Scene
SCENE the Palace.
Duke, Curio, and Lords, discovered.
[Soft music plays.]
Duke.
If music be the food of love, play on* note;
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
[Music again.
That strain again; it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear, like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. [Music again.] Hush! no more;
'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before† note
.
-- 318 --
Cur.
Will you go hunt, my Lord?
Duke.
What, Curio?
Cur.
The hart.
Duke.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart,
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds* note,
E'er since pursue me. How now, what news from her?
Enter Valentine.
Val.
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years hence,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But like a cloystress she will veiled walk,
And water once a day her chambers round,
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting, in her sad remembrance still.
Duke.
O! she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else,
That live in her!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers,
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE the street.
Enter Viola, and a Captain.
Vio.
What country, Sir, is this?
Cap.
Illyria, lady.
Vio.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd.
Cap.
It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.
-- 319 --
Vio.
O my poor brother! so perchance may he be.
Cap.
True, madam: and to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves.
So long as I could see.
Vio.
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. And knowest thou this country?
Cap.
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours travel from this very place.
Vio.
Who governs here?
Cap.
A noble duke, in nature,
As in his name.
Vio.
What is his name?
Cap.
Orsino.
Vio.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him:
He was a bachelor, then.
Cap.
And so is now, or was so, very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 'twas fresh in murmur (as you know
What great ones do, the less will prattle of)
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.
Vio.
What's she?
Cap.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count,
That dy'd some twelve months since, then leaving her,
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also dy'd: for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjur'd the company
And sight of men.
Vio.
O that I serv'd that lady,
And't might not be deliver'd to the world,
-- 320 --
'Till I had made my own occasion mellow
What my estate is* note!
Cap.
That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit;
No, not the duke's.
Vio.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And tho' that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution; yet of thee
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pr'ythee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid,
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him† note;
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit,
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
Cap.
Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!
Vio.
I thank thee; lead me on.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE Olivia's house.
‡ noteEnter Sir Toby and Maria.
Sir Tob.
What a plague means my neice to take
the death of her brother, thus? I am sure care's an
enemy to life.
Mar.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in,
-- 321 --
earlier a-nights; your neice, my lady, takes great
exceptions to your ill hours.
Sir To.
Why, let her except, as before excepted.
Mar.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within
the modest limits of order.
Sir To.
Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than
I am; these clothes are good enough to drink in,
and so be these boots, too; if they be not, let them
hang themselves in their own straps.
Mar.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you;
I heard my lady talk of it, yesterday; and of a foolish
knight that you brought in one night here, to be her
wooer.
Sir To.
Who, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar.
Ay, he.
Sir To.
He's as tall a man as any in Illyria.
Mar.
What's that to th' purpose?
Sir To.
Why, he has three thousand ducats, a
year.
Mar.
Ay, but he'll have but a year, in all those
ducats: he's a very fool and a prodigal.
Sir To.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o'th'violde-gambo,
and speaks three or four languages, word
for word, without book, and hath all the good gifts
of nature.
Mar.
He hath indeed—almost natural; for besides
that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but
that he hath the gift of a coward, to allay the gust he
hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent,
he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
Sir To.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors,
that say so of him. Who are they?
Mar.
They that add moreover, he's drunk nightly,
in your company.
Sir To.
With drinking healths to my neice: I'll
drink to her as long as there is a passage in my
throat, and drink in Illyria. He's a coward and a
kestrel* note, that will not drink to my neice, 'till his
brains turn o'th' toe, like a parish-top. What,
-- 322 --
wench?* note Castiliano volto! for here comes Sir Andrew
Ague cheek.
Scene
SCENE. Enter Sir Andrew† note.
Sir And.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?
Sir To.
Sweet Sir Andrew!
Sir And.
Bless you, fair shrew.
Mar.
And you too, Sir.
Sir To.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
Sir And.
What's that?
Sir To.
My neice's chamber-maid.
Sir And.
Good mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
Mar.
My name is Mary, Sir.
Sir And.
Good mistress Mary Accost.
Sir To.
You mistake, knight: accost is, front her,
board her, wooe her, assail her.
Sir And.
By my troth, I would not undertake her,
in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?
Mar.
Fare you well, gentlemen.
Sir To.
If thou let her part so, Sir Andrew, would
thou might'st never draw sword again.
Sir And.
If you part so, mistress, I would I might
never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think
you have fools in hand?
Mar.
Sir, I have not you by th' hand.
Sir And.
Marry, but you shall have, and here's
my hand.
Mar.
Now, Sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring
your hand to th' buttery-bar, and let it drink.‡ note.
Sir And.
Wherefore, sweetheart? what's your metaphor?
-- 323 --
Mar.
It's dry, Sir.
Sir And.
Why, I think so: I am not such an ass,
but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?
Mar.
A dry jest, Sir.
Sir And.
Are you full of them?
Mar.
Ay, Sir, I have them at my fingers ends:
marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
[Exit Maria.
Sir To.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary:
when did I see thee so put down?
Sir And.
Never in your life, I think, unless you
see canary put me down: methinks sometimes I have
no more wit, than a christian, or an ordinary man has;
but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that
does harm to my wit.
Sir To.
No question.
Sir And.
If I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll
ride home, to-morrow, Sir Toby.
Sir To.
Pourquoy, my dear knight?
Sir And.
What is pourquoy? do, or not do? I
would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that
I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O had
I but follow'd the arts!
Sir To.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of
hair.
Sir And.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
Sir To.
Past question, for thou seest it will not curl,
by nature.
Sir And.
But it becomes me well enough, does't
not?
Sir To.
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff;
and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her
legs, and spin it off.
Sir And.
'Faith I'll home, to-morrow, Sir Toby;
your neice will not be seen, or if she be, it's four
to one she'll none of me: the duke himself here, hard
by, wooes her.
Sir To.
She'll none o'th' duke, she'll not match
above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I
have heard her swear. Tut, there's life in't, man.
-- 324 --
Sir And.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow
o'th' strangest mind i'th' world: I delight in masks
and revels sometimes, altogether.
Sir To.
Art thou good at these kick-shaws,
knight?
Sir And.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be,
under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not
compare with an old man* note.
Sir To.
What is thy excellence in a galliard,
knight?
Sir And.
'Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
Sir And.
And I think I have the back-trick,
simply, as strong as any man in Illyria.
Sir To.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore
have these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like
to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost
thou not go to church in a galliard† note, and come home
in a coranto? my very walk should be a jig: what
dost thou mean? is this a world to hide virtues in? I
did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg,
it was form'd under the star of a galliard.
Sir And.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent
well, in a flame-colour'd stocking. Shall we set about
some revels?
Sir To.
What shall we do else? were we not born
under Taurus?
Sir And.
Taurus? that's sides and heart.
Sir To.
No, Sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me
see thee caper: ha! higher: ha! ha! excellent!
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE the palace.
Enter Duke, Viola in man's attire, and Lords.
Duke.
Cesario,
Thou know'st no less, but all: I have unclasp'd
-- 325 --
To thee the book even of my secret soul.
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her,
Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
'Till thou have audience.
Vio.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow,
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Duke.
Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio.
Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
Duke.
O then, unfold the passion of my love,
Surprize her with discourse of my dear faith;
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
Vio.
I think not so, my lord.
Duke.
Dear lad, believe it:
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious* note; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
I know thy constellation is right apt,
For this affair: some four or five attend him,
All, if you will: for I myself am best,
When least in company. Prosper well, in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
[Exit Duke.
Vio.
I'll do my best,
To woo your lady; yet, O baneful strife!
Who-e'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
[Exeunt.
Scene
SCENE, Olivia's house.
Enter Maria and Clown.
Mar.
Nay, either tell me where thou hast been,
or I will not open my lips so wide, as a bristle may
enter, in way of thy excuse; my lady will hang thee,
for thy absence.
