Twelfth Night

1If music be the food of love, play on;

2Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,

3The appetite may sicken, and so die.

4That strain again! it had a dying fall:

5O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,

6That breathes upon a bank of violets,

7Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:

8'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

9O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,

10That, notwithstanding thy capacity

11Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

12Of what validity and pitch soe'er,

13But falls into abatement and low price,

14Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy

15That it alone is high fantastical.

16Will you go hunt, my lord?

17What, Curio?

18The hart.

19Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:

20O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

21Methought she purged the air of pestilence!

22That instant was I turn'd into a hart;

23And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

24E'er since pursue me.

25How now! what news from her?

26So please my lord, I might not be admitted;

27But from her handmaid do return this answer:

28The element itself, till seven years' heat,

29Shall not behold her face at ample view;

30But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk

31And water once a day her chamber round

32With eye-offending brine: all this to season

33A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh

34And lasting in her sad remembrance.

35O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame

36To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

37How will she love, when the rich golden shaft

38Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else

39That live in her; when liver, brain and heart,

40These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd

41Her sweet perfections with one self king!

42Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:

43Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

1What country, friends, is this?

2This is Illyria, lady.

3And what should I do in Illyria?

4My brother he is in Elysium.

5Perchance he is not drown'd: what think you, sailors?

6It is perchance that you yourself were saved.

7O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

8True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,

9Assure yourself, after our ship did split,

10When you and those poor number saved with you

11Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

12Most provident in peril, bind himself,

13Courage and hope both teaching him the practise,

14To a strong mast that lived upon the sea;

15Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,

16I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

17So long as I could see.

18For saying so, there's gold:

19Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

20Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

21The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

22Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born

23Not three hours' travel from this very place.

24Who governs here?

25A noble duke, in nature as in name.

26What is the name?

27Orsino.

28Orsino! I have heard my father name him:

29He was a bachelor then.

30And so is now, or was so very late;

31For but a month ago I went from hence,

32And then 'twas fresh in murmur,--as, you know,

33What great ones do the less will prattle of,--

34That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.

35What's she?

36A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

37That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her

38In the protection of his son, her brother,

39Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,

40They say, she hath abjured the company

41And sight of men.

42O that I served that lady

43And might not be delivered to the world,

44Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,

45What my estate is!

46That were hard to compass;

47Because she will admit no kind of suit,

48No, not the duke's.

49There is a fair behavior in thee, captain;

50And though that nature with a beauteous wall

51Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee

52I will believe thou hast a mind that suits

53With this thy fair and outward character.

54I prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,

55Conceal me what I am, and be my aid

56For such disguise as haply shall become

57The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke:

58Thou shall present me as an eunuch to him:

59It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing

60And speak to him in many sorts of music

61That will allow me very worth his service.

62What else may hap to time I will commit;

63Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

64Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:

65When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

66I thank thee: lead me on.

1What a plague means my niece, to take the death of

2her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

3By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'

4nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great

5exceptions to your ill hours.

6Why, let her except, before excepted.

7Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest

8limits of order.

9Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am:

10these clothes are good enough to drink in; and so be

11these boots too: an they be not, let them hang

12themselves in their own straps.

13That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard

14my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish

15knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

16Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

17Ay, he.

18He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

19What's that to the purpose?

20Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

21Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats:

22he's a very fool and a prodigal.

23Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the

24viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages

25word for word without book, and hath all the good

26gifts of nature.

27He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that

28he's a fool, he's a great quarreller: and but that

29he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he

30hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent

31he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

32By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors

33that say so of him. Who are they?

34They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

35With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to

36her as long as there is a passage in my throat and

37drink in Illyria: he's a coward and a coystrill

38that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn

39o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!

40Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

41Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

42Sweet Sir Andrew!

43Bless you, fair shrew.

44And you too, sir.

45Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

46What's that?

47My niece's chambermaid.

48Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

49My name is Mary, sir.

50Good Mistress Mary Accost,--

51You mistake, knight; 'accost' is front her, board

52her, woo her, assail her.

53By my troth, I would not undertake her in this

54company. Is that the meaning of 'accost'?

55Fare you well, gentlemen.

56An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst

57never draw sword again.

58An you part so, mistress, I would I might never

59draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have

60fools in hand?

61Sir, I have not you by the hand.

62Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

63Now, sir, 'thought is free:' I pray you, bring

64your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.

65Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?

66It's dry, sir.

67Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can

68keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

69A dry jest, sir.

70Are you full of them?

71Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry,

72now I let go your hand, I am barren.

73O knight thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I

74see thee so put down?

75Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary

76put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit

77than a Christian or an ordinary man has: but I am a

78great eater of beef and I believe that does harm to my wit.

79No question.

80An I thought that, I'ld forswear it. I'll ride home

81to-morrow, Sir Toby.

82Pourquoi, my dear knight?

83What is 'Pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had

84bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in

85fencing, dancing and bear-baiting: O, had I but

86followed the arts!

87Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

88Why, would that have mended my hair?

89Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

90But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

91Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I

92hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs

93and spin it off.

94Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece

95will not be seen; or if she be, it's four to one

96she'll none of me: the count himself here hard by woos her.

97She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above

98her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I

99have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't,

100man.

101I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the

102strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques

103and revels sometimes altogether.

104Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?

105As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the

106degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare

107with an old man.

108What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

109Faith, I can cut a caper.

110And I can cut the mutton to't.

111And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong

112as any man in Illyria.

113Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have

114these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to

115take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost

116thou not go to church in a galliard and come home in

117a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not

118so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What

119dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in?

120I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy

121leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

122Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a

123flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?

124What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

125Taurus! That's sides and heart.

126No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the

127caper; ha! higher: ha, ha! excellent!

1If the duke continue these favours towards you,

2Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he hath

3known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.

4You either fear his humour or my negligence, that

5you call in question the continuance of his love:

6is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

7No, believe me.

8I thank you. Here comes the count.

9Who saw Cesario, ho?

10On your attendance, my lord; here.

11Stand you a while aloof, Cesario,

12Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd

13To thee the book even of my secret soul:

14Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;

15Be not denied access, stand at her doors,

16And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow

17Till thou have audience.

18Sure, my noble lord,

19If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow

20As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

21Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds

22Rather than make unprofited return.

23Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

24O, then unfold the passion of my love,

25Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:

26It shall become thee well to act my woes;

27She will attend it better in thy youth

28Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect.

29I think not so, my lord.

30Dear lad, believe it;

31For they shall yet belie thy happy years,

32That say thou art a man: Diana's lip

33Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe

34Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,

35And all is semblative a woman's part.

36I know thy constellation is right apt

37For this affair. Some four or five attend him;

38All, if you will; for I myself am best

39When least in company. Prosper well in this,

40And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,

41To call his fortunes thine.

42I'll do my best

43To woo your lady:

44yet, a barful strife!

45Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

1Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will

2not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in

3way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

4Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this

5world needs to fear no colours.

6Make that good.

7He shall see none to fear.

8A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that

9saying was born, of 'I fear no colours.'

10Where, good Mistress Mary?

11In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

12Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those

13that are fools, let them use their talents.

14Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or,

15to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?

16Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and,

17for turning away, let summer bear it out.

18You are resolute, then?

19Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.

20That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both

21break, your gaskins fall.

22Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if

23Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a

24piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

25Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my

26lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

27Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling!

28Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft

29prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may

30pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus?

31'Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.'

32God bless thee, lady!

33Take the fool away.

34Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

35Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you:

36besides, you grow dishonest.

37Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel

38will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is

39the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend

40himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if

41he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing

42that's mended is but patched: virtue that

43transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that

44amends is but patched with virtue. If that this

45simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,

46what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but

47calamity, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take

48away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.

49Sir, I bade them take away you.

50Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non

51facit monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not

52motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to

53prove you a fool.

54Can you do it?

55Dexterously, good madonna.

56Make your proof.

57I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse

58of virtue, answer me.

59Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.

60Good madonna, why mournest thou?

61Good fool, for my brother's death.

62I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

63I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

64The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's

65soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

66What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

67Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him:

68infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the

69better fool.

70God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the

71better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be

72sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his

73word for two pence that you are no fool.

74How say you to that, Malvolio?

75I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a

76barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day

77with an ordinary fool that has no more brain

78than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard

79already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to

80him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men,

81that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better

82than the fools' zanies.

83Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste

84with a distempered appetite. To be generous,

85guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those

86things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets:

87there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do

88nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet

89man, though he do nothing but reprove.

90Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou

91speakest well of fools!

92Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much

93desires to speak with you.

94From the Count Orsino, is it?

95I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

96Who of my people hold him in delay?

97Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

98Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but

99madman: fie on him!

100Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I

101am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.

102Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and

103people dislike it.

104Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest

105son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with

106brains! for,--here he comes,--one of thy kin has a

107most weak pia mater.

108By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?

109A gentleman.

110A gentleman! what gentleman?

111'Tis a gentle man here--a plague o' these

112pickle-herring! How now, sot!

113Good Sir Toby!

114Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

115Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

116Ay, marry, what is he?

117Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give

118me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

119What's a drunken man like, fool?

120Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one

121draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads

122him; and a third drowns him.

123Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my

124coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's

125drowned: go, look after him.

126He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look

127to the madman.

128Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with

129you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to

130understand so much, and therefore comes to speak

131with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to

132have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore

133comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,

134lady? he's fortified against any denial.

135Tell him he shall not speak with me.

136Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your

137door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to

138a bench, but he'll speak with you.

139What kind o' man is he?

140Why, of mankind.

141What manner of man?

142Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

143Of what personage and years is he?

144Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for

145a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a

146cooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him

147in standing water, between boy and man. He is very

148well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one

149would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

150Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.

151Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

152Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face.

153We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

154The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

155Speak to me; I shall answer for her.

156Your will?

157Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,--I

158pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house,

159for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away

160my speech, for besides that it is excellently well

161penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good

162beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very

163comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

164Whence came you, sir?

165I can say little more than I have studied, and that

166question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me

167modest assurance if you be the lady of the house,

168that I may proceed in my speech.

169Are you a comedian?

170No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs

171of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you

172the lady of the house?

173If I do not usurp myself, I am.

174Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp

175yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours

176to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will

177on with my speech in your praise, and then show you

178the heart of my message.

179Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

180Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

181It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you,

182keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates,

183and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you

184than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if

185you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of

186moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

187Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

188No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little

189longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet

190lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger.

191Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when

192the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

193It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of

194war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my

195hand; my words are as fun of peace as matter.

196Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

197The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I

198learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I

199would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears,

200divinity, to any other's, profanation.

201Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

202Now, sir, what is your text?

203Most sweet lady,--

204A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.

205Where lies your text?

206In Orsino's bosom.

207In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

208To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

209O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

210Good madam, let me see your face.

211Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate

212with my face? You are now out of your text: but

213we will draw the curtain and show you the picture.

214Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't

215not well done?

216Excellently done, if God did all.

217'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

218'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

219Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:

220Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,

221If you will lead these graces to the grave

222And leave the world no copy.

223O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give

224out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be

225inventoried, and every particle and utensil

226labelled to my will: as, item, two lips,

227indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to

228them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were

229you sent hither to praise me?

230I see you what you are, you are too proud;

231But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

232My lord and master loves you: O, such love

233Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd

234The nonpareil of beauty!

235How does he love me?

236With adorations, fertile tears,

237With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

238Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:

239Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

240Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;

241In voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant;

242And in dimension and the shape of nature

243A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;

244He might have took his answer long ago.

245If I did love you in my master's flame,

246With such a suffering, such a deadly life,

247In your denial I would find no sense;

248I would not understand it.

249Why, what would you?

250Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

251And call upon my soul within the house;

252Write loyal cantons of contemned love

253And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

254Halloo your name to the reverberate hills

255And make the babbling gossip of the air

256Cry out 'Olivia!' O, You should not rest

257Between the elements of air and earth,

258But you should pity me!

259You might do much.

260What is your parentage?

261Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

262I am a gentleman.

263Get you to your lord;

264I cannot love him: let him send no more;

265Unless, perchance, you come to me again,

266To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:

267I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

268I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:

269My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

270Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;

271And let your fervor, like my master's, be

272Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

273'What is your parentage?'

274'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

275I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;

276Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit,

277Do give thee five-fold blazon: not too fast:

278soft, soft!

279Unless the master were the man. How now!

280Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

281Methinks I feel this youth's perfections

282With an invisible and subtle stealth

283To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

284What ho, Malvolio!

285Here, madam, at your service.

286Run after that same peevish messenger,

287The county's man: he left this ring behind him,

288Would I or not: tell him I'll none of it.

289Desire him not to flatter with his lord,

290Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:

291If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

292I'll give him reasons for't: hie thee, Malvolio.

293Madam, I will.

294I do I know not what, and fear to find

295Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

296Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

297What is decreed must be, and be this so.

1Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?

2By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over

3me: the malignancy of my fate might perhaps

4distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your

5leave that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad

6recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.

7ANTONIO: Let me yet know of you whither you are bound.

8No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage is mere

9extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a

10touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me

11what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges

12me in manners the rather to express myself. You

13must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,

14which I called Roderigo. My father was that

15Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard

16of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both

17born in an hour: if the heavens had been pleased,

18would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;

19for some hour before you took me from the breach of

20the sea was my sister drowned.

21Alas the day!

22A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled

23me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but,

24though I could not with such estimable wonder

25overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly

26publish her; she bore a mind that envy could not but

27call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt

28water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

29Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

30O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

31If you will not murder me for my love, let me be

32your servant.

33If you will not undo what you have done, that is,

34kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not.

35Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness,

36and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that

37upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell

38tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.

39The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

40I have many enemies in Orsino's court,

41Else would I very shortly see thee there.

42But, come what may, I do adore thee so,

43That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

1Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?

2Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since

3arrived but hither.

4She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have

5saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself.

6She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord

7into a desperate assurance she will none of him:

8and one thing more, that you be never so hardy to

9come again in his affairs, unless it be to report

10your lord's taking of this. Receive it so.

11She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

12Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her

13will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth

14stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be

15it his that finds it.

16I left no ring with her: what means this lady?

17Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!

18She made good view of me; indeed, so much,

19That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

20For she did speak in starts distractedly.

21She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion

22Invites me in this churlish messenger.

23None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.

24I am the man: if it be so, as 'tis,

25Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

26Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,

27Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

28How easy is it for the proper-false

29In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!

30Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!

31For such as we are made of, such we be.

32How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;

33And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

34And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

35What will become of this? As I am man,

36My state is desperate for my master's love;

37As I am woman,--now alas the day!--

38What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

39O time! thou must untangle this, not I;

40It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

1Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after

2midnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo

3surgere,' thou know'st,--

4Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up

5late is to be up late.

6A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can.

7To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is

8early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go

9to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the

10four elements?

11Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists

12of eating and drinking.

13Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.

14Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

15Here comes the fool, i' faith.

16How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture

17of 'we three'?

18Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

19By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I

20had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg,

21and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In

22sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last

23night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the

24Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas

25very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy

26leman: hadst it?

27I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose

28is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the

29Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

30Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all

31is done. Now, a song.

32Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.

33There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--

34Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

35A love-song, a love-song.

36Ay, ay: I care not for good life.

37[Sings]

38O mistress mine, where are you roaming?

39O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,

40That can sing both high and low:

41Trip no further, pretty sweeting;

42Journeys end in lovers meeting,

43Every wise man's son doth know.

44Excellent good, i' faith.

45Good, good.

46[Sings]

47What is love? 'tis not hereafter;

48Present mirth hath present laughter;

49What's to come is still unsure:

50In delay there lies no plenty;

51Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

52Youth's a stuff will not endure.

