Clo.
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 And.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir To.
A contagious breath.
Sir And.
Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
Sir To.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the welkin dance indeed?
Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw
three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?
Sir And.
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 And.
Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou
Knave.”
Clo.
“Hold thy peace, thou knave,” knight? I shall
be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.
Sir And.
'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd
one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins, “Hold
thy peace.”
-- 355 --
Clo.
I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And.
Good, i'faith. Come, begin.
[They sing a catch8 note
.
Enter Maria.
Mar.
What a catterwauling do you keep here! If
my lady have not called up her steward, Malvolio, and
bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
Sir To.
My lady's a Cataian9 note; we are politicians;
Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey1 note, and “Three merry men
be we2 note.” Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her
blood? Tilly-valley, lady! “There dwelt a man in
Babylon, lady, lady3 note!”
[Singing.
Clo.
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Sir And.
Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed,
and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I
do it more natural.
-- 356 --
Sir To.
“O! the twelfth day of December4 note,”—
[Singing.
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' catches5 note without any mitigation or remorse of
voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time,
in you?
Sir To.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches.
Snick up6 note!
Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you7 note. My
lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you
as her kinsman, she's nothing allied 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 farewell.
Sir To.
“Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs
be gone8 note.”
Mar.
Nay, good sir Toby.
-- 357 --
Clo.
“His eyes do show his days are almost done.”
Mal.
Is't even so?
Sir To.
“But I will never die.”
Clo.
Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal.
This is much credit to you.
Sir To.
“Shall I bid him go?”
Clo.
“What an if you do?”
Sir To.
“Shall I bid him go, and spare not?”
Clo.
“O! no, no, no, no, you dare not.”
Sir To.
Out o' tune9 note!—Sir, ye lie. 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 To.
Thou'rt i' the right.—Go, sir: rub your
chain with crumbs1 note.—A stoop of wine, Maria!
Mal.
Mistress Mary, if you prized 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.
Mar.
Go shake your ears.
Sir And.
'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 To.
Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge,
or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of
mouth.
-- 358 --
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 nayword2 note,
and make him a common recreation, do not think I
have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know, I
can do it.
Sir To.
Possess us, possess us: tell us something of
him.
Mar.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
Sir And.
O! if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
Sir To.
What, for being a Puritan! thy exquisite
reason, dear knight!
Sir And.
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 affectioned ass3 note,
that cons state without book, and utters it by great
swaths4 note: the best persuaded of himself; so crammed,
as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground
of faith, that all that look on him love him; and on
that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to
work.
Sir To.
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
-- 359 --
eye, forehead, and complexion, 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 To.
Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And.
I have't in my nose too.
Sir To.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt
drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in
love with him.
Mar.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
Sir And.
And your horse, now, would make him an
ass.
Mar.
Ass I doubt not.
Sir And.
O! 'twill be admirable.
Mar.
Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic
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 of it. For this night, to bed,
and dream on the event. Farewell.
[Exit.
Sir To.
Good night, Penthesilea.
Sir And.
Before me, she's a good wench.
Sir To.
She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that
adores me: what o' that?
Sir And.
I was adored once too.
Sir To.
Let's to bed, knight.—Thou hadst need
send for more money.
Sir And.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul
way out.
Sir To.
Send for money, knight: if thou hast her
not i' the end, call me cut5 note
.
-- 360 --
Sir And.
If I do not, never trust me; take it how
you will.
Sir To.
Come, come: I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too
late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.
[Exeunt.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].
