Duke.
Cesario,
Thou know'st no less, but all: I have unclasp'd

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.

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