Introductory matter ^note

INTRODUCTION.

We have no record of the performance of “Twelfth-Night” at court, nor is there any mention of it in the books at Stationers' Hall until November 8, 1623, when it was registered by Blount and Jaggard, as about to be included in the first folio of “Mr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies.” It appeared originally in that volume, under the double title, “Twelfth-Night, or What You Will,” with the Acts and Scenes duly noted.

We cannot determine with precision when it was first written, but we know that it was acted on the celebration of the Readers' Feast at the Middle Temple on Feb. 2, 1602, according to our modern computation of the year. The fact of its performance we have on the evidence of an eye-witness, who seems to have been a barrister, and whose Diary, in his own hand-writing, is preserved in the British Museum (Harl. MSS. 5353). The memorandum runs, literatim, as follows:—

“Feby. 2, 1601[2]. At our feast we had a play called Twelve-Night, or What You Will, much like the comedy of errors, or Menechmi in Plautus, but most like and neere to that in Italian, called Inganni. A good practise in it to make the steward believe his lady widdowe was in love with him, by counterfayting a letter, as from his lady, in generall termes telling him what shee liked best in him, and prescribing his gestures, inscribing his apparaile, &c., and then when he came to practise, making him beleeve they tooke him to be mad.”

This remarkable entry was pointed out in the “History of English Dramatic Poetry and the Stage,” vol. i. p. 327. 8vo, 1831, and the Rev. Joseph Hunter, in his “Disquisition on The Tempest,” 8vo, 1839, has ascertained that it was made by a person of the name of Manningham. It puts an end to the conjecture of Malone, that “Twelfth-Night” was written in 1607, and to the less probable speculation of Tyrwhitt, that it was not produced until 1614. Even if it should be objected that we have no evidence to show that this Comedy was composed shortly prior to its representation at the Middle Temple, it may be answered, that it is capable of proof that it was written posterior to the publication of the translation of Linschoten's “Discours of Voyages into the East and West

Indies.” In A. ii. sc. 2. Maria says of Malvolio:—“He does smile his face into more lines than are in the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies.” When Malone prepared his “Chronological Order” he had “not been able to learn the date of the map here alluded to,” but Linschoten's “Discours of Voyages” was published in folio in English in 1598, and in that volume is inserted “the new map with the augmentation of the Indies.” Meres takes no notice of “Twelfth-Night” in his list, published in the same year, and we may conclude that the Comedy was not then in existence. The words “new map,” employed by Shakespeare, may be thought to show that Linschoten's “Discours” had not made its appearance long before “Twelfth-Night” was produced; but on the whole, we are inclined to fix the period of its composition at the end of 1600, or in the beginning of 1601: it might be acted at the Globe in the summer of the same year, and from thence transferred to the Middle Temple about six months afterwards, on account of its continued popularity.

Several originals of “Twelfth-Night,” in English, French, and Italian, have been pointed out, nearly all of them discovered within the present century, and to these we shall now advert.

A voluminous and various author of the name of Barnabe Rich, who had been brought up a soldier, published a volume, which he called “Rich his Farewell to Military Profession,” ^note

Rich furnishes us with the title of no work to which he was indebted; but we may conclude that, either immediately or intermediately, he derived his chief materials from the Italian of Bandello, or from the French of Belleforest. In Bandello it forms the thirty-sixth novel of the Seconda Parte, in the Lucca edit. 1554. 4to, where it bears the subsequent title:—“Nicuola, innamorata di Lattantio,

và à servirlo vestita da paggio; e dopo molti casi seco si marita: e ciò che ad un suo fratello avvenne.” In the collection by Belleforest, printed at Paris in 1572, 12mo, it is headed as follows:—“Comme une fille Romaine, se vestant en page, servist long temps un sien amy sans estre cogneue, et depuis l'eust à mary, avec autres divers discours.” Although Belleforest inserts no names in his title, he adopts those of Bandello, but abridges or omits many of the speeches and some portions of the narrative: what in Bandello occupies several pages is sometimes included by Belleforest in a single paragraph. We quote the subsequent passage, because it will more exactly show the degree of connexion between “Twelfth-Night” and the old French version: it is where Nicuola, the Viola of Shakespeare, disguised as a page, and under the name of Romule, has an interview with Catelle, the Olivia of “Twelfth-Night,” on behalf of Lattance, who answers to the Duke.

