Clown.
Clown.
Will you make me believe, that I am not
sent for you?
Seb.
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow,
Let me be clear of thee.
Clo.
Well held out, i'faith: no, I do not know you,
nor I am not sent to you by my Lady, to bid you
come speak with her; nor your name is not Master
Cesario, nor this is not my nose neither; nothing, that
is so, is so.
Seb.
I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else; thou
know'st not me.
Clo.
Vent my folly!—he has heard that word of
some Great Man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent
my folly! I am afraid, this great lubber the world
will prove a Cockney: I pr'ythee now, ungird thy
strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my Lady;
shall I vent to her, that thou art coming?
Seb.
I pr'ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me; there's
mony for thee. If you tarry longer, I shall give worse
payment.
Clo.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand; these
wise Men, that give fools mony, get themselves a good
report after fourteen years purchase.
Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian.
Sir And.
Now, Sir, have I met you again? there's
for you.
[Striking Sebastian.
Seb.
Why, there's for thee, and there, and there:
are all the people mad?
[Beating Sir Andrew.
Sir To.
Hold, Sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er
the house.
-- 519 --
Clo.
This will I tell my Lady strait: I would not
be in some of your coats for two pence.
[Exit Clown.
Sir To.
Come on, Sir; hold.
[Holding Sebastian.
Sir And.
Nay, let him alone, I'll go another way
to work with him; I'll have an action of battery against
him, if there be any law in Illyria; tho' I struck
him first, yet it's no matter for that.
Seb.
Let go thy hand.
Sir To.
Come, Sir, I will not let you go. Come,
my young Soldier, put up your iron; you are well
flesh'd: come on.
Seb.
I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou
now? if thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.
Sir To.
What, what? nay, then, I must have an
ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.
[They draw and fight.
Enter Olivia.
Oli.
Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold.
Sir To.
Madam.
Oli.
Will it be ever thus? ungracious Wretch,
Fit for the Mountains and the barbarous Caves,
Where Manners ne'er were preach'd; out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario:—
Rudesby, be gone! I pr'ythee, gentle Friend,
[Exeunt Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew.
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there, how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this: thou shalt not chuse but go:
Do not deny; beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
Seb.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep,
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep.
Oli.
Nay, come, I pray: 'would, thou'dst be rul'd by me.
Seb.
Madam, I will.
Oli.
O, say so, and so be!
[Exeunt.
-- 520 --
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