53A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

54A contagious breath.

55Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

56To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.

57But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? shall we

58rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three

59souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?

60An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.

61By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

62Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'

63'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be

64constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.

65'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to

66call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

67I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

68Good, i' faith. Come, begin.

69What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady

70have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him

71turn you out of doors, never trust me.

72My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's

73a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not

74I consanguineous? am I not of her blood?

75Tillyvally. Lady!

76'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'

77Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

78Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do

79I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it

80more natural.

81[Sings] 'O, the twelfth day of December,'--

82For the love o' God, peace!

83My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye

84no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like

85tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an

86alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your

87coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse

88of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor

89time in you?

90We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

91Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me

92tell you, that, though she harbours you as her

93kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If

94you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you

95are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please

96you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid

97you farewell.

98'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

99Nay, good Sir Toby.

100'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'

101Is't even so?

102'But I will never die.'

103Sir Toby, there you lie.

104This is much credit to you.

105'Shall I bid him go?'

106'What an if you do?'

107'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'

108'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

109Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a

110steward? Dost thou think, because thou art

111virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

112Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the

113mouth too.

114Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with

115crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

116Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any

117thing more than contempt, you would not give means

118for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand.

119Go shake your ears.

120'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's

121a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to

122break promise with him and make a fool of him.

123Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll

124deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

125Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the

126youth of the count's was today with thy lady, she is

127much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me

128alone with him: if I do not gull him into a

129nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not

130think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed:

131I know I can do it.

132Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

133Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

134O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!

135What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason,

136dear knight?

137I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason

138good enough.

139The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing

140constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,

141that cons state without book and utters it by great

142swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so

143crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is

144his grounds of faith that all that look on him love

145him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find

146notable cause to work.

147What wilt thou do?

148I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of

149love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape

150of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure

151of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find

152himself most feelingly personated. I can write very

153like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we

154can hardly make distinction of our hands.

155Excellent! I smell a device.

156I have't in my nose too.

157He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop,

158that they come from my niece, and that she's in

159love with him.

160My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

161And your horse now would make him an ass.

162Ass, I doubt not.

163O, 'twill be admirable!

164Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will

165work with him. I will plant you two, and let the

166fool make a third, where he shall find the letter:

167observe his construction of it. For this night, to

168bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

169Good night, Penthesilea.

170Before me, she's a good wench.

171She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me:

172what o' that?

173I was adored once too.

174Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for

175more money.

176If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

177Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i'

178the end, call me cut.

179If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

180Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late

181to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

1Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.

2Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,

3That old and antique song we heard last night:

4Methought it did relieve my passion much,

5More than light airs and recollected terms

6Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:

7Come, but one verse.

8He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.

9Who was it?

10Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady

11Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.

12Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

13Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,

14In the sweet pangs of it remember me;

15For such as I am all true lovers are,

16Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,

17Save in the constant image of the creature

18That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

19It gives a very echo to the seat

20Where Love is throned.

21Thou dost speak masterly:

22My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye

23Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves:

24Hath it not, boy?

25A little, by your favour.

26What kind of woman is't?

27Of your complexion.

28She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

29About your years, my lord.

30Too old by heaven: let still the woman take

31An elder than herself: so wears she to him,

32So sways she level in her husband's heart:

33For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

34Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

35More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

36Than women's are.

37I think it well, my lord.

38Then let thy love be younger than thyself,

39Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

40For women are as roses, whose fair flower

41Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

42And so they are: alas, that they are so;

43To die, even when they to perfection grow!

44O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.

45Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;

46The spinsters and the knitters in the sun

47And the free maids that weave their thread with bones

48Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

49And dallies with the innocence of love,

50Like the old age.

51Are you ready, sir?

52Ay; prithee, sing.

53SONG.

54Come away, come away, death,

55And in sad cypress let me be laid;

56Fly away, fly away breath;

57I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

58My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

59O, prepare it!

60My part of death, no one so true

61Did share it.

62Not a flower, not a flower sweet

63On my black coffin let there be strown;

64Not a friend, not a friend greet

65My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:

66A thousand thousand sighs to save,

67Lay me, O, where

68Sad true lover never find my grave,

69To weep there!

70There's for thy pains.

71No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

72I'll pay thy pleasure then.

73Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

74Give me now leave to leave thee.

75Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the

76tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for

77thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such

78constancy put to sea, that their business might be

79every thing and their intent every where; for that's

80it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

81Let all the rest give place.

82Once more, Cesario,

83Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:

84Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,

85Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

86The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,

87Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;

88But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems

89That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

90But if she cannot love you, sir?

91I cannot be so answer'd.

92Sooth, but you must.

93Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,

94Hath for your love a great a pang of heart

95As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

96You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?

97There is no woman's sides

98Can bide the beating of so strong a passion

99As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart

100So big, to hold so much; they lack retention

101Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,

102No motion of the liver, but the palate,

103That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;

104But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

105And can digest as much: make no compare

106Between that love a woman can bear me

107And that I owe Olivia.

108Ay, but I know--

109What dost thou know?

110Too well what love women to men may owe:

111In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

112My father had a daughter loved a man,

113As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,

114I should your lordship.

115And what's her history?

116A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

117But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

118Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,

119And with a green and yellow melancholy

120She sat like patience on a monument,

121Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

122We men may say more, swear more: but indeed

123Our shows are more than will; for still we prove

124Much in our vows, but little in our love.

125But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

126I am all the daughters of my father's house,

127And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.

128Sir, shall I to this lady?

129Ay, that's the theme.

130To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,

131My love can give no place, bide no denay.

1Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

2Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport,

3let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

4Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly

5rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

6I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o'

7favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

8To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will

9fool him black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?

10An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

11Here comes the little villain.

12How now, my metal of India!

13Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's

14coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the

15sun practising behavior to his own shadow this half

16hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I

17know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of

18him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there,

19for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

20'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told

21me she did affect me: and I have heard herself come

22thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one

23of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more

24exalted respect than any one else that follows her.

25What should I think on't?

26Here's an overweening rogue!

27O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock

28of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!

29'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

30Peace, I say.

31To be Count Malvolio!

32Ah, rogue!

33Pistol him, pistol him.

34Peace, peace!

35There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy

36married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

37Fie on him, Jezebel!

38O, peace! now he's deeply in: look how

39imagination blows him.

40Having been three months married to her, sitting in

41my state,--

42O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

43Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet

44gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left

45Olivia sleeping,--

46Fire and brimstone!

47O, peace, peace!

48And then to have the humour of state; and after a

49demure travel of regard, telling them I know my

50place as I would they should do theirs, to for my

51kinsman Toby,--

52Bolts and shackles!

53O peace, peace, peace! now, now.

54Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make

55out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind

56up watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby

57approaches; courtesies there to me,--

58Shall this fellow live?

59Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

60I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar

61smile with an austere regard of control,--

62And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

63Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on

64your niece give me this prerogative of speech,'--

65What, what?

66'You must amend your drunkenness.'

67Out, scab!

68Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

69'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with

70a foolish knight,'--

71That's me, I warrant you.

72'One Sir Andrew,'--

73I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

74What employment have we here?

75Now is the woodcock near the gin.

76O, peace! and the spirit of humour intimate reading

77aloud to him!

78By my life, this is my lady's hand these be her

79very C's, her U's and her T's and thus makes she her

80great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

81Her C's, her U's and her T's: why that?

82[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good

83wishes:'--her very phrases! By your leave, wax.

84Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she

85uses to seal: 'tis my lady. To whom should this be?

86This wins him, liver and all.

87[Reads]

88Jove knows I love: But who?

89Lips, do not move;

90No man must know.

91'No man must know.' What follows? the numbers

92altered! 'No man must know:' if this should be

93thee, Malvolio?

94Marry, hang thee, brock!

95[Reads]

96I may command where I adore;

97But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

98With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:

99M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.

100A fustian riddle!

101Excellent wench, say I.

102'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' Nay, but first, let

103me see, let me see, let me see.

104What dish o' poison has she dressed him!

105And with what wing the staniel cheques at it!

106'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command

107me: I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is

108evident to any formal capacity; there is no

109obstruction in this: and the end,--what should

110that alphabetical position portend? If I could make

111that resemble something in me,--Softly! M, O, A,

112I,--

113O, ay, make up that: he is now at a cold scent.

114Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as

115rank as a fox.

116M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.

117Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is

118excellent at faults.

119M,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel;

120that suffers under probation A should follow but O does.

121And O shall end, I hope.

122Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry O!

123And then I comes behind.

124Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see

125more detraction at your heels than fortunes before

126you.

127M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former: and

128yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for

129every one of these letters are in my name. Soft!

130here follows prose.

131'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I

132am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some

133are born great, some achieve greatness, and some

134have greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy Fates open

135their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them;

136and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be,

137cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be

138opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let

139thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into

140the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee

141that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy

142yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever

143cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art

144made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see

145thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and

146not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell.

147She that would alter services with thee,

148THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.'

149Daylight and champaign discovers not more: this is

150open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,

151I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross

152acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man.

153I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade

154me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady

155loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of

156late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered;

157and in this she manifests herself to my love, and

158with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits

159of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will

160be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and

161cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting

162on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a

163postscript.

164'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou

165entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling;

166thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my

167presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.'

168Jove, I thank thee: I will smile; I will do

169everything that thou wilt have me.

170I will not give my part of this sport for a pension

171of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

172I could marry this wench for this device.

173So could I too.

174And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

175Nor I neither.

176Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

177Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

178Or o' mine either?

179Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy

180bond-slave?

181I' faith, or I either?

182Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when

183the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

184Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

185Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

186If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark

187his first approach before my lady: he will come to

188her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she

189abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;

190and he will smile upon her, which will now be so

191unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a

192melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him

193into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow

194me.

195To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

196I'll make one too.

1Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by

2thy tabour?

3No, sir, I live by the church.

4Art thou a churchman?

5No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for

6I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by

7the church.

8So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a

9beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy

10tabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.

11You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is

12but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the

13wrong side may be turned outward!

14Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with

15words may quickly make them wanton.

16I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

17Why, man?

18Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that

19word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words

20are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.

21Thy reason, man?

22Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and

23words are grown so false, I am loath to prove

24reason with them.

25I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.

26Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my

27conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be

28to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.

29Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

30No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she

31will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and

32fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to

33herrings; the husband's the bigger: I am indeed not

34her fool, but her corrupter of words.

