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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
Sir And. Good Mistress Accoft, I defire better acquaintance.
Mar. My name is Mary, Sir.
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,
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.
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. 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 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. 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.
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,
Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire.
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.
Duke. Stand you a while aloof. Cefaria,
Vio. Sure, my noble Lord,
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,
Vio. I think not so, my Lord.
Vio. I'll do my best
SCENE changes to Olivia's House.
Enter Maria and Clown.
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.
Mar. A good lenten answer : I can tell thee where that Saying was born, of, I fear no colours. Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary?