SCENE VIII.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once
told me, she did affect me; and I have heard her self
come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one
of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more
exalted respect, than any one else that follows her.
What should I think on't?
Sir To.
Here's an over-weaning rogue.—
Fab.
O, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkey-cock
of him; how he jets under his advanc'd
plumes!
Sir And.
'Slife, I could so beat the rogue.
Sir To.
Peace, I say.
Mal.
To be Count Malvolio,—
-- 156 --
Sir To.
Ah, rogue!
Sir And.
Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir To.
Peace, peace.
Mal.
There is example for't: 9 notethe Lady of the
Trachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Sir And.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
Fab.
O, peace, now he's deeply in; look, how
imagination blows him.
Mal.
Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my state—
Sir To.
O for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!—
Mal.
Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd
velvet gown; having come down from a day-bed,
where I have left Olivia sleeping.
Sir To.
Fire and brimstone!
Fab.
O, peace, peace.
Mal.
And then to have the humour of state; and
after a demure travel of regard, telling them, I know
my place, as I would they should do theirs—to ask
for my uncle Toby—
Sir To.
Bolts and shackles!
Fab.
Oh, peace, peace, peace; now, now.
Mal.
Seven of my people with an obedient start
make out for him: I frown the while, and, perchance,
wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel.
Toby approaches, curtsies there to me.
Sir To.
Shall this Fellow live?
Fab.
1 note
Tho' our silence be drawn from us with cares,
yet, peace.
-- 157 --
Mal.
I extend my hand to him thus; quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of controul.
Sir To.
And does not Toby take you a blow o'th'
lips then?
Mal.
Saying, uncle Toby, my fortunes having cast
me on your Neice, give me this prerogative of
speech—
Sir To.
What, what?
Mal.
You must amend your drunkenness.
Sir To.
Out, scab!
Fab.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of
our plot.
Mal.
Besides, you waste the treasure of your time
with a foolish Knight—
Sir And.
That's me, I warrant you.
Mal.
One Sir Andrew,—
Sir And.
I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me
Fool.
Mal.
2 note
What employment have we here?
[Taking up the Letter.
Fab.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
Sir To.
Oh peace! now the spirit of humours intimate
reading aloud to him!
Mal.
By my life, this is my Lady's hand: these
be her very C's, her U's, and her T's, and thus makes
she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her
hand.
-- 158 --
Sir And.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's: why
that?
Mal.
To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good
wishes; her very phrases: By your leave, wax. Soft!
and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses
to seal; 'tis my Lady: to whom should this be?
Fab.
This wins him, liver and all.
Mal.
Jove knows I love, but who, lips do not move,
no man must know. No man must know—what follows?
the number's alter'd—no man must know—
if this should be thee, Malvolio?
Sir To.
Marry, hang thee, Brock!
Mal.
I may command where I adore, but silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore, M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.
Fab.
A fustian riddle.
Sir To.
Excellent wench, say I.
Mal.
M. O. A. I. doth sway my life—nay, but
first, let me see—let me see—
Fab.
What a dish of poison has she dress'd him?
Sir To.
And with what wing the stanyel checks
at it?
Mal.
I may command where I adore. Why, she
may command me: I serve her, she is my Lady.
Why, this is evident to any 3 noteformal capacity. There
is no obstruction in this—and the end—what should
that alphabetical position portend? if I could make
that resemble something in me? softly—M. O.
A. I.—
Sir To.
O, ay! make up that; he is now at a cold
scent.
Fab.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, tho' it be
as rank as a fox.
Mal.
M.—Malvolio—M.—why, that begins
my name.
-- 159 --
Fab.
Did not I say, he would work it out? the cur
is excellent at faults.
Mal.
M. But then there is no consonancy in the
sequel; That suffers under probation: A should follow,
but O does.
Fab.
And O shall end, I hope.
Sir To.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him
cry, O.
Mal.
And then I comes behind.
Fab.
Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you
might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes
before you.
Mal.
M. O. A. I.—4 notethis simulation is not as the
former—and yet to crush this a little, it would bow
to me, for every one of these letters is in my name.
Soft, here follows prose—If this fall into thy hand,
revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid
of greatness; some are born great, some atchieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy
fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace
them; and to inure thyself to what thou art like to be,
cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be opposite
with a kinsman, surly with servants: let thy tongue tang
arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity.
She thus advises thee, that sighs for thee. Remember
who commended thy yellow stockings, and wish'd
to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I say, remember; go to,
thou art made, if thou desirest to be so: if not, let me
see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not
worthy to touch fortunes' fingers. Farewel. She, that
would alter services 5 notewith thee, the fortunate and happy.
Day-light and champian discover no more: this is
-- 160 --
open. I will be proud, I will read politick authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance,
I will be point devise, the very man. I do
not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for
every reason excites to this, that my Lady loves me.
She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she
did praise my leg, being cross-garter'd, and in this
she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of
injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I
thank my stars, I am happy: I will be strange, stout,
in yellow stockings, and cross-garter'd, even with the
swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised!
—Here is yet a postscript. Thou canst not chuse but
know who I am; if thou entertainest my love, let it appear
in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore
in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee.
—Jove, I thank thee! I will smile, I will do
every thing that thou wilt have me.
[Exit.
Fab.
I will not give my part of this sport for a
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
Sir To.
I could marry this wench for this device.
Sir And.
So could I too.
Sir To.
And ask no other dowry with her, but such
another jest.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