“Mais Catelle, qui avoit plus l'œil sur l'orateur et sur la naïve beauté, que l'oreille aux paroles venant d'ailleurs, estoit en une estrange peine, et volontiers se fut jettée à son col pour le baiser tout à son aise; mais la honte la retint pour un temps: à la fin n'en pouvant plus, et vaincue de ceste impatience d'amour, et se trouvant favorisée de la commodité, ne sceut de tant se commander, que l'embrassant fort estroitement elle ne le baisast d'une douzaine de fois, et ce avec telle lasciveté et gestes effrontez, que Romule s'apparceut bien que cette-cy avait plus chere son accointance que les ambassades de celuy qui la courtisoit. A ceste cause luy dit, Je vous prie, madame, me faire tant de bien que me donnant congé, j'aye de vous quelque gracieuse responce, avec laquelle je puisse faire content et joyeux mon seigneur, lequel est en soucy et tourment continuel pour ne sçavoir votre volonté vers luy, et s'il a rien acquis en vos bonnes graces. Catelle, humant de plus en plus le venin d'amour par les yeux, luy sembloit que Romule devint de fois à autre plus beau.”

Upon the novel by Bandello two Italian plays were composed, which were printed, and have come down to our time. The title of one of these is given by Manningham, where he says that Shakespeare's “Twelfth-Night” was “most like and neere to that in Italian called Inganni.” It was first acted in 1547, and the earliest edition of it, with which I am acquainted, did not appear until 1582, when it bore the title of Gl' Inganni Comedia del Signor N. S. The other Italian drama, founded upon Bandello's novel, bears a somewhat similar title:—Gl' Ingannati Commedia degl' Accademici Intronati di Siena, which was several times printed; last, perhaps, in the collection Delle Commedie degl' Accademici Intronati di Siena, 1611, 12mo. Whether our great dramatist saw either of these pieces before he wrote his “Twelfth-Night” may admit of doubt;

but looking at the terms Manningham employs, it might seem as if it were a matter understood, at the time “Twelfth-Night” was acted at the Temple on Feb. 2, 1602, that it was founded upon the Inganni. There is no indication in the MS. Diary that the writer of it was versed in Italian literature, and Gl' Inganni might at that day be a known comedy of which it was believed Shakespeare had availed himself. An analysis of it is given in a small tract, called “Farther Particulars of Shakespeare and his Works,” 8vo, 1839, but as only fifty copies of it were printed, it may be necessary here to enter into some few details of its plot, conduct, and characters. The “Argument,” or explanatory Prologue, which precedes the first scene, will show that the author of Gl' Inganni did not adhere to Bandello by any means closely, and that he adopted entirely different names for his personages.

“Anselmo, a Genoese merchant who traded to the Levant, having left his wife in Genoa great with child, had two children by her, one a boy called Fortunato, and the other a girl named Gineura. After he had borne for four years the desire of seeing his wife and family, he returned home to them, and wishing to depart again, he took them with him; and when they were embarked on board the vessel, he dressed them both in short clothes for greater convenience, so that the girl looked like a boy. And on the voyage to Soria he was taken by Corsairs and carried into Natolia, where he remained in slavery for fourteen years. His children had a different fortune; for the boy was several times sold, but finally here in this city, which, on this occasion, shall be Naples; and he now serves Dorotea, a courtesan, who lives there at that little door. The mother and Gineura, after various accidents, were bought by M. Massimo Caraccioli, who lives where you see this door; but by the advice of the mother, who has been dead six years, Gineura has changed her name and caused herself to be called Ruberto; and, as her mother while living persuaded her, always gave herself out to be a boy, thinking in this way that she should be better able to preserve her chastity. Fortunato and Ruberto, by the information of their mother, know themselves to be brother and sister. M. Massimo has a son, whom they call Gostanzo, and a daughter named Portia. Gostanza is in love with Dorotea, the courtesan to whom Fortunato is servant. Portia, his sister, is in love with Ruberto, notwithstanding she is a girl, because she has always been thought a man. Ruberto, the girl, not knowing how to satisfy the desires of Portia, who constantly importunes her, has sometimes at night conveyed her brother into the house in her place: he has got Portia with child, and she is now every hour expecting to be brought to bed. On the other hand, Ruberto, as a girl and in love with her young master Gostanzo, has double suffering—one from the passion which torments her, and the other from the fear lest the pregnancy

