Sir To. Then hadst thou an excellent head of hair. Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by nature. Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does't not? Sir To. Excellent: it hangs like flax on a distaff, and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. Sir And. 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me. The count himself, here hard by, woos her. Sir To. She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world: I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters: and yet I will not compare with an old man. Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper. Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't. Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria. [Dances fantastically. Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig: I would not so much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dun-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels? Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus? Sir And. Taurus? that's sides and heart. Sir To. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. [Sir AND. dances again.] Ha! higher: ha, ha!-excellent! [Exeunt. Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants. Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. Thou know'st no less but all: I have unclasp'd Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. Vio. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then? Dear lad, believe it, SCENE V.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House. Mar. Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang thee for thy absence. Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in Clo. He shall see none to fear. Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery. Clo. Well, God give them wisdom, that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents. Mar. 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? Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out. Mar. You are resolute, then? Clo. Not so neither; but I am resolved on two points. Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall. Clo. 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. Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely; you were best. [Exit. Enter OLIVIA, and MALVOLIO. Clo. Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man for what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.-God bless thee, lady! Oli. Take the fool away. Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest. Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he mend, he is no longer dishonest: if he cannot, Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. Clo. Misprision in the highest degree!—Lady, cucullus non facit monachum: that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. Oli. Can you do it? Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna. Oli. Make your proof. Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness I'll 'bide Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou? Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend? Mal. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool. Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, to be no better than the fools' zanies. eldest son should be a fool, whose skull Jove cram with Oli. By mine honour, half drunk.-What is he at the gate, cousin? Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for birdbolts, that you deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. Sir To. A gentleman. Oli. A gentleman! What gentleman? Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate. Clo. Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools. Re-enter MARIA. Oli. Ay, marry; what is he? Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. [Exit. Oli, What's a drunken man like, fool? Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman : one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz, for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drown'd go, look after him. Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown. Re-enter MALVOLIO. Mal. Madam, yond' young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick: he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep: he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. Öli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. Oli. What kind of man is he? Oli. What manner of man? Mal. Of very ill manner: he'll speak with you, will you, or no. Oli. Of what personage, and years is he? Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly: one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him. Oli. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face. Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentle- We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. man much desires to speak with you. Oli. From the count Orsino, is it? Mar. I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay? Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy Enter VIOLA. Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? Oli. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will? Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty. I pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible even to the least sinister usage. Oli. Whence came you, sir? Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. Oli. Are you a comedian? Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house? Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. Oli. Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise. Vio. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical. Oli. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard, you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger. Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office. Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage. I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter. Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you? Vio. The rudeness that hath appear'd in me, have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation. Oli. Give us the place alone. We will hear this divinity. [Exit MARIA.] Now, sir; what is your text? Vio. Most sweet lady, Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Oli. You might do much. What is your parentage? Oli. Get you to your lord: I cannot love him. Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said And let your fervour, like my master's, be of it. Where lies your text? Vio. In Orsino's bosom. Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom? heart. Oli. O! I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say? Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir; such a one I am at this present: is't not well done? [Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. Oli. "Tis in grain, sir: 'twill endure wind and weather. Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy. Oli. O sir, I will not be so hard-hearted. I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle, and utensil, labelled to my will; as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit. "Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: Unless the master were the man.-How now? Mal. Oli. I do I know not what, and fear to find [Exit. [Exit. SCENE I.-The Sea-coast. ACT II. Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you? Seb. By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore, I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. Seb. No, 'sooth, sir. My determinate voyage is mere extravagancy; but I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in: therefore, it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom, I know, you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but, you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. Ant. Alas, the day! Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with self-estimation wander so far to believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish hershe bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit. Vio. I left no ring with her: what means this lady? Fortune forbid outside have not charm'd her! my She made good view of me; indeed, so much, Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales I am bound to the count Orsino's court: fare[Exit. Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino's court, Else would I very shortly see thee there; But, come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. of me. well. SCENE II.-A Street. [Exit. Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following. Vio. Even now, sir: on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's 's taking of this: receive it so. Vio. She took no ring of me!--I'll none of it. Mal. Come, sir; you peevishly threw it to her, and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth [Exit. Sir And. Here comes the fool, i' faith. Clo. How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture of we three? Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch. Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good, i'faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy lemon: hadst it? Clo. I did impeticote thy gratuity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. Sir To. Come on: there is sixpence for you; let's have a song. Sir And. There's a testril of me, too: if one knight give away sixpence so will I give another: go to, a song. Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that? Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am a dog at a catch. Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be, "Thou Knave.' Clo. "Hold thy peace, thou knave," knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call the knave, knight. Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins, "Hold thy peace." Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. [They sing a catch. Enter MARIA. Mar. What a catterwauling 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. Sir To. 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? Tilly-valley, lady! "There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!" [Singing. Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. Sir To. "O! the twelfth day of December,❞— Mar. For the love o' God, peace! [Singing. Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Snick up. Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. Sir To. "But I will never die." Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. Mal. This is much credit to you. Sir To. "Shall I bid him go?" Clo. "What an if you do?" Sir To. "Shall I bid him and go, Clo. "O! no, no, no, no, you dare not." Sir To. 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? spare not?" Clo. Yes, by saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too. Sir To. Thou'rt i' the right.-Go, sir: rub your chain with crumbs-A stoop of wine, Maria! Mal. 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 [Exit. this hand. Mar. Go shake your ears. Sir And. "Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him to the field, and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him. Sir To. Do't knight: I'll write thee a challenge, or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for to-night. Since that youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know, I can do it. Sir To. Possess us, possess us: tell us something of him. Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. Sir And. O if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog. Sir To. What! for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight? Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough. Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground of faith, that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. Sir To. What wilt thou do? Mar. 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. Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device. Sir To. He shall think, by the letter that thou wilt drop, that it comes from my niece, and that she is in love with him. Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. Sir And. O! 'twill be admirable. Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic |