Sebastian.
Antonio.
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 shall 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.
Ant.
Let me yet know of you, whither you are
bound.
Seb.
No, sooth, Sir; my determinate voyage is meer
extravagancy: but I perceive in you so excellent a
-- 478 --
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 my self: 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, my self, and a Sister, both born in one
hour; if the heav'ns had been pleas'd, would we had
so ended! but you, Sir, alter'd That; for, some hour
before you took me from the breach of the sea, was
my Sister drown'd.
Ant.
Alas, the day!
Seb.
A Lady, Sir, tho' it was said she much resembled
me, was yet of many accounted beautiful; but
tho' I could not with such estimate 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 entertainment.
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.
[Exit.
Ant.
The gentleness of all the Gods go with thee!
I have made enemies in Orsino's Court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But come what may, I do adore thee so,
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.
[Exit.
Enter Viola and Malvolio, at several doors.
Mal.
Were not you e'en now with the Countess Olivia?
-- 479 --
Vio.
Even now, Sir; on a moderate pace I have
since arrived but hither.
Mal.
She returns this ring to you, Sir; you might
have saved me my pains, to have taken it away your
self. 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 lyes in your eye; if not, be it
his that finds it.
[Exit.
Vio.
I left no ring with her; what means this Lady?
Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost 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.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easie is it, for the proper false
In womens waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made, if such we be.
How will this fadge? my Master loves her dearly.
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me;
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.
-- 480 --
Scene 2
SCENE changes to Olivia's House.
Enter Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew.
Sir To.
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after
midnight, is to be up betimes; and
Diluculo furgere, thou know'st,—
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, as 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?
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, now let's have a Catch.
Sir And.
(5) note
By my troth, the fool has an excellent
breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a
leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. Insooth,
thou wast in very gracious fooling last night,
-- 481 --
when thou spok'st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing
the Equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good,
i'faith:(6) note
I sent thee Six-pence for thy Leman, hadst it?
Clo.
I did 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. Now, a Song.—
Sir To.
Come on, there's Six-pence for you. Let's
have a Song.
Sir And.
There's a testril of me too; if one Knight
give a—
Clo.
Would you have a Love-song, or a Song of
good life?
Sir To.
A Love-song, a Love-song.
Sir And.
Ay, ay, I care not for good life.
Clown sings.
O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true Love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty Sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Sir And.
Excellent good, i'faith!
Sir To.
Good, good.
Clo.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter:
Present mirth hath present laughter:
-- 482 --
What's to come, is still unsure;
In Delay there lyes no plenty:
Then come kiss me, Sweet, and twenty:
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
Sir And.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true Knight.
Sir To.
A contagious breath.
Sir And.
Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.
Sir To.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the welkin dance, indeed?
(7) note
Shall we rouze the night-owl in a Catch, that will
draw three souls out of one Weaver? shall we do that?
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.
Most certain; let our Catch be, Thou knave.
Clo.
Hold thy peace, thou knave, Knight. I shall be
constrain'd in't, to call thee knave, Knight.
-- 483 --
Sir And.
'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd
one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold
thy peace.
Clo.
I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And.
Good, i'faith: come, begin.
[They sing a Catch.
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 Catayan, we are Politicians,
Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men be we.
Am not I consanguinious? am I not of her blood?
Tilly valley, Lady! there dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady,
Lady.
[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.
Sir To.
O, the twelfth day of December,—
[Singing.
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 ye make an ale-house
of my Lady's house, that ye squeak out your Coziers
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.
Sneck up!—
[Hiccoughs.
Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My Lady
bade me tell you, that she harbours you as her Uncle,
she's nothing ally'd to your disorders. If you can
separate your self 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.
-- 484 --
Sir To.
Farewel, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
Mal.
Nay, good Sir Toby.
Clo.
His eyes do shew, his days are almost done.
Mal.
Is't even so?
Sir To.
But I will never die.
Clo.
Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal.
This is much credit to you.
Sir To.
Shall I bid him go?
[Singing.
Clo.
What, an if you do?
Sir To.
Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo.
O no, no, no, you dare not.
Sir To.
Out o'time, Sir? ye lie: art thou any more
than steward? dost thou think, because thou art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Clo.
Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot
i'th' mouth too.
Sir To.
Thou'rt i'th' right. Go, Sir, rub your chain
with crums. A stoop of wine, Maria.—
Mal.
Mistress 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 lye straight in my bed: I
know, I can do it.
Sir To.
Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.
Mar.
Marry, Sir, sometimes he is a kind of a Puritan.
-- 485 --
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 affection'd ass, that
cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths.
The best persuaded of himself: So cram'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 gate, the expressure of
his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself
most feelingly personated. I can write very like
my Lady your Neice; on a forgotten matter we can
hardly make distinction of our hands.
Sir To.
Excellent, I smell a device.
Sir And.
I have't in my nose too.
Sir To.
He shall think by the letters, that thou wilt
drop, that they come from my Neice, 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 the Fool 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.
Sir To.
Good night, Penthisilea.
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?
-- 486 --
Sir And.
I was ador'd once too.
Sir To.
Let's to bed, Knight: thou hadst need send
for more mony.
Sir And.
If I cannot recover your Neice, I am a
foul way out.
Sir To.
Send for mony, 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 3
SCENE changes to the Palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.
Duke.
Give me some musick; now, good morrow, friends:
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of Song,
That old and antique Song, we heard last night;
Methought, it did relieve my Passion much;
More than light Airs, and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced Times.
Come, but one Verse.
Cur.
He is not here, so please your Lordship, that
should sing it.
Duke.
Who was it?
Cur.
Feste the Jester, my Lord, a Fool that the Lady
Olivia's Father took much delight in. He is about
the House.
Duke.
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
[Ex. Curio.
[Musick.
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. How dost thou like this Tune?
Vio.
It gives a very Echo to the Seat
Where Love is thron'd.
-- 487 --
Duke.
Thou dost speak masterly.
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. What years, i'faith?
Vio.
About your years, my Lord.
Duke.
Too old, by heav'n; let still the Woman take
An elder than her self, so wears she to him;
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, Boy, however we do praise our selves,
Our Fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than Women's are.
Vio.
I think it well, my Lord.
Duke.
Then let thy love be younger than thy self,
Or thy affection cannot hold the Bent:
For Women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.
Vio.
And so they are: alas, that they are so,
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
Enter Curio and Clown.
Duke.
O fellow, come; the Song we had last night.—
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the Sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly Sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old Age.
Clo.
Are you ready, Sir?
Duke.
I pr'ythee, sing.
[Musick.
-- 488 --
SONG.
Come away, come away, Death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel Maid.
My shrowd of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it.
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
Not a Flower, not a Flower, sweet,
On my black Coffin let there be strown:
Not a Friend, not a Friend greet
My poor corps, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O! where
True Lover never find my Grave,
To weep there.
Duke.
There's for thy pains.
Clo.
No pains, Sir; I take pleasure in singing, Sir.
Duke.
I'll pay thy pleasure then.
Clo.
Truly, Sir, and pleasure will be paid one time
or other.
Duke.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
Clo.
Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the
Taylor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy
mind is a very Opal! (8) note
I would have Men of such
constancy put to sea, that their business might be every
thing, and their intent every where; for that's it,
-- 489 --
that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.
[Exit.
Duke.
Let all the rest give place. Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign Cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty Lands;
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.
It 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: no Woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite:
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much; 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,
-- 490 --
As it might be, perhaps, were I a Woman,
I should your Lordship.
Duke.
And what's her History?
Vio.
A Blank, my Lord: she never told her Love,
But let Concealment, like a worm i'th' bud,
Feed on her damask Cheek: (9) note
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 all the Brothers too—and yet I know not—
Sir, shall I to this Lady?
Duke.
Ay, that's the theam.
To her in haste; give her this Jewel: say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.
-- 491 --
Scene 4
SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir To.
Come thy ways, Signior 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 into the box-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.
Close, in the name of jesting! lye thou there; for
here comes the Trout that must be caught with tickling.
[Throws down a Letter, and Exit.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once
told me, She did affect me; and I have heard her self
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-weaning rogue.—
-- 492 --
Fab.
Oh, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkey-cock
of him; how he jets under his advanc'd
plumes!
Sir And.
'Slife, I could so beat the rogue.
Sir To.
Peace, I say.
Mal.
To be Count Malvolio,—
Sir Tob.
Ah, rogue!
Sir And.
Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir To.
Peace, peace.
Mal.
There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy
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 down from a day-bed,
where I have left Olivia sleeping.
Sir To.
Fire and brimstone!
Fab.
O, 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,
wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby
approaches, curtsies there to me.
Sir To.
Shall this Fellow live?
Fab.
Tho' our silence be drawn from us with cares,
yet, peace.
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?
-- 493 --
Mal.
Saying, Uncle Toby, my fortunes having cast
me on your Neice, 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 And.
That's me, I warrant you.
Mal.
One Sir Andrew,—
Sir And.
I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me
Fool.
Mal.
What employment 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?
Fab.
This wins him, liver and all.
Mal.
Jove knows I love, but who, lips do not move,
no Man must know. No Man must know—what follows?
the number's alter'd—no Man must know—if
this should be thee, Malvolio?
Sir To.
Marry, hang thee, Brock!
Mal.
I may command where I adore, but silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore, M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.
Fab.
A fustian riddle.
Sir To.
Excellent Wench, say I.
-- 494 --
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 she dress'd him?
Sir To.
And with what wing the stallion 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 up that; he is now at a cold
scent.
Fab.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, tho' it be
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 faults.
Mal.
M. But then there is no consonancy in the sequel;
That suffers under probation: A should follow,
but O does.
Fab.
And O shall end, I hope.
Sir To.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry, O.
Mal.
And then I comes behind.
Fab.
Ay, and you had any 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 spirit embrace them; and
to inure thy self 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 thy self into the trick of singularity. She thus
-- 495 --
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
champian discovers no more: this is open. I will be
proud, I will read politick Authors, I will baffle Sir
Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be
point devise, the very man. I do not now 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 her
self 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 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 pr'ythee.—Jove, I thank
thee! I will smile, I will do every thing that thou wilt
have me.
[Exit.
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.
So could I too.
Sir To.
And ask no other dowry with her, but such
another jest.
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 play my freedom at tray-trip, and
become thy Bond-slave?
-- 496 --
Sir And.
I'faith, 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 fruits 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 a 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.
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].
