toby
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceived against him: Maria writ
The letter at Sir Toby's great importance;
In recompense whereof he hath married her.
How with a sportful malice it was follow'd,
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge;
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd
That have on both sides pass'd.

Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

Why, 'some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrown upon them.' I was
one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir Topas, sir; but
that's all one. 'By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.'
But do you remember? 'Madam, why laugh you at such
a barren rascal? an you smile not, he's gagged:'
and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you.
Exit

He hath been most notoriously abused.

Pursue him and entreat him to a peace:
He hath not told us of the captain yet:
When that is known and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;
For so you shall be, while you are a man;
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.
Exeunt all, except Clown

[Sings]
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, & c.
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain, & c.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, & c.
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain, & c.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, & c.
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain, & c.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, & c.
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.
Exit

Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
Were't not affection chains thy tender days
To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,
I rather would entreat thy company
To see the wonders of the world abroad,
Than, living dully sluggardized at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
But since thou lovest, love still and thrive therein,
Even as I would when I to love begin.

Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu!
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel:
Wish me partaker in thy happiness
When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee,
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

And on a love-book pray for my success?

Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.

That's on some shallow story of deep love:
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.

That's a deep story of a deeper love:
For he was more than over shoes in love.

'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.

No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

What?

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans;
Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;
If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
However, but a folly bought with wit,
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.

'Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love.

Love is your master, for he masters you:
And he that is so yoked by a fool,
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

And writers say, as the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee,
That art a votary to fond desire?
Once more adieu! my father at the road
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.

And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.
To Milan let me hear from thee by letters
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
And likewise will visit thee with mine.

All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!

As much to you at home! and so, farewell.
Exit

He after honour hunts, I after love:
He leaves his friends to dignify them more,
I leave myself, my friends and all, for love.
Thou, Julia, thou hast ****morphosed me,
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought;
Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.
Enter SPEED

Sir Proteus, save you! Saw you my master?

But now he parted hence, to embark for Milan.

Twenty to one then he is shipp'd already,
And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.

Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,
An if the shepherd be a while away.

You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then,
and I a sheep?

I do.

Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep.

A silly answer and fitting well a sheep.

This proves me still a sheep.

True; and thy master a shepherd.

Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.

It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another.

The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the
shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks
not me: therefore I am no sheep.

The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the
shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for
wages followest thy master; thy master for wages
follows not thee: therefore thou art a sheep.

Such another proof will make me cry 'baa.'

But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia?

Ay sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her,
a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a
lost mutton, nothing for my labour.

Here's too small a pasture for such store of muttons.

If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her.

Nay: in that you are astray, 'twere best pound you.

Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for
carrying your letter.

You mistake; I mean the pound,--a pinfold.

From a pound to a pin? fold it over and over,
'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to
your lover.

But what said she?

[First nodding] Ay.

Nod--Ay--why, that's noddy.

You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and you ask
me if she did nod; and I say, 'Ay.'

And that set together is noddy.

Now you have taken the pains to set it together,
take it for your pains.

No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.

Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.

Why sir, how do you bear with me?

Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing
but the word 'noddy' for my pains.

Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

Come come, open the matter in brief: what said she?

Open your purse, that the money and the matter may
be both at once delivered.

Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?

Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.

Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?

Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no,
not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter:
and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I
fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your
mind. Give her no token but stones; for she's as
hard as steel.

What said she? nothing?

No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To
testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned
me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your
letters yourself: and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master.

Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck,
Which cannot perish having thee aboard,
Being destined to a drier death on shore.
Exit SPEED
I must go send some better messenger:
I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,
Receiving them from such a worthless post.
Exit

Enter JULlA and LUCETTA

But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully.

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen
That every day with parle encounter me,
In thy opinion which is worthiest love?

Please you repeat their names, I'll show my mind
According to my shallow simple skill.

What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine;
But, were I you, he never should be mine.

What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?

Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so.

What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus?

Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!

How now! what means this passion at his name?

Pardon, dear madam: 'tis a passing shame
That I, unworthy body as I am,
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.

Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?

Then thus: of many good I think him best.

Your reason?

I have no other, but a woman's reason;
I think him so because I think him so.

And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?

Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.

Why he, of all the rest, hath never moved me.

Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.

His little speaking shows his love but small.

Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.

They do not love that do not show their love.

