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 ^{8 note}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 ^{9 note}in all notions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?

&wlquo;Vio.
&wlquo;^{1 note}
It gives a very echo from the seat
&wlquo;Where love is thron'd.&wrquo;

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.

&wlquo;Duke.
&wlquo;Too old, by heav'n; let still the woman take
&wlquo;An elder than her self, so wears she to him;
&wlquo;So sways she level in her husband's heart.&wrquo;
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;
&wlquo;The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
&wlquo;And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
&wlquo;Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
&wlquo;^{2 note}And tallies with the innocence of love,
&wlquo;Like the old age.&wrquo;

Clo.
Are you ready, Sir?

Duke.
Ay; pr'ythee, sing. [Musick.
SONG.
&wlquo;Come away, come away, death,
  &wlquo;And in sad cypress let me be laid;
&wlquo;Fly away, fly away, breath,
  &wlquo;I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
&wlquo;My shrowd of white, stuck all with yew,
  &wlquo;O, prepare it.
&wlquo;My part of death no one so true
  &wlquo;Did share it.&wrquo;

&wlquo;Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
  &wlquo;On my black coffin let there be strown:
&wlquo;Not a friend, not a friend greet
  &wlquo;My poor corps, where my bones shall be thrown.
&wlquo;A thousand thousand sighs to save,
  &wlquo;Lay me, O! where
&wlquo;True lover never find my grave,
  &wlquo;To weep there.&wrquo;

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 ^{3 note}a very opal! I would have men of such constancy put to sea, ^{4 note}that their business might be every thing, and their intent no where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.