Enter MALVOLIO.

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

Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that though she harbors you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself from your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone. Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo. His eyes do show his days are almost done.

Mal. Is't even so?

Sir To. But I will never die.

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal. This is much credit to you.

Sir To. Shall I bid him go?

Clo. What an if you do?

Sir To. Shall I bid him go and spare not?

Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To. Out o' time? sir, ye lie.

[Singing.

art any more than a

steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the

mouth too.

Sir To. Thou'rt i' the right.-Go, sir, rub your chain with crums:-A stoop of wine, Maria!

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favor at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

Mar. Go shake your ears.

[Exit.

Sir And. Twere as good a deed as to drink when a hungry, to challenge him to the field; and then to promise with him, and make a fool of him.

man's a

break

Sir To. Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll deliver t hy indignation to him by word of mouth."

Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with

him: if I do not gull him into a nay-word, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.

Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him. Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog. Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swaths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the color of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And. I have't in my nose too.

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.

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

Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [Exit.

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.

Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.

Sir To. She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me: What o' that?

Sir And. I was adored once, too.

Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.-Thou hadst need send for more money.

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

Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut.

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke's Palace.

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.

Duke. Give me some music:- Now, good morrow, friends:

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night
Methought, it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms,
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:
Come, but one verse.

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

Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is about the house. Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit CURIO.- Music. Come hither, boy: If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it, remember me; For such as I am, all true lovers are; Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.

Duke.

Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favor that it loves;

Hath it not, boy?

Vio.

A little, by your favor.

Of your complexion.

Duke. What kind of woman is't?

Vio.

Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i'faith?
Vio.
About your years, my lord.

Duke. Too old, by heaven: Let still the woman take

An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are.

Vio.

I think it well, my lord. Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:

For women are as roses; whose fair flower,

Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter CURIO and Clown.

Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night: Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.

Clo. Are you ready, sir?
Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing.

SONG.

Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it;

My part of death no one so true
Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet

[Music.

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, where

Sad true-love never find my grave,
To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another. Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal.-I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Exit Clown.

Duke. Let all the rest give place.

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.
Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir?
Duke. I cannot be so answered.

'Sooth, but you must.

Vio.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so: Must she not then be answered?
Duke. There is no woman's sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,-
No motion of the liver, but the palate,—
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.

Vio.

Ay, but I know,

Duke. What dost thou 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 loved a man, As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.

Duke.

And what's her history?
A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Vio.