Antonio.
Ant.
Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that
I go with you?
Seb.
By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over
me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper
yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave,
that I may bear my evils alone: it were a bad recompence
for your love, to lay any of them on you.
Ant.
Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
Seb.
No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is meer
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a
touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me
what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me
in manners the rather to express myself: You must
know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which
I call'd Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of
Messaline,14Q0436 whom I know, you have heard of: he left
behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour;
If the heavens had been pleas'd, would we had so ended!
but you, sir, alter'd that; for, some hour before
you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister
drown'd.
Ant.
Alas, the day!
Seb.
A lady, sir, though note it was said she much resembl'd
me, was yet of many accounted beautiful:
but, though I could not, with such estimable wonder,
over-far believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish
-- 24 --
her, she bore a mind that envy could note not but
call fair: she is drown'd already, sir, with salt water,
though I seem to drown her remembrance again with
more.
Ant.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
Seb.
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
Ant.
If you will not murther me for my love, let me
be your servant.
Seb.
If you will not undo what you have done, that
is, kill him whom you have recover'd, desire it not.
Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness;
and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that,
upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell
tales of me. I am bound to the count Orsino's court:
farewel.
[Exit.
Ant.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!—
I have many enemies note in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But, come what may, I do adore thee so,
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
A Street.
Enter Viola, Malvolio following.
Mal.
Were not you even now with the countess
Olivia?
Vio.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since
arriv'd but hither.
Mal.
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might
have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself.
She adds moreover, that you should put your lord
into a desperate assurance she will none of him: And
one thing more; that you be never so hard to come
-- 25 --
again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's
taking of this. Receive it, note sir.
Vio.
She took the ring of me, I'll none of it.
Mal.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and
her will is, it should be so return'd: if it be worth
stooping for, there † it lies in your eye; if not, be it
his that finds it.
[Exit Malvolio.
Vio.
I left no ring with her: What means this lady?
Fortune forbid, my out-side have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her note tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring? why, he sent her none.
I am the man; If it be so, (as 'tis)
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it, for the proper false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty note is the cause, not we;
For, such as we are made, e'en such note we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to doat on me:
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now, alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breath?
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to unty.
[Exit.
-- 26 --
SCENE III.
A Room in Olivia's House.
Enter Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew.
Sir T.
Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed note after
midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo note surgere, thou
know'st,—
Sir A.
Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know,
to be up late, is to be up late.
Sir T.
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 life note consist of the four
elements?
Sir A.
'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists
of eating and drinking.
Sir T.
Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and
drink.—Maria note, I say,—a stoop of wine!
Enter Clown.
Sir A.
Here comes the fool, i'faith.
Clo.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the
picture of we three. note
Sir T.
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
Sir A.
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.—In sooth,
thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou
spok'st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial
of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I sent thee
six-pence for thy leman note; Had'st it?
Clo.
I did impeticos thy gratility14Q0437; for Malvolio's
nose is no whip-stock, my lady has a white hand, and
the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale-houses.
-- 27 --
Sir A.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when
all is done. Now, a song.
Sir T.
Come on; there is six-pence &dagger2; for you: let's
have a song.
Sir A.
There's a testril &dagger2; of me too: if one knight
give a—
Clo.
Would you have a love-song, or a song of
good life?
Sir T.
A love-song, a love-song.
Sir A.
Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
SONG.
Clo.
[I.]
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
o, stay and hear; your true-love's coming,
that can sing both high and low:
trip no farther, pretty sweeting;
journeys end in lover's meeting,
every wise man's son doth know.
Sir A.
Excellent good, i'faith.
Sir T.
Good, good.
Clo.
St. II.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
present mirth hath present laughter;
what's to come, is still unsure:
in delay there lies no plenty;
then come kiss me, sweet, and twenty,
youth's a stuff will not endure.
Sir A.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir T.
A contagious breath.
Sir A.
Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.
Sir T.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we
-- 28 --
rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three
souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?
Sir A.
An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
Clo.
By'r-lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Sir A.
Most certain: Let our catch be, Thou knave.
Clo.
Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? note I shall be
constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.
Sir A.
'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 A.
Good, i'faith! Come, begin.
[Catch sung.
Enter Maria.
Mar.
What a catterwawling 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 T.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's
a Peg o' Ramsey, and Three merry men be we.
Am not I consanguinious? am I not of her blood?
Tilly-vally! lady!—There dwelt a man in Babylon,—
lady, lady!
Clo.
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Sir A.
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 T.
O, the twelfth day of December,—
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 alehouse
of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers'
-- 29 --
catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is
there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?
Sir T.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck-up! note
Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady
bad me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her
kinsman, she's nothing ally'd to your disorders: If you
can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are
welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you
to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
farewel.
Sir T.
Farewel, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
Mar.
Nay, good sir Toby.
Clo.
His eyes do show his days are almost done.
Mal.
Is't even so?
Sir T.
But I will never dye. note
Clo.
Sir Toby, there you lye.
Mal.
This is much credit to you.
Sir T.
Shall I bid him go?
Clo.
What an if you do?
Sir T.
Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo.
O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.
Sir T.
Out o'tune, sir, ye lye.—Art 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'the mouth too.
Sir T.
Thou'rt i'the 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 Malvolio.
-- 30 --
Mar.
Go, shake your ears.
Sir A.
'Twere as good a deed, as to drink when a
man's a hungry, to challenge him to the field; and then
to break promise with him, and make a fool of him.
Sir T.
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 count'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 nay-word, and
make him a common recreation, do not think I have
wit enough to lye strait in my bed: I know, I can
do it.
Sir T.
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
Mar.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan:
Sir A.
O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
Sir T.
What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason,
dear knight?
Sir A.
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, note
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 grounds of note
faith, that all, that look on him, love him; and on
that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to
work.
Sir T.
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 gait, the expressure of his
-- 31 --
eye, forehead, and complection, he shall find himself
most feelingly personated: I can write very like my
lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly
make distinction of our hands.
Sir T.
Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir A.
I ha't in my nose too.
Sir T.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt
drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in
love with him.
Mar.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
Sir A.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
Mar.
Ass—I doubt not.
Sir A.
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 note of it: For this night, to bed,
and dream on the event: Farewel.
[Exit.
Sir T.
Good night, Penthesilea.
Sir A.
Before me, she's a good wench.
Sir T.
She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores
me; What o'that?
Sir A.
I was ador'd once too.
Sir T.
Let's to bed, knight: Thou hadst need send
for more money.
Sir A.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul
way out.
Sir T.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not
i'the end, call me, cut.
Sir A.
If I do not, never trust me, take it how you
will.
Sir T.
Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too
-- 32 --
late to go to bed now: come, knight, come, knight.
SCENE IV.
A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Others.
Duk.
Give me some musick:—Now, good-morrow, friends:—
Now, good Cesario,14Q0438 but that piece of song,
That old and antick note song we heard last night:
Methought, it did relieve my passion much;
More than light airs, and 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.
Duk.
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.
Duk.
Go, seek him out,—and play the tune the while.—
[Exit 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;
Unstay'd and skittish in all motions else,
Save, in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?
Vio.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is thron'd.
Duk.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?
Vio.
A little, by your favour.
-- 33 --
Duk.
What kind of woman is't.
Vio.
Of your complection.
Duk.
She is not worth thee then. What years, i'faith?
Vio.
About your years, my lord.
Duk.
Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, note
Than women's are.
Vio.
I think it well, my lord.
Duk.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
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 dye, even when they to perfection grow!
Re-enter Curio, with Clown.
Duk.
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night:—
Mark it, Cesario; it is old, and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.
Clo.
Are you ready, sir?
Duk.
Ay; pr'ythee, sing.
[Musick.
SONG.
Clo.
[I.]
Come away, come away, death,
and in sad cypress let me be lay'd;
fly away, fly away note, breath;
-- 34 --
I am slain by a fair cruel maid:
my shrowd of white, stuck all with yew,
o, prepare it;
my part of death no one so true
did share it.
II. St.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
on my black coffin let there be strown;
not a friend, not a friend greet
my poor corps, where my bones shall be thrown:
a thousand thousand sighs to save,
lay me, o, where
sad true-love note never find my grave,
to weep there.
Duk.
There's &dagger2; for thy pains.
Clo.
No pains, sir, I take pleasure in singing, sir.
Duk.
I'll pay thy pleasure then.
Clo.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be pay'd, one time,
or another.
Duk.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
Clo.
Now, the note melancholy god protect thee; and
the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for
thy mind is a very opal!—I would have men of such
constancy put to sea, that their business might be every
thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that
always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.
[Exit Clown.
Duk.
Let all the rest give place.—Once more, Cesario,
[Exeunt Curio, and Attendants.
Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
-- 35 --
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
Vio.
But, if she cannot love you, sir?—
Duk.
I cannot note be so answer'd.
Vio.
'Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so; Must she not then be answer'd?
Duk.
There is no woman's sides,
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,—
No motion of the liver, but the palate,—
That suffer note surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest note as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.
Vio.
Ay, but I know,—
Duk.
What dost thou know?
Vio.
Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter lov'd a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship:
Duk.
And what's her history?
Vio.
A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
-- 36 --
But let concealment, like a worm i'the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shews are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duk.
But dy'd thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio.
I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too;—and yet I know not:—
Sir, shall I to this lady?
Duk.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste: give her this &dagger2; jewel; say,
My love note can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir T.
Come thy ways, signior Fabian.
Fab.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport,
let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.
Sir T.
Would'st thou not be glad, to have the niggardly
rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
Fab.
I would exult, man: you know, he brought me
out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.
Sir T.
To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and
we'll fool him black and blue:—Shall we not, sir
Andrew?
Sir A.
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter Maria.
Sir T.
Here comes the little villain:—How now, my
nettle note of India?
-- 37 --
Mar.
Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk; he has been yonder i'the sun,
practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour:
observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this
letter will make a contemplative ideot of him. Close,
in the name of jesting. [Men hide themselves.] Lye thou
there; [throws down a Letter.] for here comes the trout,
that must be caught with tickling.
