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. [Exit.

Enter Olivia and Malvolio.

Clo. Wit, and 't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have the, 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 hin. 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 not motley in my brain.

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. Heaven 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 twopence 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

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,3 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.

Re-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? 1 Mistress. 2 Baubles. 3 Short-arrows. 4 Lying.

Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye 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 comes one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.1

Enter Sir Toby Belch.

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.

Sir To. 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. [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 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. [Exit Clown.

Re-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.

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 of a bench, but he'll speak with you.

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.

He is

Oli. Of what personage and years is he? Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy, between boy and man. 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 gentle

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: 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,1 even to the least sinister usage.

Oli. Whence came you, sir?

V. 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; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

M. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your

way:

Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.-Some mollification for your giant,2 sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind.

Vio. I am a messenger.

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 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,

Vio. In Orsino's bosom.

O. 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 negotiate 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 as I was this present: Is't not well done? [Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if nature did all. Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather. [white, Vio. "Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruel'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, 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?

V. 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 nonpariel of beauty!
Oli.
How does he love me?
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, 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, And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Holla 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.

[age?

0. You might do much: What is your parentVio. 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;

be said of it. Where lies your text?

1 Accountable.

2 The original actress of Maria was very short.

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:

I thank you for your pains: spend this for me. 1 Verses.

Vio. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse; My master, not myself, lacks recomponse. 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 min eyes. Well, let it be.—
What, ho, Malvoli!—

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 pleas'd, would we had so ended! but you, sir, alter'd that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. Ant. Alas, the day! 1 Own.

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, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, 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.

S. O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

S. 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. [Exit.

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with I have many enemies in Orsino's court, [thee: 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. 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.

Vio. She took the ring of me; 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. [Exit.

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 sure, methought 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 raan :-If it be so (as 'tis),
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant1 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 of, such we be.
1 Dexterous.

SCENE III-A ROOM IN OLIVIA'S HOUSE.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew
Ague-cheek.

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed 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! Enter Clown.

Sir And. Here comes the fool.

Clo. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three ?2

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

Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. 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.

Clo. My lady has a white hand, and the Myr

midons are no bottle-ale houses.

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

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

Sir And. There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song.

Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

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.

[well. Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch 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 conIstrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, foci; it begins, Hold thy peace.

Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And. Good, i'faith! Come, begin.
[They sing a catch.

Enter Maria.

Mar. What a catterwauling do you keep here! volio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never If my lady have not called up her steward, Mal

trust me.

Sir To. My lady's a Cataian,1 we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsay,2 and Three am I not of her blood? tilly-valley, lady! merry men we be. Am not I consanguineous? There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady! [Singing.

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be better grace, but I do it more natural. disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a

Sir To. O the twelfth day of December,Mar. Peace. [Singing.

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' catches 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. Sneck up!4

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. 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 misdemeanors, 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.

needs be gone.

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.

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?

[Singing.

Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not? Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To. Out o'time? 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 crums:-A stoop of wine, Maria! Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

Mar. Go shake your ears.

[Exit.

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.

Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the youth of the count's was today 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 nay-word,1 and make him a common recreation, do not I think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it.

Sir To. Possess us, 2 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 ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths3: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, 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 eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your 2 inform us. slow of grass left by a mower.

1 Bye-word.

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.

M. Sport royal, I warrant you. 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.1 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 Cut.2

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.

SCENE IV.-A ROOM IN THE DUKE'S 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?

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. [Exit Curio.-Musick. Con.. her, 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 that constant image of the creature That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?