SCENE I.
The PALACE.
Enter the Duke, Curio, and Lords.
Duke.
If musick be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it; 1 note
that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
-- 354 --
2 note
That strain again;—it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear, like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. Enough!—no more;
'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute; 3 note
so full of shapes in fancy,
-- 355 --
That it alone is high fantastical.
Cur.
Will you go hunt, my Lord?
Duke.
What, Curio?
Cur.
The hart.
Duke.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when my eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought, she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart,4 note
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me. How now, what news from her?
Enter Valentine.
Val.
So please my Lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her hand-maid do return this answer:
The element itself, 'till seven years hence,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloystress, she will veiled walk,
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.
Duke.
O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
-- 356 --
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her? when liver, brain, and heart,
5 noteThree sov'reign thrones, are all supply'd, and fill'd,
6 noteHer sweet perfections, with one self-same King!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lye rich, when canopy'd with bowers.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Street.
Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors.
Vio.
What country, friends, is this?
Cap.
Illyria, Lady.
Vio.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.—
Perchance, he is not drown'd; what think you, sailors?
Cap.
It is perchance, that you yourself were sav'd.
Vio.
O my poor brother! so, perchance, may he be.
Cap.
True, Madam: and to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat: I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast, that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
So long as I could see.
-- 357 --
Vio.
For saying so, there's gold.
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
Cap.
Ay, Madam, well; for I was bred and born,
Not three hours travel from this very place.
Vio.
Who governs here?
Cap.
A noble Duke in nature, as in name.7 note
Vio.
What is his name?
Cap.
Orsino.
Vio.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him:
He was a batchelor then.
Cap.
And so is now, or was so very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 'twas fresh in murmur (as you know,
What Great ones do, the less will prattle of)
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.
Vio.
What's she?
Cap.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a Count,
That dy'd some twelve months since, then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also dy'd; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjur'd the sight
And company of men.
Vio.
O, that I serv'd that lady,
And might not be deliver'd to the world,8 note
'Till I had made mine own occasion mellow
What my estate is!
Cap.
That were hard to compass;
-- 358 --
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the Duke's.
Vio.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain;
And tho' that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution; yet of thee,
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character:
I pr'ythee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this Duke;9 note
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him,
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of musick,
That will allow me very worth his service,
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
Cap.
Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
Vio.
I thank thee; lead me on.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
An Apartment in Olivia's House.
Enter Sir Toby, and Maria.
Sir To.
What a plague means my niece, to
take the death of her brother thus? I
am sure, care's an enemy to life.
Mar.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in
earlier a-nights; your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions
to your ill hours.
Sir To.
Why, let her except, before excepted.
Mar.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the
modest limits of order.
-- 359 --
Sir To.
Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than
I am; these cloaths are good enough to drink in, and
so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang
themselves in their own straps.
Mar.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you;
I heard my lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish
Knight that you brought in one night here, to be her
wooer.
Sir To.
Who, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar.
Ay, he.
Sir To.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
Mar.
What's that to th'purpose?
Sir To.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
Mar.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats:
he's a very fool and a prodigal.
Sir To.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o'th'violdegambo,
and speaks three or four languages word for
word without book, and hath all the good gifts of
nature.
Mar.
He hath, indeed,—almost natural; for besides
that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but
that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he
hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent,
he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
Sir To.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors
that say so of him. Who are they?
Mar.
They that add moreover, he's drunk nightly
in your company.
Sir To.
With drinking healths to my neice: I'll
drink to her as long as there's a passage in my throat,
and drink in Illyria. He's a coward, and a coystril,
that will not drink to my neice 'till his brains turn
o'th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench? 1 noteCastiliano
Volgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.
-- 360 --
SCENE IV.
Enter Sir Andrew.
Sir And.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?
Sir To.
Sweet Sir Andrew!
Sir And.
Bless you, fair shrew.
Mar.
And you too, Sir.
Sir To.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.—
Sir And.
What's that?
Sir To.
My neice's chamber-maid.
Sir And.
Good mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
Mar.
My name is Mary, Sir.
Sir And.
Good mistress Mary Accost,—
Sir To.
You mistake, Knight: accost, is, front her,
board her, wooe her, assail her.
Sir And.
By my troth, I would not undertake her
in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?
Mar.
Fare you well, gentlemen.
Sir To.
An thou let her part so, Sir Andrew, would
thou might'st never draw sword again.
Sir And.
An you part so, mistress, I would I might
never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think,
you have fools in hand?
Mar.
Sir, I have not you by th' hand.
Sir And.
Marry, but you shall have, and here's my
hand.
Mar.
Now, Sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring
your hand to th' buttery-bar, and let it drink.
Sir And.
Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor?
-- 361 --
Mar.
It's dry, Sir.2 note
Sir And.
Why, I think so: I am not such an ass,
but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?
