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.

Vio.
I thank you. Here comes the count.

Duke.
Who saw Cesario, ho?

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 gait 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,
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 belye 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^{3 note}.
I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:—Some four, or five, attend him;
All, if you will; for I myself 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 barrful strife^{4 note}!
Who-e'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt. SCENE V. 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 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^{5 note}

Mar.

Make that good.

Clo.

He shall see none to fear.

Mar.

A good lenten^{6 note}

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;^{7 note}

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.

Clo.

Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: For what says Quinapalus? Better 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, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.

Clo.

Two faults, Madonna^{9 note}, 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 Madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli.

Can you do it?

Clo.

Dexterously, good Madonna.

Oli.

Make your proof.

Clo.

I must catechize you for it, Madonna; Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

Oli.

Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.

Clo.

Good Madonna, why mourn'st thou?

Oli.

Good fool, for my brother's death.

Clo.

I think, his soul is in hell, Madonna.

Oli.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Clo.

The more fool you, Madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.—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 the better fool.

Clo.

God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better encreasing 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.

^{1 note}

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 kinsman.

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, Madonna, 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!

Oli.

By mine honour, half drunk.—What is he at the gate, cousin?

Sir To.

A gentleman.

Oli.

A gentleman? What gentleman?

Sir To.

^{2 note}

Clo.

Good Sir Toby,—

Oli.

Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Sir To.

Lechery! I defy lechery: There's one at the gate.

Oli.

Ay, marry; what is he?

Sir To.

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

Oli.

What's a drunken man like, fool?

Clo.

Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat^{3 note} 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 coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go, look after him.

Clo.

He is but mad yet, Madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.

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 ^{4 note}

at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you.

Oli.

What kind of man is he?

Mal.

Why, of man kind.

Oli.

What manner of man?

Mal.

Of very ill manner; 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 e'en 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.

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 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; ^{5 note}

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 saucy at my gates; and 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 ^{6 note}

Mar.

Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

Vio.

No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer^{7 note}
.—Some mollification for your ^{8 note}

^{9 note}

Tell me your mind.

Vio.

I am a messenger.

Oli.

Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy 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. ^{1 note}

Vio.

Excellently done, if God did all.

Oli.

'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

Vio.
'Tis beauty truly blent^{2 note}

Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,
^{3 note}