-- 326 --
Clo.
Let her hang me; he that is well hang'd in
this world, needs fear no colours.
Mar.
Make that good.
Clo.
He shall see none to fear.
Mar.
A good lenten* note answer: I can tell thee
where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
Clo.
Where, good mistress Mary?
Mar.
In the wars, and that you may be bold to
say in your foolery.
Clo.
Well, heaven give them wisdom, that have it;
and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
Mar.
Yet you will be hang'd for being so long
absent, or be turn'd away; is not that as good as a
hanging to you?
Clo.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage!
and for turning away, let summer bear it
out.
Mar.
You are resolute, then?
Clo.
Not so, neither, but I am resolv'd on two
points.
Mar.
That if one break, the other will hold; or,
if both break, your gaskins† note fall.
Clo.
Apt, in good faith, very apt: well, go thy
way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as
witty a piece of Eve's flesh, as any in Illyria.
Mar.
Peace, you rogue, no more o'that: here
comes my lady; make your excuse wisely; you were
best.
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE. Enter Olivia and Malvolio.
Clo.
Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good
fooling; those wits that think they have thee, do
very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee,
may pass for a wise man‡ note. For what says Quinapalus?
better a witty fool, than a foolish wit. God
bless thee, lady!
-- 327 --
Oli.
Take the fool away.
Clo.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the
lady.
Oli.
Go to, y'are a dry fool; I'll no more of you;
besides, you grow dishonest.
Clo.
Two faults, Madona, that drink and good
counsel will amend; for give the dry fool drink,
then is the fool not dry. Bid the dishonest man
mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest;
if he cannot, let the botcher mend him.
Any thing that's mended, is but patch'd; virtue that
transgresses, is but patch'd with sin; and sin that
amends, is but patch'd with virtue. The lady bad,
take away the fool, therefore, I say again, take her
away* note.
Oli.
Sir, I bad them take away you.
Clo.
Misprision, in the highest degree. Lady, Cuoullus
non facit monachum; that's as much as to say,
I wear not motley in my brain: good Madona, give
me leave to prove you a fool.
Oli.
Can you do it?
Clo.
Dexterously, good Madona.
Clo.
Make your proof.
Clo.
I must catechize you for it, Madona; good
my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Oli.
Well, Sir, for want of other idleness, I'll
bide your proof.
Clo.
Good Madona, why mourn'st thou?
Oli.
Good fool, for my brother's death.
Clo.
I think his soul is in hell, Madona.
Oli.
I know his soul is in heav'n, fool.
Clo.
The more fool you, Madona, to mourn for
your brother's soul being in heav'n: take away the
fool, gentlemen.
Oli.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio, doth
he not mend?
Mal.
Yes, and shall do, 'till the pangs of death
-- 328 --
shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth
ever make better the fool.
Clo.
Heav'n send you, Sir, a speedy infirmity, for
the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be
sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his
word for two pence, that you are no fool.
Oli.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
Mal.
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such
a barren rascal; I saw him put down, the other day,
with an ordinary fool, that has no more brains than
a stone. Look you, now, he's out of his guard, already;
unless you laugh and minister occasion to
him, he is gagg'd. I protest I take those wise men,
that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than
the fools Zanies* note.
Oli.
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and
taste with a distemper'd appetite. To be generous,
guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those
things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets:
there is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do
nothing but rail: nor no railing in a known discreet
man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Clo.
Now Mercury endue thee with learning! for
thou speak'st well of fools.
Enter Maria.
Mar.
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman,
much desires to speak with you.
Oli.
From the duke Orsino is it?
Mar.
I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man,
and well attended.
Oli.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
Mar.
Sir Toby, Madam, your uncle.
Oli.
Fetch him off, I pray you, he speaks nothing
but madman: fie on him! Go you, Malvolio; if it
be a suit from the duke, I am sick, or not at home.
What you will to dismiss it. [Exit Malvolio.] Now
-- 329 --
see, Sir, how your fooling grows old, and people
dislike it.