[Exit Maria.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once
told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself
come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one
of my complection. Besides, she uses me with a more
exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What
should I think on't?
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Here's an over-weening rogue!&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock
of him; how he jets under his advanc'd
plumes!&crquo;
&clquo;Sir A.
&clquo;S'light, I could so beat the rogue:—&crquo;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Peace, I say.&crquo;
Mal.
To be count Malvolio:
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Ah, rogue!&crquo;
&clquo;Sir A.
&clquo;Pistol him, pistol him.&crquo;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Peace, peace.&crquo;
Mal.
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy
marry'd the yeoman of the wardrobe.14Q0439
&clquo;Sir A.
&clquo;Fye on him, Jezebel!&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;O, peace! now he's deeply in; look, how
imagination blows him.&crquo;
Mal.
Having been three months marry'd to her, sitting
in my state,—
-- 38 --
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;O for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!&crquo;
Mal.
Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd
velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have
left Olivia sleeping:
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Fire and brimstone!&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;O, peace, peace!&crquo;
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 kinsman Toby:
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Bolts and shackles!&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.&crquo;
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:
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Shall this fellow live?&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;Though our silence be drawn from us with
cares, yet peace.&crquo;
Mal.
I extend my hand to him, † thus, quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of controul;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;And does not Toby take you a blow o'the
lips then?&crquo;
Mal.
Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast
me on your niece give me this prerogative of speech;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;What, what?&crquo;
Mal.
You must amend your drunkenness.
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Out, scab!&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.&crquo;
Mal.
Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with
a foolish knight;
&clquo;Sir A.
&clquo;That's me, I warrant you.&crquo;
-- 39 --
Mal.
One sir Andrew:
&clquo;Sir A.
&clquo;I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool.&crquo;
Mal.
What employment note have we here?
[taking up the Letter.
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;Now is the woodcock near the gin.&crquo;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate
reading aloud to him!&crquo;
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.
&clquo;Sir A.
&clquo;Her C's, her U's, and her T's; Why that?&crquo;
Mal. [reads.]
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?
[opes the Letter.
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;This wins him, liver and all.&crquo;
Mal. [reads.]
Jove knows, I love:
But who?
Lips note do not move;
No man must know.
No man must know. What follows? The numbers alter'd!
No man must know: If this should be thee, Malvalio?
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Marry, hang thee, brock!&crquo;
Mal. [reads.]
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.
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;A sustian riddle!&crquo;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Excellent wench, say I.&crquo;
Mal.
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. Nay, but first,
let me see, let me see, let me see.
-- 40 --
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;What a dish of poison has she dress'd him!&crquo;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;And with what wing the stanyel note checks
at it!&crquo;
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 formal 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.
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;O, ay, make up that: note—he is now at a cold
scent.&crquo;
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;Sowter will cry upon't, for all this, though
it be as note rank as a fox.&crquo;
Mal.
M,—Malvolio;—M, why, that begins my name.
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;Did not I say, he would work it out? the
cur is excellent at faults.&crquo;
Mal.
M,—But then there is no consonancy in the
sequel; that suffers under probation: A should follow,
but O does.
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;And O shall end, I hope.&crquo;
&clquo;Sir T.
&clquo;Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry O.&crquo;
Mal.
And then I comes behind.
&clquo;Fab.
&clquo;Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you
might see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes
before you.&crquo;
Mal.
M, O, A, I;—This simulation note is not as the
former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to
me, for every one of these letters are in note my name. Soft;
here follows prose.
[reads.
If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am
above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: Some are born
great note, some atchieve note greatness, and some have greatness
-- 41 --
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 desir'st to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward
still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch
fortune's fingers. Farewel. She that would alter services
with thee,
The fortunate-unhappy.
Day-light, and champian, discovers not more: this is
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 note now fool
myself, to let imagination jade me; for every note 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 note,
drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my
stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow
stockings, note and cross-garter'd, even with the swiftness of
putting on. Jove, and my stars, be praised! Here is yet
a post-script.
Thou can'st not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertain'st 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
-- 42 --
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 pay'd from the Sophy.
Sir T.
I could marry this wench for this device;
Sir A.
So could I too.
Sir T.
And ask no other dowry with her, but such
another jest.
Sir A.
Nor I neither.
Enter Maria.
Fab.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Sir T.
Wilt thou set thy foot o'my neck?
Sir A.
Or o'mine either?
Sir T.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become
thy bond-slave?
Sir A.
I'faith, or I either?
Sir T.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream,
that, when the image of it leaves him, he must run
mad.
Mar.
Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?
Sir T.
Like aqua-vitæ with a midwife.
Mar.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport,
mark his first approach before my lady: he will come
to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors;
and cross-garter'd, a fashion she detests; and he will
smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her
disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is,
that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if
you will see it, follow me.
Sir T.
To the gates of tartar, thou most excellent
devil of wit.
Sir A.
I'll make one too.
[Exeunt.
-- 43 --
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].
