Maria.
Sir T.
What a plague means my niece, to take the
death of her brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy
to life.
Mar.
By my troth, sir Toby, you must come in earlier
o'nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions
to your ill hours.
Sir T.
Why, let her except, before excepted.
Mar.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the
modest limits of order.
Sir T.
Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I
am: these cloaths are good enough to drink in, and so
be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves
in their own straps.
Mar.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I
heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish
knight, that you brought in one night here, to be her
wooer.
Sir T.
Who? sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar.
Ay, he.
Sir T.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
Mar.
What's that to the purpose?
Sir T.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
Mar.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats;
he's a very fool, and a prodigal.
Sir T.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o'the violde-gambo,
and speaks three or four languages word
for word without book, and hath all the good gifts
-- 8 --
of nature.
Mar.
He hath, indeed, almost natural: for, besides
that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that
he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in
quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would
quickly have the gift of a grave.
Sir T.
By this hand, they are scoundrels, and substractors,
that say so of him. Who are they?
Mar.
They that add moreover, he's drunk nightly
in your company.
Sir T.
With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink
to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and
drink in Illyria: he's a coward, and a coystril, note that will
not drink to my niece, 'till his brains turn o'the toe like
a parish top. What, wench? Castiliano volto note;14Q0432 for here
comes sir Andrew Ague-face.
Enter Sir Andrew.
Sir A.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, sir Toby Belch?
Sir T.
Sweet sir Andrew!
Sir A.
Bless you, fair shrew.
Mar.
And you too, sir.
Sir T.
Accost, sir Andrew, accost.
Sir A.
What's that?
Sir T.
My niece's chamber-maid.
Sir A.
Good note mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
Mar.
My name is Mary, sir.
Sir A.
Good mistress Mary Accost,—
Sir T.
You mistake, knight: accost, is, front her,
board her, woo her, assail her.
Sir A.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this
company. Is that the meaning of accost?
Mar.
Fare you well, gentlemen.
-- 9 --
Sir T.
An thou let part note so, sir Andrew, 'would thou
might'st never draw sword again.
Sir A.
An you part so, mistress, I would I might
never draw sword again; Fair lady, do you think you
have fools in hand?
Mar.
Sir, I have not you by the hand.
Sir A.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
Mar.
Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring
your hand to the buttery bar, and let it drink.
Sir A.
Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor?
Mar.
It's dry, sir.
Sir A.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I
can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?
Mar.
A dry jest, sir.
Sir A.
Are you full of them?
Mar.
Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends:
marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
[Exit Maria.
Sir T.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary; When
did I see thee so put down?
Sir A.
Never in your life, I think; unless you see
canary put me note down: Methinks, sometimes I have no
more wit than a christian, or an ordinary man, has: but
I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does
harm to my wit.
Sir T.
No question.
Sir A.
An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride
home to-morrow, sir Toby.
Sir T.
Pourquoy, my dear knight?
Sir A.
What is pourquoy? do, or not do? I would I
had bestow'd that time in the tongues, that I have in
fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but follow'd
-- 10 --
the arts!
Sir T.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
Sir A.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
Sir T.
Past question; for, thou see'st, it will not curl
by nature note.
Sir A.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Sir T.
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff: and
I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and
spin it off.
Sir A.
'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, sir Toby: your
niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one
she'll none of me; the count himself, here hard by, woes
her.
Sir T.
She'll none of the count; she'll not match
above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I
have heard her swear't. note Tut, there's life in't, man.
Sir A.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o'th'
strangest mind i'the world; I delight in masques and revels
sometimes altogether.
Sir T.
Art thou good at these kickshaws, knight?
Sir A.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under
the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare
with an old man.
Sir T.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
Sir A.
'Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir T.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
Sir A.
And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as
strong as any man in Illyria.
Sir T.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore
have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to
take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? Why dost thou
not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto?
-- 11 --
my very walk should be a jig; I would not so
much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace. What dost
thou mean; is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think,
by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd
under the star of a galliard.
Sir A.
Ay note 'tis strong; and it does indifferent well
in a flame-colour'd stocking. note Shall we set about some
revels?
Sir T.
What shall we do else? were we not born under
Taurus?
Sir A.
Taurus? that's sides, and heart.
Sir T.
No, sir; it is legs, and thighs. Let me see thee
caper: † ha! higher: † ha, ha! excellent!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Valentine, and Viola in Man's Attire.