O, they love least that let men know their love.

I would I knew his mind.

Peruse this paper, madam.

'To Julia.' Say, from whom?

That the *******s will show.

Say, say, who gave it thee?

Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from Proteus.
He would have given it you; but I, being in the way,
Did in your name receive it: pardon the
fault I pray.

Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines?
To whisper and conspire against my youth?
Now, trust me, 'tis an office of great worth
And you an officer fit for the place.
Or else return no more into my sight.

To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

Will ye be gone?

That you may ruminate.
Exit

And yet I would I had o'erlooked the letter:
It were a shame to call her back again
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.
What a fool is she, that knows I am a maid,
And would not force the letter to my view!
Since maids, in modesty, say 'no' to that
Which they would have the profferer construe 'ay.'
Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse
And presently all humbled kiss the rod!
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,
When willingly I would have had her here!
How angerly I taught my brow to frown,
When inward joy enforced my heart to smile!
My penance is to call Lucetta back
And ask remission for my folly past.
What ho! Lucetta!
Re-enter LUCETTA

What would your ladyship?

Is't near dinner-time?

I would it were,
That you might kill your stomach on your meat
And not upon your maid.

What is't that you took up so gingerly?

Nothing.

Why didst thou stoop, then?

To take a paper up that I let fall.

And is that paper nothing?

Nothing concerning me.

Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

Madam, it will not lie where it concerns
Unless it have a false interpeter.

Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.

That I might sing it, madam, to a tune.
Give me a note: your ladyship can set.

As little by such toys as may be possible.
Best sing it to the tune of 'Light o' love.'

It is too heavy for so light a tune.

Heavy! belike it hath some burden then?

Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it.

And why not you?

I cannot reach so high.

Let's see your song. How now, minion!

Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:
And yet methinks I do not like this tune.

You do not?

No, madam; it is too sharp.

You, minion, are too saucy.

Nay, now you are too flat
And mar the concord with too harsh a descant:
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

The mean is drown'd with your unruly bass.

Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation!
Tears the letter
Go get you gone, and let the papers lie:
You would be fingering them, to anger me.

She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased
To be so anger'd with another letter.
Exit

Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same!
O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey
And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!
I'll kiss each several paper for amends.
Look, here is writ 'kind Julia.' Unkind Julia!
As in revenge of thy ingratitude,
I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.
And here is writ 'love-wounded Proteus.'
Poor wounded name! my bosom as a bed
Shall lodge thee till thy wound be thoroughly heal'd;
And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
Till I have found each letter in the letter,
Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
And throw it thence into the raging sea!
Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
And yet I will not, sith so prettily
He couples it to his complaining names.
Thus will I fold them one on another:
Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
Re-enter LUCETTA

Madam,
Dinner is ready, and your father stays.

Well, let us go.

What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?

If you respect them, best to take them up.

Nay, I was taken up for laying them down:
Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

I see you have a month's mind to them.

Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;
I see things too, although you judge I wink.

Come, come; will't please you go?
Exeunt

Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO

Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that
Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

Why, what of him?

He wonder'd that your lordship
Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,
While other men, of slender reputation,
Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:
Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;
Some to discover islands far away;
Some to the studious universities.
For any or for all these exercises,
He said that Proteus your son was meet,
And did request me to importune you
To let him spend his time no more at home,
Which would be great impeachment to his age,
In having known no travel in his youth.

Nor need'st thou much importune me to that
Whereon this month I have been hammering.
I have consider'd well his loss of time
And how he cannot be a perfect man,
Not being tried and tutor'd in the world:
Experience is by industry achieved
And perfected by the swift course of time.
Then tell me, whither were I best to send him?

I think your lordship is not ignorant
How his companion, youthful Valentine,
Attends the emperor in his royal court.

I know it well.

'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:
There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen.
And be in eye of every exercise
Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised:
And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,
The execution of it shall make known.
Even with the speediest expedition
I will dispatch him to the emperor's court.

To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,
With other gentlemen of good esteem,
Are journeying to salute the emperor
And to commend their service to his will.

Good company; with them shall Proteus go:
And, in good time! now will we break with him.
Enter PROTEUS

Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;
Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.
O, that our fathers would applaud our loves,
To seal our happiness with their consents!
O heavenly Julia!

How now! what letter are you reading there?

May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two
Of commendations sent from Valentine,
Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.

