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 crave of you your leave,
that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompence
for your love, to lay any of them on you.
-- 335 --
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 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 one hour; if the heavens had been
pleas'd, would we had so ended! but you, Sir, alter'd
that; for some hours before you took me from
the breach of the sea, was my sister drown'd.
Ant.
Alas the day!
Seb.
A lady, Sir, who, tho' it was said she much
resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful;
but tho' I could not with such estimable* note wonder
over-far 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;
tho' I seem to drown her remembrance again,
with more.
Ant.
Pardon me, Sir, your bad entertaiment.
Seb.
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
Ant.
If you will not murther 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 duke Orsino's
court; farewel.
Ant.
The gentleness of the Gods go with thee!
[Exeunt severally.
-- 336 --
Scene
SCENE. Enter Viola, and Malvolio following.
Mal.
Young gentleman, were you not ev'n 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; for being
your lord's, she'll none of it. 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.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none,
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside should have charm'd her!
She made good view of me, indeed so much,
That sure methought her eyes did let her tongue,
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.
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'unty.
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE. Olivia's houses.
Sir Toby and Sir Andrew discovered.
Sir To.
Come, Sir Andrew, not to be a-bed after
midnight, is to be up betimes, and Diluculo surgere,
thou know'st.—
-- 337 --
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 worse than 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* note?
Sir And.
'Faith, so they say, but I think it rather
consists of eating and drinking.
Sir To.
Th'art a scholar, let us therefore eat and
drink. Maria! I say; a stoop 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 three?
Sir To.
Welcome, ass.
Sir And.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent
wit. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a
leg as the fool has. Insooth thou wast in very gracious
fooling, last night, when thou spok'st of Pigrogromitus,
of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of
Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith: I sent thee sixpence
for thy leman, had'st it?
Clo.
I did† note impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's
nose is no whip-stock, 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.
Sir To.
But shall we make the welkin dance, indeed?
shall we rouze the night-owl in a catch, that
will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do
that‡ note?
-- 338 --
Sir And.
An you love me, let's do't: I am a dog
at a catch.
Clo.
By'r lady, Sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Sir And.
Begin, fool; it begins, Hold thy peace.
Clo.
I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And.
Good, i'faith: why then some thing else,
or what you will. Come, begin.
[They sing.]
Scene
SCENE. Enter Maria.
Mar.
What a catterwauling do you keep, here?
if my lady have not call'd up her steward Malvolio,
and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
Sir To.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians,
Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men be we.
Am not I consanguineous? am not I of her blood?
Tilly valley, lady! there dwelt a man in Babylon,
lady, lady* note.
[Singing.
Clo.
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable 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.
[They sing a catch.
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 you make an
ale-house of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your
† notecosiers 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.
Sneak up!
Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady
bade me tell you, that tho' she harbours you as her
-- 339 --
uncle, she's nothing ally'd 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 farewel.
Sir To.
Farewel, dear heart, since I must needs be
gone.
[Singing.
Mal.
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.
[Falls down, singing.
Clo.
Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal.
This is much credit to you.
Sir To.
Sir, you lie: art thou any more than a
steward? dost thou think, because thou art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Clo.
Yes, by St. Anne; and ginger shall be hot
i'th' mouth, too.
Sir To.
Thou'rt i' th' right. Go, Sir, rub your
chin with crums. A stoop of wine, Maria.
Mal.
Mrs. 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 duke'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.
-- 340 --
Mar.
Marry, Sir, sometimes he is a kind of a 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 affected ass, that
cons state without book, and utters it by great
* noteswaths. The best persuaded of himself: so cramm'd,
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; on a forgotten matter we can hardly
make distinction of our hands.
Sir To.
Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And.
I hav'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 colour.
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
physick will work with him. I will plant you two,
and let Fabian make a third, where he shall find the
letter: observe his construction of it: for this night
to bed, and dream on the event. Farewel.
[Exit.
-- 341 --
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 had'st 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.
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
SCENE. The palace.
Enter Duke and Viola.
Duke.
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* note
.
My life upon't, young tho' thou art, thine eye
Hath staid upon some favour that it loves:
Hath it not, boy?
Vio.
A little, by your favour.
Duke.
What kind of woman is't?
Vio.
Of your complexion.
Duke.
She is not worth thee, then.
Once more, Cesario,
-- 342 --
Get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty land* note;
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 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: 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.
What's her history?
Vio.
A blank, my lord: she never told her love† note;
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,
-- 343 --
Our shews are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke.
But dy'd thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio.
I'm all the daughters of my father's house,
And I am all the sons; but 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.
Scene
SCENE. Olivia's garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir To.
Come thy ways, signor Fabian.
Fab.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this
sport, let me be boil'd 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's pity of our lives.