Clo.
Thou hast spoke for us, Madona, as if thy
eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cramm'd
with brains! for here comes one of thy kin, has a
most weak pia mater.
Scene
SCENE. Enter Sir Toby.
Oli.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at
the gate, uncle?
Sir To.
A gentleman.
Oli.
A gentleman? what gentleman?
Sir To.
'Tis a gentleman. Here—[Belching.] a
plague o'these pickle herrings: how now, sot?
Clo.
Good Sir Toby.
Oli.
Uncle, uncle, how have you come so early
by this lethargy?
Sir To.
Letchery! I defy letchery: there's one at
the gate.
Oli.
Ay marry, what is he?
Sir To.
Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not:
give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
[Exit.
Oli.
What's a drunken man like, fool?
Clo.
Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman:
on edraught above heat, makes him a fool, the second
mads him, and a third drowns him* note.
Oli.
Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit
o'my uncle: for he's in the third degree of drink;
he's drown'd; go look after him.
Clo.
He is but mad, yet, Madona, and the fool shall
look to the madman.
[Exit Clown.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Madam, yon young fellow swears he will
speak with you. I told him you were sick, he takes
on him to understand so much, and therefore comes
to speak with you. I told him you were asleep, he
seems to have a fore-knowledge of that, too, and
-- 330 --
therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be
said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Oli.
Tell him he shall not speak with me.
Mal.
He has been told so; and he says he'll stand
at your door like a sheriff's post* note, or be the supporter
to a bench, but he'll speak with you.
Oli.
What kind o'man is he?
Mal.
Why, of mankind.
Oli.
What manner of man?
Mal.
Of very ill manners; he'll speak with you,
will you or no.
Oli.
Of what personage and years is he?
Mal.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young
enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod,
or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him
in standing water, between boy and man. He is
very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly;
one would think his mother's milk was scarce out of
him.
Oli.
Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.
Mal.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE. Enter Maria.
Oli.
Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter Viola.
Vio.
The honourable lady of the house, which is
she?
Oli.
Speak to me, I shall answer for her: your
will?
Vio.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable
beauty—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of
-- 331 --
the house, for I never saw her. I would be loth 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
prompt, 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 shew
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 feign'd. I pray you,
keep it in. I heard you were sawcy at my gates, and
I 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
the moon with me, to make one in so skipping* note a
dialogue. What are you? what would you?
Vio.
The rudeness that hath appear'd in me, have
I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and
what I would, are as secret to your ears, as divinity;
to any others, prophanation.
Oli.
Give us the place alone. [Exit Maria.] We
will hear this divinity. Now, Sir, what is your
text?
-- 332 --
Vio.
Most sweet lady.
Oli.
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be
said of it. Where lies the text?
Vio.
In Orsino's bosom.
Oli.
In his bosom? in what chapter of his bosom?
Vio.
To answer by the method, in the first of his
heart.
Oli.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you
no more to say?
Vio.
Good madam, let me see your face.
Oli.
Have you any commission from your lord to
negociate with my face? you are now out of your
text? but we will draw the curtain, and shew you
the picture. Look you, Sir, such a one I wear.
[Unveiling.
Vio.
'Tis beauty truly blent* note, whose red and white
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?
Vio.
I see you what you are, you are too proud;
But if you are the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you: O, such love
Could be but recompenc'd, tho' you were crown'd
The non-pareil 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;
-- 333 --
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; 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.
What would you do?
Vio.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal canto's of contemned love,
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night:
Hollow your name to the reverberant hills,
And make the babling 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:
I am a gentleman.
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'm no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:
My master, not my self, lacks recompence.
Love makes his heart of flint, that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! farewel, 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 man the master were.
-- 334 --
How now? even so quickly may one catch
The plague? methinks I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtile stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be—
What, hoa, Malvolio!
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Here, madam, at your service.
Oli.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The duke's man; he left here 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 reason for't. Hye 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, shew thy force; ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
note
End of the First ACT.
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
