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. 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 Sillogism will serve, so; if it will not, what Remedy? As there is no true Cuckold but Calamity, so Beauty's a Flower: The Lady bad take away the Fool, therefore I say again, take her away.

Oli.

Sir, I bad them take away you.

Clo.

Misprision in the highest Degree. Lady, Cucullus non facit monachum; that as much as to say, as I were 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.

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.

Oli.

I know his Soul is in Heaven, Fool.

Clo.

The more Fool you, Madona, 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 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 Brains 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 Canon-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.

Now Mercury indue thee with learning, for thou speak'st well of Fools.

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.

Now 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 he comes. Enter Sir Toby. 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.

'Tis a Gentleman here. A Plague o'these pickle Herring: How now, Sot?

Clo.

Good Sir Toby.

Oli.

Cousin, Cousin, 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.

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 Coz; 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.

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.

Ha's been told so; and he says he'll stand at your Door like a Sheriff's Post, and be the Supporter to a Bench, but he'll speak with you.

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.

Oli.

Give me my Vail: Come, throw it o'er my Face; We'll once more hear Orsino's Embassy.

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 loath 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; I 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 Speech.

Oli.

Are you a Comedian?

Vio.

No, my profound Heart; and yet, by the very Pangs of Malice, I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the Lady of the House?

Oli.

If I do not usurp my self, I am.

Vio.

Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp your self; 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 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 the time of the Moon with me, to make one in so skipping a Dialogue.

Mar.

Will you hoist Sail, Sir, here lyes your way.

Vio.

No, good Swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your Giant, sweet Lady: Tell me your Mind, I am a Messenger,

Oli.

Sure you have some hideous Matter to deliver, when the Curtesie of it is so fearful. Speak your Office.

Vio.

It alone concerns your Ear. I bring no Overture of War, no Taxations 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 a Maiden-head; to your Ears, Divinity; to any others, 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 lyes the 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. Look you, Sir, such a one I was this present: Is't not well done?

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 divers 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 recompenc'd, tho' you were crown'd
The Non-pareil of Beauty.

Oli.
How does he love me?

Vio.
With Adorations, fertile Tears,
With Groans that thunder Love, with Sighs of Fire.

Oli.
Your Lord do's know my Mind, I cannot love him;
Yet I suppose him Virtuous, know him Noble,
Of great Estate, of fresh and stainless Youth;
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 Cantons of contemned Love,
And sing them loud even in the Dead of Night:
Hollow your Name to the reverberate 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 my self, 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,
Thy Tongue, thy Face, thy Limb, 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 subtil Stealth
To creep in at mine Eyes. Well, let it be—
What hoa, 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 Reason for't by thee, Malvolio.

Mal.
Madam, I will. [Exit.

Oli.
I do, I know not what, and fear to find
Mine Eye too great a Flatterer for my Mind:
Fate, shew thy Force, our selves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; and be this so. [Exit.

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