ACT II.SCENE I.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.
-- 379 --
Ant.
Let me yet know of you, whither you are
bound.
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 myself2note.
You must know of me then, Antonio, my
name is Sebastian, which I called Rodorigo; my
father was that Sebastian of Messaline3note
, 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 pleased, 'would we had so ended!
but, you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before
you took me from the breach of the sea4note, was my
sister drowned.
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
wonder5note
, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will
-- 380 --
boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could
not but call fair: she is drowned already, sir, with
salt water6note
, 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 recovered, desire
it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of
kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my
mother7note
, 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 even now with the countess
Olivia?
-- 381 --
Vio.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have
since arrived 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 so8note
and her will is, it should be so returned: 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, sure1note, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue2note
,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
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 enemy3note
does much.
How easy is it, for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms4note
? 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?
-- 385 --
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie.
[Exit.SCENE III.A Room in Olivia's House.
Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek.
Sir To.
Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed
after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculosurgere8note, 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 unfilled
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. Do not our lives
consist of the four elements9note
?
Sir And.
'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it
rather consists of eating and drinking1note
.
-- 386 --
Sir To.
Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat
and drink.—Marian, I say!—a stoop2note of wine!
Enter Clown.
Sir And.
Here comes the fool, i' faith.
Clo.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see
the picture of we three3note
?
Sir To.
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
Sir And.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent
breast4note
. I had rather than forty shillings I had
-- 387 --
such a leg; and so sweet a breath to sing, as the
fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling
last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogomitus,
of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus;
'twas very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for
thy leman; Hadst it5note
; for Malvolio's
nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white
hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.
Sir And.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling,
when all is done. Now, a song.
Sir To.
Come on; there is six-pence 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 life7note
?
-- 389 --
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 further, 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 plenty8note
Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed,
and so do I too; he does it with a better
grace, but I do it more natural.
Sir. To. O, the twelfth day of December,—[Singing.
Mar.
For the love o' God, peace.
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 ye
make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak
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 up1note
!
-- 397 --
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.
Sir To. Farewell, dear heart2note, since I must needsbe gone.
than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale4note?
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 crums5note
:—A stoop of wine, Maria!
Mal.
Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour
at any thing more than contempt, you would
not give means for this uncivil rule6note
; she shall
know of it, by this hand.
[Exit.
-- 399 --
Mar.
Go shake your ears.
Sir And.
'Twere as good a deed as to drink when
a man's 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 nayword* note7note, 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.
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 ass9note,
that cons state without book, and utters it by great
swarths1note
: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed,
as he thinks, with excellencies, 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
-- 401 --
wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that
she is in love with him.
Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my
physick 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.
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, knight4note; if thou hast
her not i' the end, call me Cut5note
.
-- 402 --
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 musick:—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 recollected6note
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?
-- 403 --
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.—Musick.
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 belov'd.—How dost thou like this tune?
Vio.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is thron'd7note
.
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?
Duke.
She is not worth thee then. What years, i' faith.
Vio.
About your years, my lord.
-- 404 --
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 worn9note
,
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 display'd, 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 free1note
maids, that weave their thread with bones,
-- 405 --
Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth2note,
And dallies with the innocence of love3note
Duke.
Ay; pr'ythee, sing. [Musick. SONG.Clo.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid5note
;
Fly away, fly away6note, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
-- 406 --
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it7note
.
-- 407 --
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover8note
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
taffata, for thy mind is a very opal9note
!—I would
-- 408 --
have men of such constancy put to sea, that their
business might be every thing, and their intent every
where1note
; 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 bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in2note
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.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,—
No motion of the liver, but the palate,—
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt4note
,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.
Vio.
Aye, 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' the bud6note
,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought7note
,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief9note
10Q0017. 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 too1note
;—and yet I know not:—
Sir, shall I to this lady?
-- 412 --
Duke.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay1note
. [Exeunt.SCENE V.Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek,
and Fabian.
Sir To.
Come thy ways, signior Fabian.
Fab.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this
sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Sir To.
Would'st thou not be glad to have the
niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable
shame?
Fab.
I would exult, man: you know, he brought
me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting
here.
Sir To.
To anger him, we'll have the bear again;
and we will fool him black and blue:—Shall we
not, sir Andrew?
Sir And.
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter Maria.
Sir To.
Here comes the little villain:—How
now, my metal of India2note
?
-- 413 --
Mar.
Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk: he has been yonder
-- 414 --
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
ideot 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 tickling3note.
[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 over-weening rogue!
Fab.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare
turkey-cock of him; how he jets4note
under his advanced
plumes!
Sir And.
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:—
-- 415 --
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
strachy5note
married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
-- 416 --
Sir And.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
Fab.
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look, how
imagination blows him6note
.
Mal.
Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my state7note
,—
Calling my officers about me, in my
branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed9note
,
where I 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 watch1note
I may command where I adore. Why, she
may command me; I serve her, she is my lady.
Why, this is evident to any formal capacity2note
. There
is no obstruction in this;—And the end,—What
should that alphabetical position portend? if I could
make that resemble something in me,—Softly!—
M, O, A, I.—
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you
might see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes
before you.
Mal.
M, O, A, I;—This simulation is not as the
former:—and yet, to crush this a little, it would
bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my
name. Soft; here follows prose.—If this fall intothy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee; butbe not afraid of greatness: Some are born great6note
, and some have greatnessthrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands; letthy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inurethyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble
-- 425 --
slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite8note with a kinsman,surly with servants: let thy tongue tang argumentsof state; put thyself into the trick of singularity:She thus advises thee, that sighs for thee.Remember who commended thy yellow stockings9note
remember. Go to; thou art made, if thou desirestto be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, thefellow of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune'sfingers. Farewell. She that would alter serviceswith thee,
: this
is open. I will be proud, I will read politick authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross
acquaintance, I will be point-de-vice, the very man2note
.
I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade
me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady
loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings
of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered;
-- 427 --
and in this she manifests herself to my love, and,
with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits
of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I
will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and
cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting
on. Jove, and my stars be praised!—Here is yet
a postcript. Thou canst not choose but know whoI am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear inthy smiling; thy smiles become thee well: thereforein my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee.Jove, I thank thee.—I will smile; I will do every
thing that thou wilt have me.
[Exit.
Fab.
I will not give my part of this sport for a
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy3note
.
Sir To.
I could marry this wench for this device:
Sir And.
So could I too.
Sir To.
And ask no other dowry with her, but
such another jest.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport,
mark his first approach before my lady: he will
come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour
she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests6note;
and he will smile upon her, which will now
-- 429 --
be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted
to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn
him into a notable contempt: if you will see it,
follow me.
Sir To.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent
devil of wit!
