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SCENE I. AN APARTMENT IN THE DUKE'S PALACE.
Enter Duke, Curio, Lords; Musicians attending.
Duke. Ir 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,

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 and pitch soever,

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.

ACT I.

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.-How now? what news
from her?

Olivia, a rich countess.

Viola, in love with the Duke.
Maria, Olivia's Woman.

Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other
Attendants.

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Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and that poor number saved with you,
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.

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 As in his name.

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

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,

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,

a

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.

Vio. O, that I served that lady;
Ana 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 pray thee, 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. 70
What else may hap, to time I will commit; HEA
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. b [ereunt.

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viol-de-gambo, 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 To. 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.

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Sir To. 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, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o'the toe like a parish-top. What, wench? Castiliano vulgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby
Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew!
[Belch?

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew.

Mar. And you too, sir.

Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And. What's that? ala i

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?

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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. Sir And. Wherefore, sweet heart? what's your metaphor?

Mar. It's dry, sir. 1708236

Sir And. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

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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. A dry jest, sir.

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Sir And. Are you full of them?

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.

Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends:
marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
[exit Maria.

Sir To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar. Ay, he.

Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down??struk

Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. Mar. What's that to the purpose ?[year.Sir And Never in your life, I think; unless Sir To.. Why, he has three thousand ducats a you see canary put me down: methinks, some -Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these times I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. ordinary man has: but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit, siis i

Sir To. Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o'the

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Sir To. No question.

gence, that you call in question the continuance Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. of his love; is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. Val. No, believe me.

Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight?

Sir And. What is pourquoy? 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!

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.
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.

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head Thou know'st no less but all; I have unciasp'i
of hair.
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shali grow,

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for thou seest, it will not curl by nature.

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, Till thou have audience. does't not?

Vio. Sure, my noble lord,

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.

If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

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, wooes her.

Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return. [then?
Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord; what
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;

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?

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? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig! I would not so much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace. 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. Shall we set about some revels?

J

Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

Sir And. Taurus? that's sides and heart.

Sir To. No, sir! it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha!-excelient! [exeunt 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 negli

*16

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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 aptante, dok
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 fortune thine.

Vio. I'll do my best,

To woo your lady; yet, aside] a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [exeunt

*17

SCENE V. A ROOM IN OLIVIA'S HOUSE. Enter Maria and Clown. \ 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. Mar. Make that good.

Clo. He shall see none to fear.

Mar. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours. Clo. Where, good mistress Mary?

FOURT

Mar. In the wars: and that you may 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? bed

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.

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, 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 Quinapulus? Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.-God bless thee, lady!

On. 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 not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexterously, good madonna.

Oli. Make your proof.

Clo. I must catechise 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 mournest 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 you, 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.

| 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.

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 twopence, that you are no fool.

Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? Mcl. 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

Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distemper'd 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. 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? 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 weak pia mater.

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,

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. [exit.

Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool?

Clo. Like a drowned 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 drowned: go, look after him.

Clo. He is but mad yet madonna ; and the fol 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 forc-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. Oii. 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, peace as matter. 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, 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. [exit.
Re-enter Maria.

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.

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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

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 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, 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 't's poetical.

Oli. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you, kept 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 kipping a dialogue. [way. Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your Vio. No, good swabber: I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind.

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 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 bosom? is she?

Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. his heart. Your will?

Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [exit Maria.] Now, sir, what is your text?

Vio. Most sweet lady,

what

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

Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of

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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 as I was this present; is't not well done?

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[unveiling.

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

Vio.'Tis beauty truly bent, whose red and white
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.

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, 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.

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