Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

Vio. In Orsino's bosom. [bosom? Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of his Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of [no more to say? Oli. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you Vio. Good Madam, let me see your face.

Enter VIOLA.

Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? [will Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. Your Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty!-I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the house; for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister

usage.

Oli. Whence came you, sir?

Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. Oli. Are you a comedian?

Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

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

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

Oli. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allow'd your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. [way. Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind.

Vio. I am a messenger. Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.

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

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. [Unveiling.] Look you sir, such a one as I was, this presents. Is't not well done?

Vio. Excellently done, if nature did all. Oli. 'Tis in-grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather. [white Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy.

Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried; and every particle, and utensil, labell'd to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? [proud;

crown'd

Vio. I see you what you are: you are too But, if you were the Devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you: O, such love Could be but recompens'd, though you were The nonpareil of beauty! Oli. How does he love me? Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot

love him:

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth,
In voices well divulg'd;‡ free, learn'd, and valiant,
And in dimension, and the shape of nature,
A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him:
He might have took his answer long ago.
Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suff'ring, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense;
I would not understand it.

Oli.
Why, what would you?
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.

Oli. You might do much.-What is your parentage?

Vio. Above my fortunes; yet my state is well:

Vio. Most sweet lady,

* Accountable.

+ It appears from several parts of this play that the original actress of Maria was very short. Well spoken of by the world.

? Cantos, verses.

Oli.

Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more; Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse: My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint, that you shall love; And let your fervour, like my master's, be Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit. Oli. What is your parentage?

"Above my fortunes; yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman."-I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue,thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon:-Not too fast:--
soft! soft!

Unless the master were the man.-How now!
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.-
What, ho, Malvolio!-

Mal.

Enter MALVOLIO.

Here, Madam, at your service. Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger, The County's man; he left this ring behind him, Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him : If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, I'll give him reasons for 't. Hie thee, Malvolio. Mal. Madam, I will. [Exit. Oli. I do I know not what: and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be; and be this so! [Exit.

Act Second.

SCENE 1.-The Sea-coast. Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. Ant. WILL you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you?

Seb. By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours: therefore, I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. [bound. Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you are Seb. No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me, then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I call'd Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him, myself and a sister, both born in an hour. If the Heavens had been pleas'd, would we had so ended! but you, sir, alter'd that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drown'd.

Ant. Alas, the day!

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful but, though I could not, with such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her;-she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drown'd already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recover'd, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's Court: farewell. [Exit.

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino's Court, Else would I very shortly see thee there : But, come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. [Exit. SCENE II.-A Street.

Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following. Mal. Were not you e'en now with the Countess Olivia?

Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arriv'd but hither.

Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more,that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so.

Vio. She took the ring of me. I'll none of it. Mal. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so return'd: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit.

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

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her
For she did speak in starts distractedly. [tongue,
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man.-If it be so, (as 'tis,)
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant+ enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their fornis:
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;
For, such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge ?+ My master loves her dearly:
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me :
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love!
As I am woman, now, alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O Time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie.

[Exit.

SCENE III.-A Room in OLIVIA's House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnighi is to be up betimes; and ' diluculo surgere,'-thou know'st,

Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late is to be up late.

Sir To. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early: so that, to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements?

Sir And. 'Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir To. Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.-Marian, I say!-a stoop of wine! Enter Clown.

Sir And. Here comes the Fool, i' faith. Clo. How now, my hearts? see the picture of we three??

+ Suit.

Did you never

? Loggerheads be.

Sir To. [Sings.] 0, the twelfth day of DecemMar. For the love o' God, peace. [ber,

Enter MALVOLIO.

Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

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

Sir And. There's a testril of me too; if one knight give a

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

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song!

Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

Song.

Clo. O mistress mine, where are you roaming,
O stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no farther, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Sir And. Excellent good, i' faith.
Sir To. Good, good.

Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true
Sir To. A contagious breath.

[knight. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that? [at a catch. Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am a dog Clo. By'r lady,sir, and some dogs will catch well. Sir And. Most certain: let our catch be, Thou knave.

Sir To. My lady's a Cataian,+ we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsay, and Three merry men we be. Am not 1 consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally!? lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady! [Singing. Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admiraole fooling.

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be dispos'd, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

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 ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that

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 harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and 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. [needs be gone.

Sir To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby. [done.

Clo. His eyes do show his days are almost 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?

[Singing.

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.-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' th' mouth too.

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

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit.

Mar. Go shake your ears.

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

Sir To. Do 't, Knight: I'll write thee a challenge, or I'll deliver thy 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. [thing of him. Sir To. Possess us++ possess us; tell us someMar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. [like a dog. Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him Sir To. What! for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear Knight?

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't; but 1 nave reason good enough.

Mar. The Devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser; an affection'd ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths:‡‡ the best persuaded

of himself, so cramm'd, 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 colour 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's in love with him.

colour.

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that [an ass. Sir And. And your horse now would make him Mar. Ass, I doubt not.

Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you. 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 ador'd 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' th' end, call me Cut.+ [how you will. Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it 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, goodmorrow, 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 is 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 belov'd.-How dost thou like this tune? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?

[take

Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by Heaven. Let still the woman 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 won, 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! 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, [bones,
And the free maids that weave their thread with
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;

[Music.

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck o'er with yew,
O prepare it;

My part of death, no one so true

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

[sir.

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

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

Duke. Give me now leavc to leave thee.

Clo. Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, 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 everywhere; 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 yond 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 answer'd.
Vio.
'Sooth, but you must.
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 answer'd?
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.
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 lov'd a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

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: she pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat, like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? Vio. I am 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 theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say My love can give no place, bide no denay.*

[Exeunt.

Sir To. Here comes the little villain.-How now, my nettle of India?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk. He has been yonder i' the 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 idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there; [throws down a letter.] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit MARIA.

Enter MALVOLIO.

Mal. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she 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 overweening rogue!

Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him! how he jets + under his advanc'd plumes!

Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue :Sir To. Peace, I say.

Mal. To be Count Malvolio ;

Sir To. Ah, rogue!

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir To. Peace, peace!

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, sitting in my state,— [eye! Sir To. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come from a daybed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

Sir To. Fire and brimstone !

Fab. O, peace, peace!

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 kinsman Toby :Sir To. Bolts and shackles !

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now! 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; court'sies there to me :

Sir To. Shall this fellow live?

Fab. Though our ilence be drawn from us with cords, yet peace.

Mal. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control:

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips, then?

Mal. Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech,'

Sir To. What, what?

Mal. You must amend your drunkenness.' Sir To. Out, scab!

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

Mal. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight:'

Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.
Mal. One Sir Andrew.'-

[fool.

Sir And. I knew 'twas I; for many do call me Mal. What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter. Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. Sir To. O, peace! and 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 make she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand. [that!

Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her T's: why Mal. [Reads.]" To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good wishes" her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.-Soft!-and the impressure,