Mar.
A dry jest, Sir.
Sir And.
Are you full of them?
Mar.
Ay, Sir, I have them at my fingers ends:
marry, now I let your hand go, I am barren.
[Exit Maria.
Sir To.
O Knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary:
when did I see thee so put down?
Sir And.
Never in your life, I think, unless you see
canary put me down: methinks, sometimes I have no
more wit than a christian, or an ordinary man has;
but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that
does harm to my wit.
Sir To.
No question.
Sir And.
An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll
ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.
Sir To.
Pourquoy, my dear Knight.
Sir And.
What is pourquoy? do, or not do? I would,
I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in
fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O, had I but
follow'd the arts!
Sir To.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of
hair.
Sir And.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
Sir To.
Past question; for 3 note
thou seest, it will not
curl by nature.
Sir And.
But it becomes me well enough, does't
not?
Sir To.
Excellent! it hangs like flax on a distaff;
-- 362 --
and I hope to see a house-wife take thee between her
legs, and spin it off.
Sir And.
Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby;
your neice will not be seen, or, if she be, it's four to
one she'll none of me: the Duke himself here, hard
by, wooes her.
Sir To.
She'll none o'th' Duke, she'll not match
above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I
have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man.
Sir And.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o'
th' strangest mind i'th' world: I delight in masks and
revels sometimes altogether.
Sir To.
Art thou good at these kick-shaws, Knight?
Sir And.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be,
under the degree of my betters; 4 noteand yet I will not
compare with an old man.
Sir To.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, Knight?
Sir And.
Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
Sir And.
And, I think, I have the back-trick simply
as strong as any man in Illyria.
Sir To.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore
have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like
to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost
thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home
in a coranto? my very walk should be a jig! I would
not so much as make water, but in a sink-a pace:
what dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?
I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it
was form'd under the star of a galliard.
Sir And.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well
in a flame-colour'd stocking. Shall we set about some
revels?
-- 363 --
Sir To.
What shall we do else? were we not born
under Taurus?
Sir And.
Taurus? that's sides and heart.5 note
Sir To.
No, Sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see
thee caper; ha! higher: ha, ha!—excellent.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Changes to the Palace.
Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire.
Val.
If the Duke continue these favours towards you,
Cesario, you are like to be much advanc'd;
he hath known you but three days, and already you
are no stranger.
Vio.
You either fear his humour, or my negligence,
that you call in question the continuance of his love.
Is he inconstant, Sir, in his favours?
Val.
No, believe me.
Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.
Vio.
I thank you: here comes the Duke.
Duke.
Who saw Cesario, hoa?
Vio.
On your attendance, my Lord, here.
Duke.
Stand you a-while aloof.—Cesario,
Thou know'st no less, but all: I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul.
Therefore, good youth, address thy gate unto her;
Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
'Till thou have audience.
Vio.
Sure, my noble Lord,
-- 364 --
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Duke.
Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio.
Say, I do speak with her, my Lord; what then?
Duke.
O, then, unfold the passion of my love,
Surprize her with discourse of my dear faith;
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a Nuncio of more grave aspect.
Vio.
I think not so, my Lord.
Duke.
Dear lad, believe it:
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill, and sound,
And all is semblative—a Woman's part.6 note
I know, thy Constellation is right apt
For this affair.—Some four or five attend him;
All, if you will; for I my self am best
When least in company. Prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy Lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
Vio.
I'll do my best
To woo your Lady; [Exit Duke.] yet, a barful strife!
Who-e'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Changes to Olivia's House.
Enter Maria and Clown.
Mar.
Nay, either tell me where thou hast been,
or I will not open my lips so wide as a
-- 365 --
bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse; my Lady
will hang thee for thy absence.
Clo.
Let her hang me; he, that is well hang'd in
this world, needs fear no colours.
Mar.
Make that good.
Clo.
He shall see none to fear.
Mar.
A good 7 notelenten answer: I can tell thee where
that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
Clo.
Where, good mistress Mary?
Mar.
In the wars, and that may you be bold to
say in your foolery.
Clo.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and
those that are fools, let them use their talents.
Mar.
Yet you will be hang'd for being so long absent,
or be turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging
to you?
Clo.
Marry, a good hanging prevents a bad marriage;
and for turning away, let summer bear it out.
Mar.
You are resolute then?
Clo.
Not so neither, but I am resolv'd on two points.
Mar.
That if one break, the other will hold; or,
if both break, your gaskins fall.
Clo.
Apt, in good faith; very apt: well, go thy
way, if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as
witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.
Mar.
Peace, you rogue, no more o' that; here
comes my Lady; make your excuse wisely, you were
best.
[Exit.
SCENE VII.
Enter Olivia, and Malvolio.
Clo.