35I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

36Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun,

37it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but

38the fool should be as oft with your master as with

39my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom there.

40Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.

41Hold, there's expenses for thee.

42Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

43By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for

44one;

45though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy

46lady within?

47Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

48Yes, being kept together and put to use.

49I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring

50a Cressida to this Troilus.

51I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.

52The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but

53a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is

54within, sir. I will construe to them whence you

55come; who you are and what you would are out of my

56welkin, I might say 'element,' but the word is over-worn.

57This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;

58And to do that well craves a kind of wit:

59He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

60The quality of persons, and the time,

61And, like the haggard, cheque at every feather

62That comes before his eye. This is a practise

63As full of labour as a wise man's art

64For folly that he wisely shows is fit;

65But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

66Save you, gentleman.

67And you, sir.

68Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

69Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

70I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

71Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous

72you should enter, if your trade be to her.

73I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the

74list of my voyage.

75Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

76My legs do better understand me, sir, than I

77understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

78I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

79I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we

80are prevented.

81Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain

82odours on you!

83That youth's a rare courtier: 'Rain odours;' well.

84My matter hath no voice, to your own most pregnant

85and vouchsafed ear.

86'Odours,' 'pregnant' and 'vouchsafed:' I'll get 'em

87all three all ready.

88Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

89Give me your hand, sir.

90My duty, madam, and most humble service.

91What is your name?

92Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

93My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world

94Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment:

95You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

96And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:

97Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

98For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,

99Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with me!

100Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts

101On his behalf.

102O, by your leave, I pray you,

103I bade you never speak again of him:

104But, would you undertake another suit,

105I had rather hear you to solicit that

106Than music from the spheres.

107Dear lady,--

108Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,

109After the last enchantment you did here,

110A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse

111Myself, my servant and, I fear me, you:

112Under your hard construction must I sit,

113To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,

114Which you knew none of yours: what might you think?

115Have you not set mine honour at the stake

116And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts

117That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving

118Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,

119Hideth my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

120I pity you.

121That's a degree to love.

122No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof,

123That very oft we pity enemies.

124Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again.

125O, world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

126If one should be a prey, how much the better

127To fall before the lion than the wolf!

128The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

129Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you:

130And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,

131Your were is alike to reap a proper man:

132There lies your way, due west.

133Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition

134Attend your ladyship!

135You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

136Stay:

137I prithee, tell me what thou thinkest of me.

138That you do think you are not what you are.

139If I think so, I think the same of you.

140Then think you right: I am not what I am.

141I would you were as I would have you be!

142Would it be better, madam, than I am?

143I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

144O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

145In the contempt and anger of his lip!

146A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon

147Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.

148Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

149By maidhood, honour, truth and every thing,

150I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,

151Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.

152Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,

153For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause,

154But rather reason thus with reason fetter,

155Love sought is good, but given unsought better.

156By innocence I swear, and by my youth

157I have one heart, one bosom and one truth,

158And that no woman has; nor never none

159Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

160And so adieu, good madam: never more

161Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

162Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move

163That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

1No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

2Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

3You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

4Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the

5count's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me;

6I saw't i' the orchard.

7Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

8As plain as I see you now.

9This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

10'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?

11I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of

12judgment and reason.

13And they have been grand-jury-men since before Noah

14was a sailor.

15She did show favour to the youth in your sight only

16to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to

17put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.

18You should then have accosted her; and with some

19excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should

20have banged the youth into dumbness. This was

21looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the

22double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash

23off, and you are now sailed into the north of my

24lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle

25on a Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by

26some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.

27An't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy

28I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a

29politician.

30Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of

31valour. Challenge me the count's youth to fight

32with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall

33take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no

34love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's

35commendation with woman than report of valour.

36There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

37Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

38Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief;

39it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun

40of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink:

41if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be

42amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of

43paper, although the sheet were big enough for the

44bed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it.

45Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou

46write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.

47Where shall I find you?

48We'll call thee at the cubiculo: go.

49This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.

50I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand

51strong, or so.

52We shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll

53not deliver't?

54Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the

55youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes

56cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were

57opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as

58will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of

59the anatomy.

60And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no

61great presage of cruelty.

62Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

63If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself

64into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is

65turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no

66Christian, that means to be saved by believing

67rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages

68of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

69And cross-gartered?

70Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school

71i' the church. I have dogged him, like his

72murderer. He does obey every point of the letter

73that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his

74face into more lines than is in the new map with the

75augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such

76a thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things

77at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do,

78he'll smile and take't for a great favour.

79Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

1I would not by my will have troubled you;

2But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,

3I will no further chide you.

4I could not stay behind you: my desire,

5More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;

6And not all love to see you, though so much

7As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,

8But jealousy what might befall your travel,

9Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,

10Unguided and unfriended, often prove

11Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,

12The rather by these arguments of fear,

13Set forth in your pursuit.

14My kind Antonio,

15I can no other answer make but thanks,

16And thanks; and ever [ ] oft good turns

17Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay:

18But, were my worth as is my conscience firm,

19You should find better dealing. What's to do?

20Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

21To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging.

22I am not weary, and 'tis long to night:

23I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes

24With the memorials and the things of fame

25That do renown this city.

