SCENE I.
The PALACE.
Enter the Duke, Curio, and Lords.
Duke.
If musick be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again, it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear, like the sweet a notesouth
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour. Hush! no more;
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute; so full of shapes is fancy,
-- 468 --
That it alone is high fantastical.
Cur.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
Duke.
What, Curio?
Cur.
The hart.
Duke.
Why so I do, the noblest that I have:
O when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart,
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me. How now, what news from her?
Enter Valentine.
Val.
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her hand-maid do return this answer:
The element it self, 'till seven years hence,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But like a cloystress she will veiled walk,
And water once a day her chambers round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance still.
Duke.
O she that hath a heart of that fine frame,
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her? when liver, brain, and heart,
These sov'raign thrones, are all supply'd, and fill'd,
Her sweet perfections, with one self-same King!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers,
Love-thoughts lye rich, when canopy'd with bowers.
[Exeunt.
-- 469 --
SCENE II.
The Street.
Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors.
Vio.
What country, friends, is this?
Cap.
Illyria, lady.
Vio.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd; what think you, sailors?
Cap.
It is perchance that you your self were sav'd.
Vio.
O my poor brother! so perchance may he be.
Cap.
True, madam: and to comfort you with chance,
Assure your self, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat: I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
So long as I could see.
Vio.
There's gold for saying so.
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
Cap.
Ay, Madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours travel from this very place.
Vio.
Who governs here?
Cap.
A noble Duke in nature as in name.
Vio.
What is his name?
Cap.
Orsino.
-- 470 --
Vio.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him
He was a batchelor then.
Cap.
And so is now, or was so very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 'twas fresh in murmur (as you know
What great ones do, the less will prattle of)
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.
Vio.
What's she?
Cap.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a Count,
That dy'd some twelve months since, then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also dy'd; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjur'd the sight
And company of men.
Vio.
O that I serv'd that lady,
And might not be deliver'd to the world,
'Till I had made mine own occasion mellow
What my estate is!
Cap.
That were hard to compass,
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the Duke's.
Vio.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And tho' that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution; yet of thee,
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pr'ythee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this Duke,
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him,
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of musick,
-- 471 --
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit,
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
Cap.
Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
Vio.
I thank thee; lead me on.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Olivia's House.
Enter Sir Toby, and Maria.
Sir To.
What a plague means my neice 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 anights;
your neice, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
Sir To.
Why let her except, before excepted.
Mar.
Ay, but you must confine your self within the modest
limits of order.
Sir To.
Confine? I'll confine my self no finer than I am;
these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots
too; if 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 To.
Who, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar.
Ay, he.
Sir To.
He's as tall a man as any in Illyria.
Mar.
What's that to th' purpose?
Sir To.
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.
-- 472 --
Sir To.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays, o'th' viol-de-gambo,
and speaks three or four languages word for word without book,
and hath all the good gifts 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 To.
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 To.
With drinking healths to my neice: 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 † notecoystril that will not drink to my
neice 'till his brains o'th' toe like a parish top. What wench?
Castiliano vulgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.
SCENE IV.
Enter Sir Andrew.
Sir And.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?
Sir To.
Sweet Sir Andrew!
Sir And.
Bless you, fair Shrew.
Mar.
And you too, Sir.
Sir To.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
Sir And.
What's that?
Sir To.
My neice's chamber-maid.
Sir And.
Good mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
Mar.
My name is Mary, Sir.
Sir And.
Good mistress Mary Accost.
Sir To.
You mistake, Knight: accost is, front her, board
her, wooe her, assail her.
Sir And.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this
company. Is that the meaning of accost?
-- 473 --
Mar.
Fare you well, gentlemen.
Sir To.
If thou let her part so, Sir Andrew, would thou
might'st never draw sword again.
Sir And.
If 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 th' hand.
Sir And.
Marry but you shall have, and here's my hand.
Mar.
Now, Sir, thought is free: I pray you bring your
hand to th' buttery bar, and let it drink.
Sir And.
Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor?
Mar.
It's dry, Sir.
Sir And.
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 And.
Are you full of them?
Mar.
Ay, Sir, I have them at my finger ends: marry, now
I let go your hand, I am barren.
[Exit Maria.
Sir To.
O Knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: when did I
see thee so put down?
Sir And.
Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary
put me 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 To.
No question.
Sir And.
If I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home tomorrow,
Sir Toby.
Sir To.
Pourquoy, my dear Knight?
Sir And.
What is pourquoy? do, or not do? I would I had
bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing,
and bear-baiting. O had I but follow'd the arts!
Sir To.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
Sir And.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
Sir To.
Past question, for thou seest it will not cool my nature.
-- 474 --
Sir And.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Sir. To.
Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope
to see a housewife take thee between her legs and spin it off.
Sir And.
Faith I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby, your neice will
not be seen, or if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the
Duke himself here hard by wooes her.
Sir To.
She'll none o'th' Duke, she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear.
Tut, there's life in't man.
Sir And.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o'th' strangest
mind i'th' world: I delight in masks and revels sometimes altogether.
Sir To.
Art thou good at these kick-shaws, Knight?
Sir And.
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 To.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, Knight?
Sir And.
Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
Sir And.
And I think I have the back-trick, simply as strong
as any man in Illyria.
Sir To.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these
gifts a curtain before 'em? 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? 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 And.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colour'd
stocking. Shall we set about some revels?
Sir To.
What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
Sir And.
Taurus? that's sides and heart.
-- 475 --
Sir To.
No, Sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper;
ha, higher: ha, ha, excellent.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
The 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.
Enter Duke, Curio, and attendants.
Vio.
I thank you: here comes the Duke.
Duke.
Who saw Cesario, hoa?
Vio.
On your attendance, my lord, here.
Duke.
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 gate unto her,
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.
Duke.
Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio.
Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
Duke.
O then, unfold the passion of my love,
-- 476 --
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 nuncio's of more grave aspect.
Vio.
I think not so, my lord.
Duke.
Dear lad, believe it:
For they shall yet belie 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 my self 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; yet, O baneful strife!
Who-e'er I woo, my self would be his wife.
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
Olivia's House.
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 fear no colours.
Mar.
Make that good.
Clo.
He shall see none to fear.
-- 477 --
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
turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging to you?
Clo.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for
turning away, let summer bear it out.
Mar.
You are 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 gaskings 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 best.
[Ex.
SCENE VII.
Enter Olivia and Malvolio.
Clo.
Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling; 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, y'are a dry fool; I'll no more of you; besides
you grow dishonest.
-- 478 --
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 sillogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy?
as there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower:
the lady bad take away the fool, therefore I say again, take
her away.
Oli.
Sir, I bad them take away you.
Clo.
Misprision in the highest degree. Lady, Cucullus non facit
monachum; that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my
brain: good Madona, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Oli.
Can you do it?
Clo.
Dexterously, 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.
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 heav'n, fool.
Clo.
The more fool you, Madona, to mourn for your brother's
soul being in heav'n: 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 better the fool.
Clo.
God send you, Sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing
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?
-- 479 --
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 brains than a stone. Look you now, he's out
of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to
him, he is gagg'd. I protest I take these wise men that crow so
at these set kind of fools, 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, 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.
Clo.
Now Mercury indue thee with b noteleasing, for thou speak'st
well of fools.
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 uncle.
Oli.
Fetch him off I pray you, he speaks nothing but madman:
fie on him. 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 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 one of thy kin has a most weak Pia mater.
-- 480 --
SCENE VIII.
Enter Sir Toby.
Oli.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, uncle?
Sir To.
A gentleman.
Oli.
A gentleman? what gentleman?
Sir To.
'Tis a gentleman here. A plague o'these pickle herring:
how now, sot?
Clo.
Good Sir Toby.
Oli.
Uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
Sir To.
Letchery, I defie letchery: there's one at the gate.
Oli.
Ay marry, what is he?
Sir To.
Let him be the devil and he will, I care not: give
me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
[Exit.
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 uncle;
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.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Madam, yond 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's fortified against any denial.
-- 481 --
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 the supporter to a bench, but
he'll speak with you.
Oli.
What kind o'man is he?
Mal.
Why, of mankind.
Oli.
What manner of man?
Mal.
Of very ill manners; 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 in standing 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.
SCENE IX.
Enter Maria.
Oli.
Give me my vail: come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter Viola.
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 penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it.
Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible,
even to the least sinister usage.
Oli.
Whence came you, Sir?
-- 482 --
Vio.
I can say little more than I have studied, 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 fangs of
malice, I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of
the house?
Oli.
If I do not usurp my self, I am.
Vio.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp your self;
for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve; but this is
from my commission. I will on with my speech 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 sawcy at my gates, and I 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 the
moon with me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Mar.
Will you hoist sail, Sir? here lyes 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
curtesie 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 a maiden-head; to your ears, divinity; to any others,
prophanation.
-- 483 --
Oli.
Give us the place alone. [Exit Maria.] We will hear this
divinity. Now, Sir, what is your text?
Vio.
Most sweet lady.
Oli.
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
Where lyes the 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 heresie. 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, and shew you the picture. Look you, Sir, such a
one I was this present: is't not well done?
[Unveiling.
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 laid on:
Lady, you are the cruell'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 inventoried, and every
particle and utensil labell'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, tho' you were crown'd
The non-pareil of beauty.
Oli.
How does he love me?
-- 484 --
Vio.
With adorations, with fertile 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; 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 suff'ring, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense:
I would not understand it.
Oli.
Why, what would you do?
Vio.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantos 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:
I thank you for you pains; spend this for me.
Vio.
I am no feed-post, lady; keep your purse:
-- 485 --
My master, not my self, 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.
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, soft,
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 subtile stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be—
What hoa, Malvolio.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal.
Here, madam, at your service.
Oli.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The Duke's man; he left this 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 reason 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; our selves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be; and be this so.
[Exit.
-- 486 --
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].