Lend me the letter; let me see what news.

There is no news, my lord, but that he writes
How happily he lives, how well beloved
And daily graced by the emperor;
Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.

And how stand you affected to his wish?

As one relying on your lordship's will
And not depending on his friendly wish.

My will is something sorted with his wish.
Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed;
For what I will, I will, and there an end.
I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time
With Valentinus in the emperor's court:
What maintenance he from his friends receives,
Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.
To-morrow be in readiness to go:
Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.

My lord, I cannot be so soon provided:
Please you, deliberate a day or two.

Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee:
No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go.
Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd
To hasten on his expedition.
Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO

Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,
And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.
I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,
Lest he should take exceptions to my love;
And with the vantage of mine own excuse
Hath he excepted most against my love.
O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!
Re-enter PANTHINO

Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:
He is in haste; therefore, I pray you to go.

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,
And yet a thousand times it answers 'no.'
Exeunt

Enter VALENTINE and SPEED

Sir, your glove.

Not mine; my gloves are on.

Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one.

Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine:
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!
Ah, Silvia, Silvia!

Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!

How now, sirrah?

She is not within hearing, sir.

Why, sir, who bade you call her?

Your worship, sir; or else I mistook.

Well, you'll still be too forward.

And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.

Go to, sir: tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?

She that your worship loves?

Why, how know you that I am in love?

Marry, by these special marks: first, you have
learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms,
like a male*******; to relish a love-song, like a
robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had
the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had
lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had
buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes
diet; to watch like one that fears robbing; to
speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were
wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you
walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you
fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you
looked sadly, it was for want of money: and now you
are ****morphosed with a mistress, that, when I look
on you, I can hardly think you my master.

Are all these things perceived in me?

They are all perceived without ye.

Without me? they cannot.

Without you? nay, that's certain, for, without you
were so simple, none else would: but you are so
without these follies, that these follies are within
you and shine through you like the water in an
urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a
physician to comment on your malady.

But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?

She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?

Hast thou observed that? even she, I mean.

Why, sir, I know her not.

Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet
knowest her not?

Is she not hard-favoured, sir?

Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.

Sir, I know that well enough.

What dost thou know?

That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favoured.

I mean that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour infinite.

That's because the one is painted and the other out
of all count.

How painted? and how out of count?

Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no
man counts of her beauty.

How esteemest thou me? I account of her beauty.

You never saw her since she was deformed.

How long hath she been deformed?

Ever since you loved her.

I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I
see her beautiful.

If you love her, you cannot see her.

Why?

Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes;
or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to
have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going
ungartered!

What should I see then?

Your own present folly and her passing deformity:
for he, being in love, could not see to garter his
hose, and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.

Belike, boy, then, you are in love; for last
morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

True, sir; I was in love with my bed: I thank you,
you swinged me for my love, which makes me the
bolder to chide you for yours.

In conclusion, I stand affected to her.

I would you were set, so your affection would cease.

Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to
one she loves.

And have you?

I have.

Are they not lamely writ?

No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace!
here she comes.

[Aside] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!
Now will he interpret to her.
Enter SILVIA

Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows.

[Aside] O, give ye good even! here's a million of manners.

Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.

[Aside] He should give her interest and she gives it him.

As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;
Which I was much unwilling to proceed in
But for my duty to your ladyship.

I thank you gentle servant: 'tis very clerkly done.

Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;
For being ignorant to whom it goes
I writ at random, very doubtfully.

Perchance you think too much of so much pains?

No, madam; so it stead you, I will write
Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet--

A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;
And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not;
And yet take this again; and yet I thank you,
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.

[Aside] And yet you will; and yet another 'yet.'

What means your ladyship? do you not like it?

Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;
But since unwillingly, take them again.
Nay, take them.

Madam, they are for you.

Ay, ay: you writ them, sir, at my request;
But I will none of them; they are for you;
I would have had them writ more movingly.

Please you, I'll write your ladyship another.

And when it's writ, for my sake read it over,
And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.

If it please me, madam, what then?

Why, if it please you, take it for your labour:
And so, good morrow, servant.
Exit

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple!
My master sues to her, and she hath
taught her suitor,
He being her pupil, to become her tutor.
O excellent device! was there ever heard a better,
That my master, being scribe, to himself should write
the letter?

How now, sir? what are you reasoning with yourself?