26Would you'ld pardon me;

27I do not without danger walk these streets:

28Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count his galleys

29I did some service; of such note indeed,

30That were I ta'en here it would scarce be answer'd.

31Belike you slew great number of his people.

32The offence is not of such a bloody nature;

33Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel

34Might well have given us bloody argument.

35It might have since been answer'd in repaying

36What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,

37Most of our city did: only myself stood out;

38For which, if I be lapsed in this place,

39I shall pay dear.

40Do not then walk too open.

41It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse.

42In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,

43Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet,

44Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge

45With viewing of the town: there shall you have me.

46Why I your purse?

47Haply your eye shall light upon some toy

48You have desire to purchase; and your store,

49I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

50I'll be your purse-bearer and leave you

51For an hour.

52To the Elephant.

53I do remember.

1I have sent after him: he says he'll come;

2How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?

3For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.

4I speak too loud.

5Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil,

6And suits well for a servant with my fortunes:

7Where is Malvolio?

8He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He

9is, sure, possessed, madam.

10Why, what's the matter? does he rave?

11No. madam, he does nothing but smile: your

12ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if

13he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in's wits.

14Go call him hither.

15I am as mad as he,

16If sad and merry madness equal be.

17How now, Malvolio!

18Sweet lady, ho, ho.

19Smilest thou?

20I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

21Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make some

22obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but

23what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is

24with me as the very true sonnet is, 'Please one, and

25please all.'

26Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?

27Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It

28did come to his hands, and commands shall be

29executed: I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.

30Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

31To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I'll come to thee.

32God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss

33thy hand so oft?

34How do you, Malvolio?

35At your request! yes; nightingales answer daws.

36Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

37'Be not afraid of greatness:' 'twas well writ.

38What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?

39'Some are born great,'--

40Ha!

41'Some achieve greatness,'--

42What sayest thou?

43'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'

44Heaven restore thee!

45'Remember who commended thy yellow stocking s,'--

46Thy yellow stockings!

47'And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'

48Cross-gartered!

49'Go to thou art made, if thou desirest to be so;'--

50Am I made?

51'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'

52Why, this is very midsummer madness.

53Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is

54returned: I could hardly entreat him back: he

55attends your ladyship's pleasure.

56I'll come to him.

57Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's

58my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special

59care of him: I would not have him miscarry for the

60half of my dowry.

61O, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than

62Sir Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with

63the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may

64appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that

65in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says she;

66'be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants;

67let thy tongue tang with arguments of state; put

68thyself into the trick of singularity;' and

69consequently sets down the manner how; as, a sad

70face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the

71habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have

72limed her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me

73thankful! And when she went away now, 'Let this

74fellow be looked to:' fellow! not Malvolio, nor

75after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing

76adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no

77scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous

78or unsafe circumstance--What can be said? Nothing

79that can be can come between me and the full

80prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the

81doer of this, and he is to be thanked.

82Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all

83the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion

84himself possessed him, yet I'll speak to him.

85Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir?

86how is't with you, man?

87Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private: go

88off.

89Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not

90I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a

91care of him.

92Ah, ha! does she so?

93Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently

94with him: let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? how

95is't with you? What, man! defy the devil:

96consider, he's an enemy to mankind.

97Do you know what you say?

98La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes

99it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched!

100Carry his water to the wise woman.

101Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I

102live. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.

103How now, mistress!

104O Lord!

105Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the way: do

106you not see you move him? let me alone with him.

107No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is

108rough, and will not be roughly used.

109Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck?

110Sir!

111Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for

112gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang

113him, foul collier!

114Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

115My prayers, minx!

116No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

117Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow

118things: I am not of your element: you shall know

119more hereafter.

120Is't possible?

121If this were played upon a stage now, I could

122condemn it as an improbable fiction.

123His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

124Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.

125Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

126The house will be the quieter.

127Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My

128niece is already in the belief that he's mad: we

129may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance,

130till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt

131us to have mercy on him: at which time we will

132bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a

133finder of madmen. But see, but see.

134More matter for a May morning.

135Here's the challenge, read it: warrant there's

136vinegar and pepper in't.

137Is't so saucy?

138Ay, is't, I warrant him: do but read.

139Give me.

140'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.'

141Good, and valiant.

142[Reads] 'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind,

143why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'

144A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.

145[Reads] 'Thou comest to the lady Olivia, and in my

146sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy

147throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for.'

148Very brief, and to exceeding good sense--less.

149[Reads] 'I will waylay thee going home; where if it

150be thy chance to kill me,'--

151Good.

152[Reads] 'Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain.'

153Still you keep o' the windy side of the law: good.

154[Reads] 'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon

155one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but

156my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy

157friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,

158ANDREW AGUECHEEK.

159If this letter move him not, his legs cannot:

160I'll give't him.

161You may have very fit occasion for't: he is now in

162some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

163Go, Sir Andrew: scout me for him at the corner the

164orchard like a bum-baily: so soon as ever thou seest

165him, draw; and, as thou drawest swear horrible; for

166it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a

167swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood

168more approbation than ever proof itself would have

169earned him. Away!

170Nay, let me alone for swearing.

171Now will not I deliver his letter: for the behavior

172of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good

173capacity and breeding; his employment between his

174lord and my niece confirms no less: therefore this

175letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no

176terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a

177clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by

178word of mouth; set upon Aguecheek a notable report

179of valour; and drive the gentleman, as I know his

180youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous

181opinion of his rage, skill, fury and impetuosity.

