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,

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,

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.

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