SCENE I.
The Street before Olivia's House.
Enter Sebastian and Clown.
Clo.
Will you make me believe that I am not sent
for you?
Seb.
Go to, go to; thou art a foolish fellow:
Let me be clear of thee.
Clo.
Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you;
nor I am not sent to you by my lady to bid you come
speak with her; nor your name is not master Cesario;
nor this is not my nose neither.—Nothing, that is so,
is so.
Seb.
I pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else:
Thou know'st not me.
Clo.
Vent my folly! He has heard that word of
some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent
my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will
prove a cockney11 note. I pr'ythee now, ungird thy strangeness,
and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall
I vent to her that thou art coming?
Seb.
I pr'ythee, foolish Greek12 note, depart from me.
There's money for thee: if you tarry longer,
I shall give worse payment.
Clo.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand.—These
-- 399 --
wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good
report after fourteen years' purchase1 note.
Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian.
Sir And.
Now, sir, have I met you again? there's
for you.
[Striking Sebastian.
Seb.
Why, there's for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad?
[Beating Sir Andrew.
Sir To.
Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the
house.
Clo.
This will I tell my lady straight. I would not
be in some of your coats for two-pence.
[Exit Clown.
Sir To.
Come on, sir: hold!
[Holding Sebastian.
Sir And.
Nay, let him alone; I'll go another way to
work with him: I'll have an action of battery against
him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck
him first, yet it's no matter for that.
Seb.
Let go thy hand.
Sir To.
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my
young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed.
Come on.
Seb.
I will be free from thee. What would'st thou now?
If thou dar'st tempt me farther, draw thy sword?2 note.
Sir To.
What, what! Nay then, I must have an
ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.
[Draws.
Enter Olivia.
Oli.
Hold, Toby! on thy life, I charge thee, hold!
-- 400 --
Sir To.
Madam—
Oli.
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch!
Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd. Out of my sight!—
Be not offended, dear Cesario.—
Rudesby, be gone!—I pry'thee, gentle friend,
[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil, and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go:
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
Seb.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep.
Oli.
Nay, come, I pr'ythee. Would thou'dst be rul'd by me!
Seb.
Madam, I will.
Oli.
O! say so, and so be.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Room in Olivia's House.
Enter Maria and Clown.
Mar.
Nay, I pr'ythee, put on this gown, and this
beard: make him believe thou art sir Topas, the curate:
do it quickly; I'll call sir Toby the whilst.
[Exit Maria.
Clo.
Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself
in't; and I would I were the first that ever dissembled
-- 401 --
in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the
function well3 note, nor lean enough to be thought a good
student; but to be said an honest man, and a good
housekeeper, goes as fairly as to say a careful man, and
a great scholar. The competitors enter4 note.
Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria.
Sir To.
Jove bless thee, master parson.
Clo.
Bonos dies, sir Toby: for as the old hermit of
Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said
to a niece of king Gorboduc, “That, that is, is;” so I,
being master parson, am master parson, for what is
that, but that? and is, but is?
Sir To.
To him, sir Topas.
Clo.
What, ho! I say.—Peace in this prison.
Sir To.
The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
Mal. [Within.]
Who calls there?
Clo.
Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio
the lunatic.
Mal.
Sir Topas, sir Topas, good sir Topas, go to my
lady.
Clo.
Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this
man. Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
Sir To.
Well said, master parson.
Mal.
Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good
sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have laid me
here in hideous darkness.
Clo.
Fie, thou dishonest Sathan! I call thee by the
most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones,
-- 402 --
that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Say'st
thou that house is dark?
Mal.
As hell, sir Topas.
Clo.
Why, it hath bay-windows5 note transparent as barricadoes,
and the clear stories6 note towards the south-north
are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest
thou of obstruction?
Mal.
I am not mad, sir Topas. I say to you, this
house is dark.
Clo.
Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness
but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled
than the Egyptians in their fog.
Mal.
I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though
ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say, there was
never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you
are: make the trial of it in any constant question.
Clo.
What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning
wild-fowl?
Mal.
That the soul of our grandam might haply
inhabit a bird.
Clo.
What thinkest thou of his opinion?
Mal.
I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve
his opinion.
Clo.
Fare thee well: remain thou still in darkness.
Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will
allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest
thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee
well.
Mal.
Sir Topas! sir Topas!—
Sir To.
My most exquisite sir Topas.
Clo.
Nay, I am for all waters7 note.
-- 403 --
Mar.
Thou might'st have done this without thy
beard, and gown: he sees thee not.
Sir To.
To him in thine own voice, and bring me
word how thou findest him: I would, we were well rid
of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered,
I would he were; for I am now so far in offence with
my niece, that I cannot pursue with any safety this
sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.
[Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria.
Clo.
“Hey Robin, jolly Robin8 note,
Tell me how thy lady does.”
[Singing.
Mal.
Fool,—
Clo.
“My lady is unkind, perdy.”
Mal.
Fool,—
Clo.
“Alas, why is she so?”
Mal.
Fool, I say;—
Clo.
“She loves another”—Who calls, ha?
Mal.
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at
my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper.
As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee
for't.
Clo.
Master Malvolio!
Mal.
Ay, good fool.
Clo.
Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
Mal.
Fool, there was never man so notoriously
abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.
Clo.
But as well? then you are mad, indeed, if you
be no better in your wits than a fool.
Mal.
They have here propertied me9 note; keep me in
-- 404 --
darkness, send ministers to me, asses! and do all they
can to face me out of my wits.
Clo.
Advise you what you say: the minister is here.
—Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore!
endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble
babble10 note.
Mal.
Sir Topas,—
Clo.
Maintain no words with him, good fellow.—
Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b' wi' you, good sir Topas.
—Marry, amen.—I will, sir, I will.
Mal.
Fool, fool, fool, I say.
Clo.
Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am
shent1 note
note for speaking to you.
Mal.
Good fool, help me to some light, and some
paper: I tell thee, I am as well in my wits, as any man
in Illyria.
Clo.
Well-a-day, that you were, sir!
Mal.
By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink,
paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to
my lady: it shall advantage thee more than ever the
bearing of letter did.
Clo.
I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you
not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?
Mal.
Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true.
Clo.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman, till I see his
brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.
Mal.
Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree: I
pr'ythee, be gone.
-- 405 --
Clo.
I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I'll be with you again,
In a trice,
Like to the old vice,
Your need to sustain;
Who with dagger of lath,
In his rage and his wrath,
Cries, Ah, ha! to the devil:
Like a mad lad,
Pare thy nails, dad,
Adieu, goodman devil 11Q04602 note.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sebastian.
Seb.
This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't, and see't;
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio then?
I could not find him at the Elephant;
Yet there he was, and there I found this credit,3 note,
-- 406 --
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service:
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad,
Or else the lady's mad: yet, if 'twere so,
She could not sway her house, command her followers,
Take, and give back affairs, and their despatch,
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As, I perceive, she does. There's something in't,
That is deceivable4 note. But here the lady comes.
Enter Olivia and a Priest.
Oli.
Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me, and with this holy man,
Into the chantry by; there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace: he shall conceal it,
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.—What do you say?
Seb.
I'll follow this good man, and go with you,
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
Oli.
Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine,
That they may fairly note this act of mine!
[Exeunt.
-- 407 --
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].