182This will so fright them both that they will kill

183one another by the look, like cockatrices.

184Here he comes with your niece: give them way till

185he take leave, and presently after him.

186I will meditate the while upon some horrid message

187for a challenge.

188I have said too much unto a heart of stone

189And laid mine honour too unchary out:

190There's something in me that reproves my fault;

191But such a headstrong potent fault it is,

192That it but mocks reproof.

193With the same 'havior that your passion bears

194Goes on my master's grief.

195Here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture;

196Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you;

197And I beseech you come again to-morrow.

198What shall you ask of me that I'll deny,

199That honour saved may upon asking give?

200Nothing but this; your true love for my master.

201How with mine honour may I give him that

202Which I have given to you?

203I will acquit you.

204Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well:

205A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

206Gentleman, God save thee.

207And you, sir.

208That defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what

209nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know

210not; but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as

211the hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end:

212dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for

213thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly.

214You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel

215to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from

216any image of offence done to any man.

217You'll find it otherwise, I assure you: therefore,

218if you hold your life at any price, betake you to

219your guard; for your opposite hath in him what

220youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal.

221I pray you, sir, what is he?

222He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on

223carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private

224brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and

225his incensement at this moment is so implacable,

226that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death

227and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give't or take't.

228I will return again into the house and desire some

229conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard

230of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on

231others, to taste their valour: belike this is a man

232of that quirk.

233Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a

234very competent injury: therefore, get you on and

235give him his desire. Back you shall not to the

236house, unless you undertake that with me which with

237as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on,

238or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you

239must, that's certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.

240This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me

241this courteous office, as to know of the knight what

242my offence to him is: it is something of my

243negligence, nothing of my purpose.

244I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this

245gentleman till my return.

246Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

247I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a

248mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.

249I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

250Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by

251his form, as you are like to find him in the proof

252of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful,

253bloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly

254have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk

255towards him? I will make your peace with him if I

256can.

257I shall be much bound to you for't: I am one that

258had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I

259care not who knows so much of my mettle.

260Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a

261firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and

262all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal

263motion, that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he

264pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they

265step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.

266Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.

267Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can

268scarce hold him yonder.

269Plague on't, an I thought he had been valiant and so

270cunning in fence, I'ld have seen him damned ere I'ld

271have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip,

272and I'll give him my horse, grey Capilet.

273I'll make the motion: stand here, make a good show

274on't: this shall end without the perdition of souls.

275Marry, I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.

276I have his horse to take up the quarrel:

277I have persuaded him the youth's a devil.

278He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and

279looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.

280[To VIOLA] There's no remedy, sir; he will fight

281with you for's oath sake: marry, he hath better

282bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now

283scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for

284the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you.

285[Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would

286make me tell them how much I lack of a man.

287Give ground, if you see him furious.

288Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman

289will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you;

290he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has

291promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he

292will not hurt you. Come on; to't.

293Pray God, he keep his oath!

294I do assure you, 'tis against my will.

295Put up your sword. If this young gentleman

296Have done offence, I take the fault on me:

297If you offend him, I for him defy you.

298You, sir! why, what are you?

299One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more

300Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

301Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

302O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers.

303I'll be with you anon.

304Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

305Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promised you,

306I'll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily

307and reins well.

308This is the man; do thy office.

309Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino.

310You do mistake me, sir.

311No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,

312Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.

313Take him away: he knows I know him well.

314I must obey.

315This comes with seeking you:

316But there's no remedy; I shall answer it.

317What will you do, now my necessity

318Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me

319Much more for what I cannot do for you

320Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed;

321But be of comfort.

322Come, sir, away.

323I must entreat of you some of that money.

324What money, sir?

325For the fair kindness you have show'd me here,

326And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,

327Out of my lean and low ability

328I'll lend you something: my having is not much;

329I'll make division of my present with you:

330Hold, there's half my coffer.

331Will you deny me now?

332Is't possible that my deserts to you

333Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,

334Lest that it make me so unsound a man

335As to upbraid you with those kindnesses

336That I have done for you.

337I know of none;

338Nor know I you by voice or any feature:

339I hate ingratitude more in a man

340Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,

341Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption

342Inhabits our frail blood.

343O heavens themselves!

344Come, sir, I pray you, go.

345Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here

346I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death,

347Relieved him with such sanctity of love,

348And to his image, which methought did promise

349Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

350What's that to us? The time goes by: away!

351But O how vile an idol proves this god

352Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.

353In nature there's no blemish but the mind;

354None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind:

355Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil

356Are empty trunks o'erflourish'd by the devil.

357The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.

358Lead me on.

359Methinks his words do from such passion fly,

360That he believes himself: so do not I.

361Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,

362That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!

363Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian: we'll

364whisper o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.

365He named Sebastian: I my brother know

366Yet living in my glass; even such and so

367In favour was my brother, and he went

368Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,

369For him I imitate: O, if it prove,

370Tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love.

371A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than

372a hare: his dishonesty appears in leaving his

373friend here in necessity and denying him; and for

374his cowardship, ask Fabian.

375A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

376'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.

377Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

378An I do not,--

379Come, let's see the event.

380I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.

1Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?