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.
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].
