Andrew.
Sir To.
Approach Sir Andrew: Not to be a-bed after
Midnight, is to be up betimes, and Diluculo surgere, 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 Lives 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.
Marian 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.
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, when thou spok'st of
Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the Equinoctial of
-- 840 --
Queubus; 'twas very good i'faith: I sent thee six Pence for
thy Lemon, hadst it?
Clo.
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's Nose
is no Whip-stock. My Lady has a white Hand, and the
Mirmidons 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 is 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 roming?
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, 'faith.
Sir To.
Good, good.
Clo.
What is Love, 'tis not hereafter,
Present Mirth hath present Laughter:
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 a 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? Shall we rouze
the Night-Owl in a Catch, that will draw three Souls out
of one Weaver? Shall we do that?
Sir And.
And you love me, let's do't: I am a Dog at a
Catch.
-- 841 --
Clo.
Byr 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.
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 'ifaith: Come, begin.
[They sing a Catch.
Enter Maria.
Mar.
What a Catterwalling 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 not I 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 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.
Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My Lady
bade me tell you, that she harbours you as her Kinsman,
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, and it would please you to take leave of her,
she is very willing to bid you farewel.
Sir To.
Farewel, dear Heart, since I must needs be gone.
Mar.
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 dye.
-- 842 --
Clo.
Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal.
This is much Credit to you.
Sir To.
Shall I bid him go?
[Singing.
Clo.
What and 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'tune, Sir, ye lie: Art thou any more than
a 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 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 nayword, 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.
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
-- 843 --
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?
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.
-- 844 --
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