Wit, and't be thy will, put me into a good
fooling! those wits, that think they have thee, do
very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee,
-- 366 --
may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus,
Better be a witty fool than a foolish wit.8 note God bless
thee, Lady!
Oli.
Take the fool away.
Clo.
Do you not hear, fellows? take away the Lady.
Oli.
Go to, y'are a dry fool; I'll no more of you;
besides, you grow dishonest.
Clo.
Two faults, Madona, that drink and good
counsel will amend; for give the dry fool drink, then
is the fool not dry: Bid the dishonest man mend himself;
if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot,
let the botcher mend him. Any thing, that's
mended, is but patch'd; virtue, that transgresses, is
but patch'd with sin; and sin, that amends, is but
patch'd with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will
serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? as there is no
true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower: the
Lady bade take away the fool, therefore, I say again,
take her away.
Oli.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
Clo.
Misprision in the highest degree.—Lady, Cucullus
non facit monachum; that's as much as to say, I
wear not motley in my brain: good Madona, give me
leave to prove you a fool.
Oli.
Can you do it?
Clo.
Dexterously, good Madona.
Oli.
Make your proof.
Clo.
I must catechize you for it, Madona; good
my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Oli.
Well, Sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide
your proof.
Clo.
Good Madona, why mourn'st thou?
Oli.
Good fool, for my brother's death.
Clo.
I think, his soul is in hell, Madona.
-- 367 --
Oli.
I know his soul is in heav'n, fool.
Clo.
The more fool you, Madona, to mourn for
your brother's soul being in heav'n: take away the
fool, Gentlemen.
Oli.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio, doth
he not mend?
Mal.
Yes, and shall do, 'till the pangs of death
shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever
make better the fool.
Clo.
God send you, Sir, a speedy infirmity, for the
better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn,
that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for
two pence, that you are no fool.
Oli.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
Mal.
I marvel, your Ladyship takes delight in such
a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day
with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a
stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already;
unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is
gagg'd. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow
so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools'
Zanies.
Oli.
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and
taste with a distemper'd appetite. To be generous,
guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things
for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets: there is
no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do nothing
but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man,
though he do nothing but reprove.
Clo.
9 note
Now Mercury indue thee with leasing, for
thou speak'st well of fools!
-- 368 --
Enter Maria.
Mar.
Madam, there is at the gate a young Gentleman,
much desires to speak with you.
Oli.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
Mar.
I know not, Madam, 'tis a fair young Man,
and well attended.
Oli.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
Mar.
Sir Toby, Madam, your Uncle.
Oli.
Fetch him off, I pray you, he speaks nothing
but madman: fie on him! Go you, Malvolio; if it
be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home:
What you will, to dismiss it. [Exit Malvolio.] Now
you see, Sir, how your fooling grows old, and people
dislike it.
Clo.
Thou hast spoke for us, Madona, as if thy
eldest Son should be a fool: whose scull Jove cram
with brains, for here comes one of thy Kin has a most
weak Pia Mater!—
SCENE VIII.
Enter Sir Toby.
Oli.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at
the gate, Uncle?
Sir To.
A Gentleman.
Oli.
A Gentleman? what Gentleman?
Sir To.
1 note
'Tis a Gentleman here.—A plague o'
these pickle herring! how now, sot?
-- 369 --
Clo.
Good Sir Toby,—
Oli.
Uncle, Uncle, how have you come so early
by this lethargy?
Sir To.
Letchery! I defie letchery: there's one at
the gate.
Oli.
Ay, marry, what is he?
Sir To.
Let him be the devil and he will, I care
not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
[Exit.
Oli.
What's a drunken man like, fool?
Clo.
Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman:
one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second
mads him; and a third drowns him.
Oli.
Go thou and seek the Coroner, and let him sit
o' my Uncle; for he's in the third degree of drink;
he's drown'd; go, look after him.
Clo.
He is but mad yet, Madona, and the fool shall
look to the madman.
[Exit Clown.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Madam, yond young Fellow swears he will
speak with you. I told him, you were sick; he takes
on him to understand so much, and therefore comes
to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he
seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore
comes to speak with you. What is to be said to
him, Lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Oli.
Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
Mal.
He has been told so; and he says, he'll 2 note
stand
at your door like a Sheriff's post, and be the supporter
to a bench, but he'll speak with you.
-- 370 --
Oli.
What kind o'man is he?
Mal.
Why, of mankind.
Oli.
What manner of man?
Mal.
Of very ill manners; he'll speak with you,
will you or no.
Oli.
Of what personage and years is he?
Mal.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young
enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod,
or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him
in standing water, between boy and man. He is very
well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one
would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of
him.
Oli.
Let him approach: call in my Gentlewoman.
Mal.
Gentlewoman, my Lady calls.
[Exit.
SCENE IX.
Enter Maria.
Oli.
Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter Viola.
Vio.
