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. I thank you. Here comes the count.
Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho?

Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here.
Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. [Curio, &c. retire.]
-Cesario,

Thou know'st no less but all: I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul;
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her:
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
Till thou have audience.

Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return.

Vio. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
Duke. Ó! then unfold the passion of my love;
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
Vio. I think not so, my lord.
Duke.

Dear lad, believe it,
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth, and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill, and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this affair.-Some four, or five, attend him;
All, if you will, for I myself am best,
When least in company.-Prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord
To call his fortunes thine.
Vio.
I'll do my best,
To woo your lady: [Aside] yet, O, barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter MARIA, and Clown.

Mar. Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang thee for thy absence.

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

Clo. He shall see none to fear.
Mar. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where
that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
Clo. Where, good mistress Mary?

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,
let the botcher mend him. Any thing that's mended
is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched
with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with
virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so;
if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true
cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower.-The lady
bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take
her away.

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you.

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

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna.

Oli. Make your proof.

Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

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

Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death.
Clo. I think, his soul is in hell, madonna.
Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

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

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

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

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.

Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio?

Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, to be no better than the fools' zanies.

eldest son should be a fool, whose skull Jove cram with
brains; for here comes one of thy kin, that has a most
weak pia mater.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH.

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

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?
Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here.-A plague o' these
pickle-herrings!-How now, sot?
Clo. Good sir Toby,-

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

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

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

Oli. What kind of man is he?
Mal. Why, of man kind.

Oli. What manner of man?

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

Oli. Of what personage, and years is he?

Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly: one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

Oli. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.
Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
[Exit.
Re-enter MARIA.

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,
and well attended.

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay?
Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you: he speaks nothing
but madman. Fie on him! [Exit MARIA.] Go you,
Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or
not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit MAL-
VOLIO.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old,
and people dislike it.

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,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulg'd, 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.
Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense:
I would not understand it.
Oli.
Why, what would you?
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O! you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.

Oli. You might do much. What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.

Oli.

Get you to your lord:
Let him send no more,
to me again,
Fare you well:
Spend this for me.
[Offering her purse.
Vio. 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,

I cannot love him.
Unless, perchance, you come
To tell me how he takes it.
I thank you for your pains.

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?
Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his

heart.

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

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to 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
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,

If

you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy.

Oli. O sir, I will not be so hard-hearted. I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle, and utensil, labelled to my will; as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit.
Oli. 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.

Mal.
Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. 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.
Mal. Madam, I will.

Oli. 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.

[Exit.

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

ACT II.

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

Seb. By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore, I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are

bound.

Seb. No, 'sooth, sir. My determinate voyage is mere extravagancy; but I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in: therefore, it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom, I know, you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but, you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my

sister drowned.

Ant. Alas, the day!

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with self-estimation wander so far to believe 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.
Seb. O, good Antonio! forgive me your trouble.
Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me
be your servant.

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,
That, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring? why, he sent her none.
I am the man :-if it be so, as '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, if such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now, alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie.

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.
Mal. Were not you even now with the countess
Olivia?

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;
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.

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir To. A contagious breath.

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that? Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am 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.
Sir And. Good i'faith. Come, begin.

[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!
Enter MALVOLIO.

[Singing.

Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. 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 And. I have't in my nose, too.

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. And your horse, now, would make him an ass.
Mar. Ass I doubt not.

Sir And. O! 'twill be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic