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 --
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].