Enter Maria.
Sir To.
Here comes the little villain: how now,
my nettle of India?
Mar.
Get ye all three behind yon tree; Malvolio's
coming down this walk, he has been yonder i'th'
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. [Throws the letter upon the ground.] Close,
in the name of jesting; lie thou there; for here comes
the trout that must be caught with tickling.
[Exit.
Scene
SCENE. Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once
told me she did affect me; and I have heard herself
-- 344 --
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.
Oh, peace: contemplation makes a rare
turkey-cock of him: how he jets, under his advanced
plumes!
Sir And.
'Slife, 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
* noteStrachy 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—
Sir To.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!
Mal.
Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd
velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where
I have left Olivia sleeping.
Sir To.
Fire and brimstone!
Fab.
Oh, 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 uncle Toby—
Sir To.
Bolts and shackles!
Fab.
Oh, peace, peace, peace; now, now.
Mal.
Seven of my people with an obedient start,
make out for him: I frown, the while, and perchance
-- 345 --
wind* note up my watch, or play with some rich
jewel. Toby approaches, bows there to me.
Sir To.
Shall this fellow live?
Mal.
I extend my hand to him, thus: quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of controul.
Sir To.
And does not Toby take you a blow o' th'
lips then?
Mal.
Saying, uncle Toby, my misfortunes 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 To.
That's me, I warrant you.
Mal.
One Sir Andrew.
Sir And.
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me a
fool.
Mal.
What implement have we here?
[Taking up the letter.
Fab.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
Sir To.
Oh, peace! now 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 makes
she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question,
her hand.
Sir And.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's: why,
that?
Mal.
To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good
wishes; her very phrases: By your leave, wax. Soft!
and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses
to seal; 'tis my lady: to whom should this be?
-- 346 --
Fab.
This wins him, liver and all.
Mal.
Jove knows, I love, alas! but who,
Lips do not move, no man must know.
No man must know—what follows? the numbers
alter—no man must know—if this should be thee;
Malvolio?
Sir To.
Marry hang thee, Brock* note!
Mal.
I may command, where I adore,
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart does gore,
M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.
Fab.
A fustian riddle.
Sir To.
Excellent wench, say I.
Mal.
M. O. A. I. doth sway my life—nay, but
first let me see—let me see—
Fab.
What a dish of poison has the she dress'd him!
Sir To.
And with what wing the stanyel† note checks
at it!
Mal.
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 capacity. 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.
Sir To.
O, ay! make out that; he is now at a cold
scent.
Fab.
Sowter will cry upon't, for all this, tho' it
ben't as rank as a fox.
Mal.
M.—Malvolio.—M.—why, that begins
my name.
Fab.
Did not I say he would work it out? the
cur is excellent at a fault.
Mal.
M. But then there is no consonancy in the
sequel; that suffers under probation; A should follow,
but O does.
Fab.
And O should end, I hope.
-- 347 --
Sir To.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry O.
Mal.
And then I comes behind.
Fab.
Ay, an you had an 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 is in my name.
Soft, here follows prose—If this fall into thy hand,
revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not
afraid of greatness; some are born great, some atchieve
greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirits embrace
them; and to inure thyself to what thou art like
to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be
opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants: let
thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into
the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee, that
sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow
stockings, and wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I
say, remember; go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to
be so: if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow
of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers.
Farewel. She that would alter services with thee, the
fortunate and happy. Day-light and* note champian discover
no more: this is open. I will be proud, I
will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will
wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point devise,
the very man. I do not 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-garter'd,
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-garter'd, even with the swiftness of putting on.
Jove, and my stars be praised! Here is yet a postscript.
Thou canst not chuse but know who I am; if
-- 348 --
thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling;
thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence
still smile, dear my sweet, I pry'thee smile. Jove, I
thank thee; I will smile, I will do every thing that
thou wilt have me.
[Exeunt* note.
Omnes.
Ha! ha! ha!
Fab
I will not give my part of this sport, for a
pension of thousands, to be paid from the Sophy.
Sir To.
I could marry this wench, for this device.
Sir And.
And so could I too.
Sir To.
And ask no other dowry with her, but
such another jest.
Scene
SCENE. Enter Maria.
Sir And.
Nor I, neither.
Fab.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Sir To.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
Sir And.
Or o' mine, either?
Sir To.
Shall I become thy bond-slave?
Sir And.
Or I, either?
Sir To.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream,
that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad.
Mar.
Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?
Sir To.
Like Aqua vitæ with a midwife.
Mar.
If you will then see the fruit 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-garter'd, a fashion she detests;
and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable
to her disposition, being addicted to 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!
Sir And.
I'll make one, too.
[Exeunt.† note.
End of the Second ACT.
-- 349 --
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].