The honourable Lady of the house, which is
she?
Oli.
Speak to me, I shall answer for her: your will?
Vio.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable Beauty
—I pray you, tell me, if this be the Lady of
the house, for I never saw her. I would be loth to
-- 371 --
cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently
well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good
Beauties, let me sustain no scorn; 3 noteI am very comptible,
even to the least sinister usage.
Oli.
Whence came you, Sir?
Vio.
I can say little more than I have studied, and
that Question's out of my Part. Good gentle One,
give me modest assurance, if you be the Lady of the
house, that I may proceed in my speech.
Oli.
Are you a Comedian?
Vio.
No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very
fangs of malice, I swear, I am not that I play. Are
you the Lady of the house?
Oli.
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Vio.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp
yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to
reserve; but this is from my Commission. I will on
with my speech in your praise, and then shew you the
heart of my message.
Oli.
Come to what is important in't: I forgive you
the praise.
Vio.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis
poetical.
Oli.
It is the more like to be feign'd. I pray you,
keep it in. I heard you were sawcy at my gates; and
I allow'd your approach, rather to wonder at you than
to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you
have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of the moon
with me, to make one in so * noteskipping a dialogue.
Mar.
Will you hoist sail, Sir, here lies your way.
Vio.
No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little
longer. Some mollification for your 4 noteGiant, sweet
Lady.
-- 372 --
5 note
Oli.
Tell me your mind.
Vio.
I am a messenger.
Oli.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver,
when the courtesie of it is so fearful. Speak your
office.
Vio.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture
of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive
in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.
Oli.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what
would you?
Vio.
The rudeness, that hath appear'd in me, have
I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and
what I would, are as secret as maiden-head; to your
ears, divinity; to any other's, prophanation.
Oli.
Give us the place alone. [Exit Maria.] We will
hear this divinity. Now, Sir, what is your text?
Vio.
Most sweet Lady,—
Oli.
A comfortable Doctrine, and much may be
said of it. Where lies your text?
Vio.
In Orsino's bosom.
Oli.
In his bosom? in what chapter of his bosom?
Vio.
To answer by the method, in the first of his
heart.
Oli.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no
more to say?
Vio.
Good Madam, let me see your face.
Oli.
Have you any commission from your Lord to
negotiate with my face? you are now out of your text;
but we will draw the curtain, and shew you the picture.
-- 373 --
6 noteLook you, Sir, such a one I was this present: is't
not well done?
[Unveiling.
Vio.
Excellently done, if God did all.
Oli.
'Tis in grain, Sir; 'twill endure wind and
weather.
Vio.
'Tis Beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruell'st She alive,
If you will lead these graces to the Grave,
And leave the world no copy.
Oli.
O, Sir, I will not be so hard-hearted: I will
give out diverse schedules of my beauty. It shall be
inventoried, and every particle and utensil labell'd to
my will. As, Item, two lips indifferent red. Item,
two grey eyes, with lids to them. Item, one neck,
one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise
me?
Vio.
I see you, what you are; you are too proud;
But if you were the Devil, you are fair.
My Lord and Master loves you: O, such love
Could be but recompens'd, tho' you were crown'd
The Non-pareil of Beauty!
Oli.
How does he love me?
Vio.
With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli.
Your Lord does know my mind, I cannot love him;
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
-- 374 --
In voices well divulg'd; free, learn'd, and valiant;
And in dimension, and the shape of nature,
A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him:
He might have took his answer long ago.
Vio.
If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suff'ring, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense:
I would not understand it.
Oli.
Why, what would you do?
Vio.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal canto's of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night:
7 noteHollow your name to the reverberant hills,
And make the babling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
Oli.
You might do much:
What is your parentage?
Vio.
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
Oli.
Get you to your Lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it; fare you well:
I thank you for your pains; spend this for me.
Vio.
I am no fee'd post, Lady; keep your purse:
My master, not myself, lacks recompence.
Love make his heart of flint, that you shall love,
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! farewel, fair cruelty.
[Exit.
Oli.
What is your parentage?
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:—
I am a gentleman.—I'll be sworn thou art.
-- 375 --
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon—not too fast—soft! soft!
Unless the master were the man.—How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtile stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be—
What ho, Malvolio,—
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Here, Madam, at your service.
Oli.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The Duke's man; he left this ring behind him,
Would I, or not: tell him, I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his Lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hye thee, Malvolio.
Mal.
Madam, I will.
[Exit.
Oli.
I do, I know not what; and fear to find
* noteMine eye too great a flatterer for my mind:
Fate, shew thy force; ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
[Exit.
-- 376 --
Samuel Johnson [1765], The plays of William Shakespeare, in eight volumes, with the corrections and illustrations of Various Commentators; To which are added notes by Sam. Johnson (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [and] C. Corbet [etc.], London) [word count] [S11001].