of Portia should be discovered. Massimo, the father of Portia and Gostanzo, is aware of the condition of his daughter, and has sent to Genoa to inquire into the parentage of Ruberto, in order that if he find him ignoble, and unworthy to be the husband of his daughter, whom he believes to be with child by him, he may have him killed. But, by what I have heard, the father of the twins, who has escaped from the hands of the Turks, ought this day to be returned with the messenger, and I think that every thing will be accommodated.”

In this play, therefore, Portia, who is the Olivia of Shakespeare, is not stated to be a widow, and our great dramatist avoided the needless indelicacy of representing her to be with child. In Gl' Inganni, Gineura (i. e. Viola), as will have been seen from the “Argument,” is not page to the man with whom she is in love, but to Portia; while Gostanzo, whose affection Gineura is anxious to obtain, is brother to her mistress. This of course makes an important difference in the relative situations of the parties, because Gineura, disguised as Ruberto, is not employed to carry letters and messages between the characters who represent the Duke and Olivia. Gostanzo being in love with a courtesan, named Dorotea, in the first Act, Gineura endeavours to dissuade him from his lawless passion, in a manner that distantly, and only distantly, reminds us of Shakespeare. Ruberto (i. e. Gineura) tells Gostanzo to find some object worthy of his affection:— “Gostanzo.
And where shall I find her? Roberto.
I know one who is more lost for love of you, than you are for this carrion. Gostanzo.
Is she fair? Ruberto.
Indifferently. Gostanzo.
Where is she? Ruberto.
Not far from you. Gostanzo.
And will she be content that I should lie with her. Ruberto.
If God wills that you should do it. Gostanzo.
How shall I get to her? Ruberto.
As you would come to me. Gostanzo.
How do you know that she loves me? Ruberto.
Because she often talks to me of her love. Gostanzo.
Do I know her? Ruberto.
As well as you know me. Gostanzo.
Is she young? Ruberto.
Of my age. Gostanzo.
And loves me? Ruberto.
Adores you. Gostanzo.
Have I ever seen her? Ruberto.
As often as you have seen me. Gostanzo.
Why does she not discover herself to me? Ruberto.
Because she sees you the slave of another woman.”

The resemblance between Gineura and her brother Fortunato is so great, that Portia has mistaken the one for the other, and in the

end, like Sebastian and Olivia, they are united; while Gostanzo, being cured of his passion for Dorotea, and grateful for the persevering and disinterested affection of Gineura, is married to her. Our great dramatist has given an actual, as well as an intellectual elevation to the whole subject, by the manner in which he has treated it; and has converted what may, in most respects, be considered a low comedy into a fine romantic drama.

So much for Gl' Inganni, and it now remains to speak of Gl' Ingannati, a comedy to which, in relation to “Twelfth-Night,” attention was first directed by the Rev. Joseph Hunter in his “Disquisition on Shakespeare's Tempest,” p. 78. Gl' Ingannati follows Bandello's novel with more exactness than Gl' Inganni, though both change the names of the parties; and here we have the important feature that the heroine, called Lelia, (disguised as Fabio) is page to Flamminio, with whom she is in love, but who is in love with a lady named Isabella. Lelia, as in Shakespeare, is employed by Flamminio to forward his suit with Isabella. What succeeds is part of the dialogue between Lelia, in her male attire, and Flamminio.—

“Do as I advise. Abandon Isabella, and love one who loves you in return. You may not find her as beautiful; but, tell me, is there nobody else whom you can love, and who loves you?

