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

Sir To. With drinking healths to my Neice : I'll drink to her as long as there's a passage in my throat, and Drink in Illyria. He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my Neice 'till his brains turn o'th' toe like a parish top. What, Wench? Castiliano vulgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.

Enter Sir Andrew. Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch ? Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew ! Sir And. Bless


fair Shrew.
Mar. And you too, Sir:
Sir To. Accoft, Sir Andrew, accoft.
Sir And. What's that?
Şir To. My Neice's chamber-maid.

Sir And. Good Mistress Accoft, I defire better acquaintance.

Mar. My name is Mary, Sir.
Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accoft,-

Sir To. You mistake, Knight: accost, is, front her, board her, wooe her, assail her.

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her in Mar. Fare you well, Gentlemen.

Sir To. An thou let her part so, Sir Andrew, would thou might'st never draw sword again.

Sir And. An you part so, Mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair Lady, do you


you have fools in hand ?

Mar. Sir, I have not you by th' hand.

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

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

Sir And. Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your me taphor? Mar. It's dry, Sir,

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

Mar. A dry jest, Sir.
Sir And. Are you full of them ?

Mar. Ay, Sir, I have them at my fingers ends : marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[Exit Maria. Sir To. O Knight, thou lack'it a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down?

Sir And. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down: methinks, sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary Man has but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit.

Sir To. No question.

Sir And. An I thought That, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to morrow, Sir Toby.

Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear Knight?

Sir And. What is pourquoy? do, or not do? I would, I had bestowed that time in the Tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. (2) O, had I but follow'd the Arts !

Sir To. Then had it thou had an excellent head of hair.

Sir And. Why, would That have mended my hair?

Sir To. Paft question ; for, thou feeft, it will not curl by Nature.

Sir (2) Sir And.

O, bad I but follow'd the Arts !
Sir To. Then had's thou had an excellent head of Hair.
Sir And. Why, would That have mended

Sir To. Pasi Question ; for thou feeft it will not cool my Nature.] Prodigious Sagacity! and yet thus it has pass'd down thro' all the printed Copies. We cannot enough admire that happy Indolence of Mf. Pope which can acquiesce in transmitting to us fuch Stuff for genuine Sense and Argument. The Dialogue is of a very light Strain, 'tis certain, betwixt two foolish Knights : but yet I would be very glad to know, methinks, what Sir Andrew's following the Arts, or his Hair being mended, could have to do with the cooling, or not cooling, Sir Toby's Nature. But my Emendation clears up all this Absurdity: And the Context is an unexceptionable Confirmation.

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Sir To. Excellent ! It hangs like Flax on a Distaff, &c.



Hair ?

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

Sir To. Excellent ! it hangs like flax on a diftaff; and I hope to see a House-wife take thee between her Legs, and spin it off.

Sir And. Faith, I'll home to morrow, Sir Toby; your Neice will not be seen, or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me : the Duke himself here, hard by, wooes her.

Sir To. She'll none o'th' Duke, 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'th' strangest mind i'th' world : I delight in masks 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, Gimply as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to take duft, like Mistress Mall's Picture? why dost thou got 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 fink-a-pace : what doft thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did

I cannot pass over the remarkable Conundrum betwixt Sir Andrew with. ing he had follow'd the Arts, and Sir Toby's Application of This to the using Art in improving his Hair: because I would observe, what Varie ty and what a Contrast of Character the Poet has preserv'd in this pair of ridiculous Knights. Sir Toby has moderate natural Parts, and a smattering of Education ; which makes him always to be running his Wit, and gives

him a Predominance over the other. Sir Andrew is a Blockhead by Nature, and unimprov'd by any Acquirements from Art ; and fo is made the very Anvil to Impolition and Ridicule.

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think, by the 'excellent constitution of thy legs it was form'd under the Star of a Galliard.

Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a fame-colour'd Stocking. 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 fee thee caper; ha! higher : ha, ha! excellent.

[Exeunt. :.SCENE changes to the Palace,

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Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire.

F the Duke continue these favours towards you,

Cesario, you are like to be much advanc'd; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no ftranger.

Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconftant, Sir, in his favours ? : Val. No, believe me.

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.
Vio. I thank you: here comes the Duke.
Duke. Who saw Cesario, hoa ?
Vio. On your attendance, my Lord, here,

Duke. Stand you a while aloof. Cefaria,
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 gate unto her;
Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow
'Till thou have audience.

Vio. Sure, my noble Lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

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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. O, then, unfold the passion of my love,
Surprize her with discourse of my dear faith;
It fhall 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 femblative 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 my self am beft
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; yet, a barrfull strife!
Who-e'er I woo, my self would be his Wife. [Exeunt.

SCENE changes to Olivia's House.

Enter Maria and Clown.


JAY, either tell me where thou hast been,

or I will not open my lips fo 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 hang'd in this world, needs fear po 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?


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