Nay, I was rhyming: 'tis you that have the reason.

To do what?

To be a spokesman for Madam Silvia.

To whom?

To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure.

What figure?

By a letter, I should say.

Why, she hath not writ to me?

What need she, when she hath made you write to
yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

No, believe me.

No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you perceive
her earnest?

She gave me none, except an angry word.

Why, she hath given you a letter.

That's the letter I writ to her friend.

And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.

I would it were no worse.

I'll warrant you, 'tis as well:
For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty,
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply;
Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover,
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover.
All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.
Why muse you, sir? 'tis dinner-time.

I have dined.

Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can
feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my
victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like
your mistress; be moved, be moved.
Exeunt

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA

Have patience, gentle Julia.

I must, where is no remedy.

When possibly I can, I will return.

If you turn not, you will return the sooner.
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake.
Giving a ring

Why then, we'll make exchange; here, take you this.

And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Here is my hand for my true constancy;
And when that hour o'erslips me in the day
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
Torment me for my love's forgetfulness!
My father stays my coming; answer not;
The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears;
That tide will stay me longer than I should.
Julia, farewell!
Exit JULIA
What, gone without a word?
Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
Enter PANTHINO

Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.

Go; I come, I come.
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.
Exeunt

Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog

Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping;
all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I
have received my proportion, like the prodigious
son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's
court. I think Crab, my dog, be the sourest-natured
dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father
wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat
wringing her hands, and all our house in a great
perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed
one tear: he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and
has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have
wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam,
having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my
parting. Nay, I'll show you the manner of it. This
shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father:
no, no, this left shoe is my mother: nay, that
cannot be so neither: yes, it is so, it is so, it
hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in
it, is my mother, and this my father; a vengeance
on't! there 'tis: now, sit, this staff is my
sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and
as small as a wand: this hat is Nan, our maid: I
am the dog: no, the dog is himself, and I am the
dog--Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so,
so. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing:
now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping:
now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now
come I to my mother: O, that she could speak now
like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there
'tis; here's my mother's breath up and down. Now
come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now
the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a
word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.
Enter PANTHINO

Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped
and thou art to post after with oars. What's the
matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! You'll
lose the tide, if you tarry any longer.

It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the
unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

What's the unkindest tide?

Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog.

Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood, and, in
losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing
thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy
master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy
service,--Why dost thou stop my mouth?

For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

Where should I lose my tongue?

In thy tale.

In thy tail!

Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and
the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river
were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the
wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.

Sir, call me what thou darest.

Wilt thou go?

Well, I will go.
Exeunt

Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED

Servant!

Mistress?

Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

Ay, boy, it's for love.

Not of you.

Of my mistress, then.

'Twere good you knocked him.
Exit

Servant, you are sad.

Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Seem you that you are not?

Haply I do.

So do counterfeits.

So do you.

What seem I that I am not?

Wise.

What instance of the contrary?

Your folly.

And how quote you my folly?

I quote it in your jerkin.

My jerkin is a doublet.

Well, then, I'll double your folly.

How?

What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?

Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.

That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live
in your air.

You have said, sir.

Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.

A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.

Who is that, servant?

Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir
Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks,
and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall
make your wit bankrupt.

I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words,
and, I think, no other treasure to give your
followers, for it appears by their bare liveries,
that they live by your bare words.

No more, gentlemen, no more:--here comes my father.
Enter DUKE

Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.
Sir Valentine, your father's in good health:
What say you to a letter from your friends
Of much good news?

My lord, I will be thankful.
To any happy messenger from thence.

Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman?

Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman
To be of worth and worthy estimation
And not without desert so well reputed.

Hath he not a son?

Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves
The honour and regard of such a father.

You know him well?

I know him as myself; for from our infancy
We have conversed and spent our hours together:
And though myself have been an idle truant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time
To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,
Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that's his name,
Made use and fair advantage of his days;
His years but young, but his experience old;
His head unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe;
And, in a word, for far behind his worth
Comes all the praises that I now bestow,
He is complete in feature and in mind
With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,
He is as worthy for an empress' love
As meet to be an emperor's counsellor.
Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me,
With commendation from great potentates;
And here he means to spend his time awhile:
I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.

Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.

Welcome him then according to his worth.
Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio;
For Valentine, I need not cite him to it:
I will send him hither to you presently.
Exit

This is the gentleman I told your ladyship
Had come along with me, but that his mistress
Did hold his eyes lock'd in her crystal looks.

Belike that now she hath enfranchised them
Upon some other pawn for fealty.

Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.

Nay, then he should be blind; and, being blind
How could he see his way to seek out you?

Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.

They say that Love hath not an eye at all.

To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself:
Upon a homely object Love can wink.

Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman.
Exit THURIO
Enter PROTEUS

Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you,
Confirm his welcome with some special favour.

His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,
If this be he you oft have wish'd to hear from.

Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant
To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

Leave off discourse of disability:
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

My duty will I boast of; nothing else.

And duty never yet did want his meed:
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

I'll die on him that says so but yourself.

That you are welcome?

That you are worthless.
Re-enter THURIO

Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,
Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome:
I'll leave you to confer of home affairs;
When you have done, we look to hear from you.

We'll both attend upon your ladyship.
Exeunt SILVIA and THURIO

Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?

Your friends are well and have them much commended.

And how do yours?

I left them all in health.

How does your lady? and how thrives your love?

My tales of love were wont to weary you;
I know you joy not in a love discourse.

Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now:
I have done penance for contemning Love,
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;
For in revenge of my contempt of love,
Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes
And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow.
O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord,
And hath so humbled me, as, I confess,
There is no woe to his correction,
Nor to his service no such joy on earth.
Now no discourse, except it be of love;
Now can I break my fast, dine, sup and sleep,
Upon the very naked name of love.

Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.
Was this the idol that you worship so?

Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint?

No; but she is an earthly paragon.

Call her divine.

I will not flatter her.

O, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills,
And I must minister the like to you.

Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,
Yet let her be a principality,
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

Except my mistress.

Sweet, except not any;
Except thou wilt except against my love.

Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

And I will help thee to prefer her too:
She shall be dignified with this high honour--
To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss
And, of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower
And make rough winter everlastingly.

Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing
To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing;
She is alone.

Then let her alone.

Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,
And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.
Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,
Because thou see'st me dote upon my love.
My foolish rival, that her father likes
Only for his possessions are so huge,
Is gone with her along, and I must after,
For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.

But she loves you?

Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our,
marriage-hour,
With all the cunning manner of our flight,
Determined of; how I must climb her window,
The ladder made of cords, and all the means
Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Go on before; I shall inquire you forth:
I must unto the road, to disembark
Some necessaries that I needs must use,
And then I'll presently attend you.

Will you make haste?

I will.
Exit VALENTINE
Even as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
Is it mine, or Valentine's praise,
Her true perfection, or my false transgression,
That makes me reasonless to reason thus?
She is fair; and so is Julia that I love--
That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd;
Which, like a waxen image, 'gainst a fire,
Bears no impression of the thing it was.
Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,
And that I love him not as I was wont.
O, but I love his lady too too much,
And that's the reason I love him so little.
How shall I dote on her with more advice,
That thus without advice begin to love her!
'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,
And that hath dazzled my reason's light;
But when I look on her perfections,
There is no reason but I shall be blind.
If I can cheque my erring love, I will;
If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.
Exit

Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally

Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan!

Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not
welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never
undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a
place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess
say 'Welcome!'

Come on, you madcap, I'll to the alehouse with you
presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou
shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how
did thy master part with Madam Julia?

Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very
fairly in jest.

But shall she marry him?

No.

How then? shall he marry her?

No, neither.

What, are they broken?

No, they are both as whole as a fish.

Why, then, how stands the matter with them?

Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it
stands well with her.

What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My
staff understands me.

What thou sayest?

Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but lean,
and my staff understands me.

It stands under thee, indeed.

Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.

But tell me true, will't be a match?

Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will! if he say no,
it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

The conclusion is then that it will.

Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable.

'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest
thou, that my master is become a notable lover?

I never knew him otherwise.

Than how?

A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me.

Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master.

I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.

Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself
in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse;
if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the
name of a Christian.

Why?

Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to
go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

At thy service.
Exeunt

Enter PROTEUS

To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;
And even that power which gave me first my oath
Provokes me to this threefold perjury;
Love bade me swear and Love bids me forswear.
O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned,
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it!
At first I did adore a twinkling star,
But now I worship a celestial sun.
Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken,
And he wants wit that wants resolved will
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;
But there I leave to love where I should love.
Julia I lose and Valentine I lose:
If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;
If I lose them, thus find I by their loss
For Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia.
I to myself am dearer than a friend,
For love is still most precious in itself;
And Silvia--witness Heaven, that made her fair!--
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.
I will forget that Julia is alive,
Remembering that my love to her is dead;
And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend.
I cannot now prove constant to myself,
Without some treachery used to Valentine.
This night he meaneth with a corded ladder
To climb celestial Silvia's chamber-window,
Myself in counsel, his competitor.
Now presently I'll give her father notice
Of their disguising and pretended flight;
Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine;
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter;
But, Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross
By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.
Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift!
Exit

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA

Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;
And even in kind love I do conjure thee,
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts
Are visibly character'd and engraved,
To lesson me and tell me some good mean
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.

Alas, the way is wearisome and long!

A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.

Better forbear till Proteus make return.

O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?
Pity the dearth that I have pined in,
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.

I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,
But qualify the fire's extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.

The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns.
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamell'ed stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage,
And so by many winding nooks he strays
With willing sport to the wild ocean.
Then let me go and hinder not my course
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

But in what habit will you go along?

Not like a woman; for I would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men:
Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.

Why, then, your ladyship must cut your hair.

No, girl, I'll knit it up in silken strings
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots.
To be fantastic may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.

What fashion, madam shall I make your breeches?

That fits as well as 'Tell me, good my lord,
What compass will you wear your farthingale?'
Why even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta.

You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.

Out, out, Lucetta! that would be ill-favour'd.

A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,
Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.

Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have
What thou thinkest meet and is most mannerly.
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
For undertaking so unstaid a journey?
I fear me, it will make me scandalized.

If you think so, then stay at home and go not.

Nay, that I will not.

Then never dream on infamy, but go.
If Proteus like your journey when you come,
No matter who's displeased when you are gone:
I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal.

That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear:
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears
And instances of infinite of love
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

All these are servants to deceitful men.

Base men, that use them to so base effect!
But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.

Pray heaven he prove so, when you come to him!

Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong
To bear a hard opinion of his truth:
Only deserve my love by loving him;
And presently go with me to my chamber,
To take a note of what I stand in need of,
To furnish me upon my longing journey.
All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,
My goods, my lands, my reputation;
Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.
Come, answer not, but to it presently!
I am impatient of my tarriance.
Exeunt

Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS

Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;
We have some secrets to confer about.
Exit THURIO
Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?

My gracious lord, that which I would discover
The law of friendship bids me to conceal;
But when I call to mind your gracious favours
Done to me, undeserving as I am,
My duty pricks me on to utter that
Which else no worldly good should draw from me.
Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,
This night intends to steal away your daughter:
Myself am one made privy to the plot.
I know you have determined to bestow her
On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates;
And should she thus be stol'n away from you,
It would be much vexation to your age.
Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose
To cross my friend in his intended drift
Than, by concealing it, heap on your head
A pack of sorrows which would press you down,
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.

Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care;
Which to requite, command me while I live.
This love of theirs myself have often seen,
Haply when they have judged me fast asleep,
And oftentimes have purposed to forbid
Sir Valentine her company and my court:
But fearing lest my jealous aim might err
And so unworthily disgrace the man,
A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd,
I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find
That which thyself hast now disclosed to me.
And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,
I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,
The key whereof myself have ever kept;
And thence she cannot be convey'd away.

Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean
How he her chamber-window will ascend
And with a corded ladder fetch her down;
For which the youthful lover now is gone
And this way comes he with it presently;
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.
But, good my Lord, do it so cunningly
That my discovery be not aimed at;
For love of you, not hate unto my friend,
Hath made me publisher of this pretence.

Upon mine honour, he shall never know
That I had any light from thee of this.

Adieu, my Lord; Sir Valentine is coming.
Exit
Enter VALENTINE

Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Please it your grace, there is a messenger
That stays to bear my letters to my friends,
And I am going to deliver them.

Be they of much import?

The tenor of them doth but signify
My health and happy being at your court.

Nay then, no matter; stay with me awhile;
I am to break with thee of some affairs
That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.
'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought
To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.

I know it well, my Lord; and, sure, the match
Were rich and honourable; besides, the gentleman
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth and qualities
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter:
Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?

No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward,
Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty,
Neither regarding that she is my child
Nor fearing me as if I were her father;
And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers,
Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her;
And, where I thought the remnant of mine age
Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty,
I now am full resolved to take a wife
And turn her out to who will take her in:
Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower;
For me and my possessions she esteems not.

What would your Grace have me to do in this?

There is a lady in Verona here
Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy
And nought esteems my aged eloquence:
Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor--
For long agone I have forgot to court;
Besides, the fashion of the time is changed--
How and which way I may bestow myself
To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

Win her with gifts, if she respect not words:
Dumb jewels often in their silent kind
More than quick words do move a woman's mind.

But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

A woman sometimes scorns what best *******s her.
Send her another; never give her o'er;
For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,
But rather to beget more love in you:
If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;
For why, the fools are mad, if left alone.
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;
For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away!'
Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;
Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

But she I mean is promised by her friends
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,
And kept severely from resort of men,
That no man hath access by day to her.

Why, then, I would resort to her by night.

Ay, but the doors be lock'd and keys kept safe,
That no man hath recourse to her by night.

What lets but one may enter at her window?

Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,
And built so ****ving that one cannot climb it
Without apparent hazard of his life.

Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,
To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,
Would serve to scale another Hero's tower,
So bold Leander would adventure it.

Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
Advise me where I may have such a ladder.

When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.

This very night; for Love is like a child,
That longs for every thing that he can come by.

By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder.

But, hark thee; I will go to her alone:
How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
Under a cloak that is of any length.

A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?

Ay, my good lord.

Then let me see thy cloak:
I'll get me one of such another length.

Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?
I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.
What letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'!
And here an engine fit for my proceeding.
I'll be so bold to break the seal for once.
Reads
'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,
And slaves they are to me that send them flying:
O, could their master come and go as lightly,
Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying!
My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them:
While I, their king, that hither them importune,
Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them,
Because myself do want my servants' fortune:
I curse myself, for they are sent by me,
That they should harbour where their lord would be.'
What's here?
'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.'
'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.
Why, Phaeton,--for thou art Merops' son,--
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?
Go, base intruder! overweening slave!
Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates,
And think my patience, more than thy desert,
Is privilege for thy departure hence:
Thank me for this more than for all the favours
Which all too much I have bestow'd on thee.
But if thou linger in my territories
Longer than swiftest expedition
Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love
I ever bore my daughter or thyself.
Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;
But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence.
Exit

And why not death rather than living torment?
To die is to be banish'd from myself;
And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her
Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by
And feed upon the shadow of perfection
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon;
She is my essence, and I leave to be,
If I be not by her fair influence
Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive.
I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:
Tarry I here, I but attend on death:
But, fly I hence, I fly away from life.
Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE

Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

Soho, soho!

What seest thou?

Him we go to find: there's not a hair on's head
but 'tis a Valentine.

Valentine?

No.

Who then? his spirit?

Neither.

What then?

Nothing.

Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

Who wouldst thou strike?

Nothing.

Villain, forbear.

Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,--

Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.

My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news,
So much of bad already hath possess'd them.

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,
For they are harsh, untuneable and bad.

Is Silvia dead?

No, Valentine.

No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia.
Hath she forsworn me?

No, Valentine.

No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.
What is your news?

Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

That thou art banished--O, that's the news!--
From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend.

O, I have fed upon this woe already,
And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd to the doom--
Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force--
A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears:
Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd;
With them, upon her knees, her humble self;
Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them
As if but now they waxed pale for woe:
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;
But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
Besides, her intercession chafed him so,
When she for thy repeal was suppliant,
That to close prison he commanded her,
With many bitter threats of biding there.

No more; unless the next word that thou speak'st
Have some malignant power upon my life:
If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear,
As ending anthem of my endless dolour.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,
And study help for that which thou lament'st.
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love;
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.
Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that
And manage it against despairing thoughts.
Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence;
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
The time now serves not to expostulate:
Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate;
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.
As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me!

I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,
Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.

O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!
Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS

I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to
think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's
all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now
that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a
team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who
'tis I love; and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman, I
will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet
'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis
a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for
wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel;
which is much in a bare Christian.
Pulling out a paper
Here is the cate-log of her condition.
'Imprimis: She can fetch and carry.' Why, a horse
can do no more: nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only
carry; therefore is she better than a jade. 'Item:
She can milk;' look you, a sweet virtue in a maid
with clean hands.
Enter SPEED

How now, Signior Launce! what news with your
mastership?

