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that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.
[Exit, Duke. Let all the rest give place. Once more, ce
Vio. But if she cannot love you, Sir,
Vio. Sooth, but you must.
love as great a pang of heart
Duke. There is no Woman's Sides
Vio. Ay, but I know-
Vio. Too well what love Women to Men may owe; In faith, they are as true of heart, as we. My Father had a Daughter lov'd a Man, !! Because, a Man, that suffers himself to run with every Wind, and fo “ makes his Business every where, cannot be said to have any Intent ; “ for that Word fignifies á Determination of the Mind to Something.
Besides, the Conclufion, of making a good Voyage out of Nothing, evidently direots to this Emendation.
As it might be, perhaps, were I a Woman,
Duke. And what's her History?
Vio. A Blank, my Lord: she never told her Love, But let Concealment, like a worm i'th' bud, Feed on her damask Cheek : (9) fhe pin'd in thought And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She fat like Patience on a Monument, Smiling at Grief. Was not this love, indeed ? We Men may say more, swear more, but, indeed, Our shews are more than will; for ftill we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But dy'd thy Sister of her love, my Boy ?
Vio. I'm all the Daughters of my Father's House, And all the Brothers too -- and yet I know not Sir, shall I to this Lady?
Duke. Ay, that's the theam. To her in haste; give her this Jewel : say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt.
She pined in Thought
Smiling at Grief.] This very fine Image, which has been so uni. versally applauded, it is not impossible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Asembly of Foules.
And her befidis wonder discretlie,
With Face pale, upon an hill of sonde. If he was indebted, however, for the first rude Draught, how amply has he repaid that Debt in heightning the Picture! How much does the green and yellow Melancholy transcend the Old Bard's Face pale; the Mo nument, his Hill of Sand; and what an additional Beauty is, smiling at Grief, for which there are no Ground, nor Traces, in the Original! Our Author has given us this fine Picture again in another Place, but, to New the Power and Extent of his Genius, with Features and Lineaments varied.
Doft look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'Graves,
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This abfurd Old Play, I have elsewhere taken Notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a Number of Malter-Touches, fo peculiar to himself, that a knowing Reader may with Ease and Certainty distinguish the Traces of his Pencil.
SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. Sir To. Ome thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boild to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the nig, gardly rascally sheep-biter come by loine notable shame?
Fab. I would exult, man; you know, he brought me out of favour with my Lady, about a bear-baiting here.
Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew?
Sir And. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.
Enter Maria. Sir To. Here comes the little villain : how now, my nettle of India ?
Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's çoming down this Walk, he has been yonder i'th' Sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this Letter will make a contemplative Ideot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! lye thou there ; for here comes the Trout that must be caught with tickling.
[Throws down a Letter, and Exit.
Enter Malvolio. Mal. 'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me, She did affect me, and I have heard her self come thus near, that should the 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? Sir To. Here's an over-weaning rogue.
Fab. Oh, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkey.cock of him ; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!
Sir And. 'Slife, I could so beat the rogue.
Mal. There is example for't; the Lady of the Strachy married the Yeoman of the Wardrobe. Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel!
Fab. O, peace, now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.
Mal. Having been three months married to her, fits ting in my State
Sir To. O for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!Mal. Calling my Officers about
me, branch'd velvet gown ; having come down from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.
Sir To. Fire and brimstone!
Mal. 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 ask for my Uncle Toby
Sir To. Bolts and Shackles !
Mal, Seven of my people with an obedient start make out for him: I'frown the while, and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches, curtfies there to me.
Sir To. Shall this Fellow live?
Fab. Tho' our filence be drawn from us with cares, yet, peace.
Mál. Į extend my hand to him thus ; quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of controul.
Sir To. And does not Toby take you a Blow o’th'
Mal. Saying, Uncle Toby, mỳ fortunes having caft me on your Neice, give me this prerogative of speech
Sir To. What, what?
Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the Ginews of our plot.
Mal. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish Knight
Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.
Sir And. I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me
[Taking up the Letter. Fab. Now is the Woodcock near the gin.
Sir To. Oh peace ! now the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him !
Mal. 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 the her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.
Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her T's: why that?
Mal. To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good wishes; her very Phrases : By your leave, wax. Soft ! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which the uses to seal; 'tis my Lady : to whom should this be?
Fab. This wins him, liver and all.
Mal. Jove knows I love, but who, lips do not move, no Man must know. No Man must know what follows ? the number's alter'd-no Man must know if this should be thee, Malvolio?
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, Brock!
doth sway my life. Fab. A fuftian riddle. Sir To. Excellent Wench, say I.