There was a young lady named Lelia, whom, I was a thousand times about to tell you, you are much like. She was thought the fairest, the cleverest, and the most courteous damsel of this country. I will show you her one of these days, for I formerly looked upon her with some regard. She was then rich and about the court, and I continued in love with her for nearly a year, during which time she showed me much favour. Afterwards she went to Mirandola, and it was my fate to fall in love with Isabella, who has been as cruel to me as Lelia was kind.

Then you deserve the treatment you have received. Since you slighted her who loved you, you ought to be slighted in return by others.

What do you say?

If this poor girl were your first love, and still loves you more than ever, why did you abandon her for Isabella? I know not who could pardon that offence. Ah! signor Flamminio, you did her grievous wrong.

You are only a boy, Fabio, and know not the power of love. I tell you that I cannot help loving Isabella: I adore her, nor do I wish to think of any other woman.”

Elsewhere the resemblance between “Twelfth-Night” and Gl' Ingannati, in point of situation is quite as strong, but there the likeness ends, for in the dialogue we can trace no connexion between the two. The author of the Italian comedy has obviously founded himself entirely upon Bandello's novel, of which there might be some translation in the time of Shakespeare more nearly approaching the original, than the version which Rich published before our great dramatist visited the metropolis. Whether any such literal translation had or had not been made, Shakespeare may have gone to the Italian story, and Le Novelle di Bandello were very well

known in England as early as about the middle of the sixteenth century. If Shakespeare had followed Rich we should probably have discovered some verbal trace of his obligation, as in the cases where he followed Painter's “Palace of Pleasure,” or, still more strikingly, where he availed himself of the works of Greene and Lodge. In Gl' Ingannati we find nothing but incident in common with “Twelfth-Night.” The vast inferiority of the former to the latter in language and sentiment may be seen in every page, in every line. The mistake of the brother for the sister, by Isabella, is the same in both, and it terminates in a somewhat similar manner, for the female attendant of the lady, meeting Fabricio (who is dressed, like his sister Lelia, in white) in the street, conducts him to her mistress, who receives him with open arms. Flamminio and Lelia are of course united at the end of the comedy.

The likeness between Gl' Ingannati and “Twelfth-Night” is certainly, in some points of the story, stronger than that between Gl' Inganni and Shakespeare's drama; but to neither can we say, with any degree of certainty, that our great dramatist resorted, although he had perhaps read both, when he was considering the best mode of adapting to the stage the incidents of Bandello's novel. There is no hint, in any source yet discovered, for the smallest portion of the comic business of “Twelfth-Night.” In both the Italian dramas it is of the most homely and vulgar materials, by the intervention of empirics, braggarts, pedants, and servants, who deal in the coarsest jokes, and are guilty of the grossest buffoonery. Shakespeare shows his infinite superiority in each department: in the more serious portion of his drama he employed the incidents furnished by predecessors as the mere scaffolding for the erection of his own beautiful edifice; and for the comic scenes, combining so admirably with, and assisting so importantly in the progress of the main plot, he seems, as usual, to have drawn merely upon his own interminable resources.

It was an opinion, confidently stated by Coleridge in his lectures in 1818, that the passage in Act. ii. sc. 4, beginning
“Too old, by heaven: let still the woman take
An elder than herself,” &c. had a direct application to the circumstances of his own marriage with Anne Hathaway, who was so much senior to the poet. Some of Shakespeare's biographers had previously enforced this notion, and others have since followed it up; but Coleridge took the opportunity of enlarging eloquently on the manner in which young poets have frequently connected themselves with women of very ordinary personal and mental attractions, the imagination supplying all deficiencies, clothing the object of affection with grace and beauty, and furnishing her with every accomplishment.

1 ^note.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. SEBASTIAN, Brother to Viola. ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, Friend to Sebastian. A Sea Captain, Friend to Viola. VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke. CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke. Sir TOBY BELCH, Uncle to Olivia. Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK [Sir Andrew Aguecheek]. MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. FABIAN, Servant to Olivia. Clown [Feste], Servant to Olivia. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. VIOLA, in love with the Duke. MARIA, Olivia's Woman. Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. [Officer 1], [Officer 2], [Priest] SCENE, a City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.

OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

TWELFTH-NIGHT: ACT I. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. Enter Duke, Curio, Lords; Musicians attending.

Duke.
If music 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 south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets 11Q0441^{1 note}
,
Stealing, and giving odour.—Enough! 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^{2 note} and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
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^{3 note}




.—How now! what news from her? Enter Valentine.

Val.
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:—
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,
And water once a day her chamber 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.

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^{4 note}
That live in her: when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd,
(Her sweet perfections^{5 note}


) with one self king^{6 note}.—
Away, before me to sweet beds of flowers;
Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Sea-coast. Enter Viola, Captain, and Sailors.

Vio.
What country, friends, is this?

Cap.
This is 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 yourself were sav'd.

Vio.
O, my poor brother! and so, perchance, may he be.

Cap.
True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poor number saved with you^{7 note},
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 lived 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.
For saying so there's gold.
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^{8 note}
.

Vio.
What is his name?

Cap.
Orsino.

Vio.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him:
He was a bachelor 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 died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjur'd the company,
And sight of men^{9 note}


.

Vio.
O! that I serv'd that lady,
And might not be delivered 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 though 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 music,
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. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Maria.

Sir To.

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 To.

Why, let her except before excepted.

Mar.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Sir To.

Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes 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 To.

Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?

Mar.

Ay, he.

Sir To.

He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria^{10 note}.

Mar.

What's that to the 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.

Sir To.

Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gamboys^{1 note}, 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 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^{2 note}, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top^{3 note}. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo^{4 note}; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

Sir And.

Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?

Sir To.

Sweet sir Andrew.

11Q0442

Sir And.

Bless you, fair shrew.

Mar.

And you too, sir.

Sir To.

Accost, sir Andrew, accost^{5 note}

.

Sir And.

What's that?

Sir To.

My niece'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, woo her, assail her.

Sir And.

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?

Mar.

Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir To.

An thou let part so, sir Andrew, would thou might'st never draw sword again!

Sir And.

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 And.

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^{6 note}.

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 fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

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^{7 note}.

Sir To.

No question.

Sir And.

An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, sir Toby.

Sir To.

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

Sir And.

What is pourquoi? 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 followed 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 curl by nature 11Q0443^{8 note}.

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 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, woos her.

Sir To.

She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man.

Sir And.

I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world: I delight in masques 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^{9 note}?

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 them? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture^{1 note}? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in

11Q0444 a coranto^{2 note}? My very walk should be a jig: I would not so much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace^{3 note}. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.

Sir And.

Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock^{4 note}. 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^{5 note}.

Sir To.

No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha! higher: ha, ha!—excellent!

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 advanced: 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.

Duke.
Who saw Cesario, ho?

Vio.
On your attendance, my lord; here.

Duke.
Stand you awhile 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:
Be not denied 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;
Surprise 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 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 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: 11Q0445 [Aside.] yet, a barful strife^{6 note}!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Maria, and Clown^{7 note}.

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 hanged in this world needs to fear no colours^{8 note}.

Mar.

Make that good.

Clo.

He shall see none to fear.

Mar.

A good lenten answer^{9 note}. 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 hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned 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 resolved on two points.

Mar.

That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall^{1 note}.

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.

Enter Olivia, and Malvolio.

Clo.

Wit, an'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, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.

Clo.

Two faults, madonna, 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 patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched 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 flower.—The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.

Oli.

Sir, I bade them take away you.

Clo.

Misprision in the highest degree!—Lady, cucullus non facit monachum: that's as much as to say, I wear^{1 note} not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli.

Can you do it?

Clo.

Dexteriously, good madonna.

Oli.

Make your proof.

Clo.

I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

Oli.

Well, sir, for want of other idleness I'll 'bide your proof.

Clo.

Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?

Oli.

Good fool, for my brother's death.

Clo.

I think, his soul is in hell, madonna.