With my master's ship? why, it is at sea.

Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What
news, then, in your paper?

The blackest news that ever thou heardest.

Why, man, how black?

Why, as black as ink.

Let me read them.

Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read.

Thou liest; I can.

I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?

Marry, the son of my grandfather.

O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy
grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read.

Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.

There; and St. Nicholas be thy speed!

[Reads] 'Imprimis: She can milk.'

Ay, that she can.

'Item: She brews good ale.'

And thereof comes the proverb: 'Blessing of your
heart, you brew good ale.'

'Item: She can sew.'

That's as much as to say, Can she so?

'Item: She can knit.'

What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when
she can knit him a stock?

'Item: She can wash and scour.'

A special virtue: for then she need not be washed
and scoured.

'Item: She can spin.'

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can
spin for her living.

'Item: She hath many nameless virtues.'

That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; that,
indeed, know not their fathers and therefore have no names.

'Here follow her vices.'

Close at the heels of her virtues.

'Item: She is not to be kissed fasting in respect
of her breath.'

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on.

'Item: She hath a sweet mouth.'

That makes amends for her sour breath.

'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.'

It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.

'Item: She is slow in words.'

O villain, that set this down among her vices! To
be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray
thee, out with't, and place it for her chief virtue.

'Item: She is proud.'

Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot
be ta'en from her.

'Item: She hath no teeth.'

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

'Item: She is curst.'

Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

'Item: She will often praise her liquor.'

If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I
will; for good things should be praised.

'Item: She is too liberal.'

Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she
is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that
I'll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and
that cannot I help. Well, proceed.

'Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults
than hairs, and more wealth than faults.'

Stop there; I'll have her: she was mine, and not
mine, twice or thrice in that last article.
Rehearse that once more.

'Item: She hath more hair than wit,'--

More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it. The
cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it
is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit
is more than the wit, for the greater hides the
less. What's next?

'And more faults than hairs,'--

That's monstrous: O, that that were out!

'And more wealth than faults.'

Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well,
I'll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is
impossible,--

What then?

Why, then will I tell thee--that thy master stays
for thee at the North-gate.

For me?

For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a
better man than thee.

And must I go to him?

Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long
that going will scarce serve the turn.

Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your love letters!
Exit

Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an
unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into
secrets! I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction.
Exit

Enter certain Outlaws

Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.
Enter VALENTINE and SPEED

Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye:
If not: we'll make you sit and rifle you.

Sir, we are undone; these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.

My friends,--

That's not so, sir: we are your enemies.

Peace! we'll hear him.

Ay, by my beard, will we, for he's a proper man.

Then know that I have little wealth to lose:
A man I am cross'd with adversity;
My riches are these poor habiliments,
Of which if you should here disfurnish me,
You take the sum and substance that I have.

Whither travel you?

To Verona.

Whence came you?

From Milan.

Have you long sojourned there?

Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd,
If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

What, were you banish'd thence?

I was.

For what offence?

For that which now torments me to rehearse:
I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;
Bu t yet I slew him manfully in fight,
Without false vantage or base treachery.

Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so.
But were you banish'd for so small a fault?

I was, and held me glad of such a doom.

Have you the tongues?

My youthful travel therein made me happy,
Or else I often had been miserable.

By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,
This fellow were a king for our wild faction!

We'll have him. Sirs, a word.

Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery.

Peace, villain!

Tell us this: have you any thing to take to?

Nothing but my fortune.

Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,
Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth
Thrust from the company of awful men:
Myself was from Verona banished
For practising to steal away a lady,
An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

And I from Mantua, for a gentleman,
Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.

And I for such like petty crimes as these,
But to the purpose--for we cite our faults,
That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives;
And partly, seeing you are beautified
With goodly shape and by your own report
A linguist and a man of such perfection
As we do in our quality much want--

Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,
Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you:
Are you ******* to be our general?
To make a virtue of necessity
And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort?
Say ay, and be the captain of us all:
We'll do thee homage and be ruled by thee,
Love thee as our commander and our king.

But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.

Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd.

I take your offer and will live with you,
Provided that you do no outrages
On silly women or poor passengers.

No, we detest such vile base practises.
Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our crews,
And show thee all the treasure we have got,
Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.
Exeunt