SCENE V.
The Palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.
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 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?
-- 495 --
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 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 eccho to the seat
Where love is thron'd.
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.
Duke.
Too old, by heav'n; let still the woman take
An elder than her self, so wears she to him;
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise our selves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than womens 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.
-- 496 --
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;
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?
Duke.
I pr'ythee sing,
[Musick.
SONG.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shrowd of white, stuck all with yew,
Prepare it.
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
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 where
True lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
Duke.
There's for thy pains.
-- 497 --
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 a very
† noteopal. 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.
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].