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.
Enter Duke, attended.
Duk.
Who saw Cesario, ho?
Vio.
On your attendance, my lord; here.
Duk.
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;
-- 12 --
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.
Duk.
Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio.
Say, I do speak with her, my lord; What then?
Duk.
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 nuntio note of more grave aspéct.
Vio.
I think not so, my lord.
Duk.
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.
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:—&clquo;yet, a barful strife;&crquo;
&clquo;Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.&crquo;
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
A Room in Olivia's House.
-- 13 --
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 to fear no colours.
Mar.
Make that good.
Clo.
He shall see none to fear.
Mar.
A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where
that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
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 note turn'd away; Is not that as good as a hanging
to you?
Clo.
Many a note good hanging prevents a bad marriage;
and, for turning away, let summer bear it out.
Mar.
You are note 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 note best.
[Exit.
Enter Olivia, attended, and Malvolio.
Clo.
Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling!
-- 14 --
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, you're 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 syllogism will serve, so; if
it will not, What remedy? as there is no true cuckold
but calamity, so beauty's a flower14Q0433:—The lady
bad take away the fool; therefore I say again, take her
away.
Oli.
Sir, I had them take away you.
Clo.
Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus
non facit monachum: that's as much as to say, I note wear
not motley in my brain. Good madona, give me leave
to prove you a fool.
Oli.
Can you do it?
Clo.
Dexteriously, good madona.
Oli.
Make your proof.
Clo.
I must catechize you for it, madona; Good my
mouse of virtue, answer me.
Oli.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide
your proof.
-- 15 --
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 note 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 gag'd. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow
so at these set kind of fools, to be 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 note,
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.
-- 16 --
Clo.
Now Mercury indue thee with leasing, for thou
speak'st well of fools!
Re-enter Maria.
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; Fye on him! [Exit Maria.] 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, madona, as if thy eldest
son should be a fool: whose scull Jove cram with brains,
for here comes note one of thy kin has a most weak pia
mater.
Enter Sir Toby.
Oli.
By mine honour, half drunk.—What is he at
the gate, cousin?
Sir T.
A gentleman.
Oli.
A gentleman? What gentleman?
Sir T.
'Tis a gentleman14Q0434:—[hiccups.] A plague of
these pickle-herring!—How now, sot?
Clo.
Good sir Toby,—
Oli.
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by
this lethargy?
Sir T.
Letchery? I defy letchery: There's one at the gate.
Oli.
Ay, marry; what is he?
-- 17 --
Sir T.
Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not:
give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
[Exit Sir Toby]
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; note 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.
[Exit Clown.
Re-enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Madam, yon' 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 is
fortify'd against any denial.
Oli.
Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
Mal.
He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand
at your door like a sheriff's post, and be note the supporter
to a bench, but he'll speak with you.
Oli.
What kind o'man is he?
Mal.
Why, of man kind.
Oli.
What manner of man?
Mal.
Of very ill manner; note 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
-- 18 --
e'en standing note 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.
[Exit.
Re-enter Maria.
Oli.
Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter Viola. note
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 pen'd, I
have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me
sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, comptible, even to the least
sinister usage.
Oli.
Whence came you, sir?
Vio.
I can say little more than I have study'd, 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
phangs 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
-- 19 --
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 moon with me, to
make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Mar.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies 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 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 maidenhead: note to your ears,
divinity; to any others, prophanation.
Oli.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
[Exeunt Maria, and Attendants.] Now, sir,
what is your text?
Vio.
Most sweet lady,—
-- 20 --
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, [unveiling] and shew you
the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this note present:
14Q0435 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 lay'd on:
Lady, you are the cruel'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
inventory'd; and every particle, and utensil, label'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, though you were crown'd
-- 21 --
The non-pareil of beauty.
Oli.
How does he love me?
Vio.
With adorations, with fertil tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli.
Your lord does 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 suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
Oli.
Why, what would you?
Vio.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal canzons note 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:
-- 22 --
I thank you for your pains: spend this † for me.
Vio.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, 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 Viola.
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 limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon: Not too fast; soft; note
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 subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.—
What, ho! Malvolio!
Re-enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Here, madam, at your service.
Oli.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's note man note: he left this &dagger2; 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 reasons for't. Hye 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: Ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed, must be; And be this so!
[Exit.
-- 23 --
Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