Oli.

I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Clo.

The more fool, madonna, 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 better 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?

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 gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies^{2 note}.

Oli.

O! you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered 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 allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

Clo.

Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools^{3 note}!

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. Fie 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, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool, whose skull Jove cram with brains; for here he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.

Oli.

By mine honour, half drunk.—What is he at the gate, cousin?

Sir To.

A gentleman.

Oli.

A gentleman? What gentleman?

Sir To.

'Tis a gentleman here.—A plague o' these pickle-herrings!—How now, sot?

Clo.

Good sir Toby,—

Oli.

Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Sir To.

Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

Oli.

Ay, marry; what is he?

Sir To.

Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

Oli.

What's a drunken man like, fool?

Clo.

Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat^{4 note} 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, for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drown'd: go, look after him.

Clo.

He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.

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.

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^{5 note}, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you. 11Q0446

Oli.

What kind of man is he?

Mal.

Why, of man kind.

Oli.

What manner of man?

Mal.

Of very ill manner: 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^{6 note}, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, 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.

Oli.
Give me my veil: 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 loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible^{7 note} even to the least sinister usage.

Oli.

Whence came you, sir?

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 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 in your praise, and then show 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 feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard, you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone^{8 note}; 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^{9 note}.—Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger^{10 note}.

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: to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

Oli.

Give us the place alone. We will hear this divinity. [Exit Maria.] Now, sir; what is your text?

Vio.

Most sweet lady,—

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 negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir; such a one I was this present: 11Q0447 is't not well done^{1 note}?

Vio.

Excellently done, if God did all.

Oli.

'Tis in grain, sir: 'twill endure wind and weather.

Vio.
'Tis beauty truly blent^{2 note}

, 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^{3 note}.

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, labelled 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^{4 note}?

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 recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

Oli.
How does he love me?

Vio.
With adorations, 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; 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 cantons of contemned love^{5 note},
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling 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 your pains. Spend this for me.

Vio.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, 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 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^{6 note},
The county'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 reasons for't. Hie 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, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe^{7 note};
What is decreed must be, and be this so! [Exit.

ACT II. SCENE I. The Sea-coast. Enter Antonio and Sebastian.

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 recompense 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 mere 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 called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, 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 pleased, would we had so ended! but, you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.

Ant.

Alas, the day!

Seb.

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that^{7 note}, yet thus far I will boldly publish her 11Q0448—

she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned 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 murder 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 recovered, 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: farewell.

Ant.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies 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^{8 note}.

Mal.

Were not you even now with the countess Olivia?

Vio.

Even now, sir: on a moderate pace I have since arrived 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 hardy to

come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this: receive it so^{9 note}.

Vio.

She took the ring of me! 11Q0449—I'll none of it.

Mal.

Come, sir; you peevishly threw it to her, and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

Vio.
I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That, methought^{9 note}, her eyes had lost her 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 is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made, if such we be^{1 note}

.

How will this fadge^{2 note}? My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote 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 breathe.
O time! thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie. [Exit. SCENE III. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek.

Sir To.

Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st,—

Sir And.

Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know, to be up late, is to be up late.

Sir To.

A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled 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. Do not our lives consist of the four elements?

Sir And.

'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir To.

Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.—Marian, I say!—a stoop of wine^{3 note}!

Sir And.

Here comes the fool, i' faith.

Clo.

How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture of we three?

Sir To.

Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

Sir And.

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast^{4 note}. 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 spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy lemon^{5 note}


: hadst it?

Clo.

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses^{6 note}.

Sir And.

Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

Sir To.

Come on: there is sixpence for you; let's have a song.

Sir And.

Theres a testril of me, too: if one knight give a—

Clo.

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life 11Q0450^{7 note}?

Sir To.

A love-song, a love-song.

Sir And.

Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

SONG. Clo.
O, mistress mine! where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love's coming, 11Q0451
  That can sing both high and low.
Trip no farther, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
  Every wise man's son doth know.

Sir And.

Excellent good, i' faith.

Sir To.

Good, good.