THE CENTURY SHAKESPEARE
TWELFTH NIGHT﻿﻿﻿﻿OMISSE LL ® C9LXP
/﻿﻿7﻿﻿INTRODUCTION
BY
F. J. FURNIVALL, M.A., Ph.D., D.Litt.
Assisted by John Munro
Twelfth Night.—Still one of the comedies of Shak-spere’s bright, sweet time. True that we have to change Rosalind’s rippling laugh for the drunken catches and bibulous drollery of Sir Toby Belch and his comrade, and Touchstone for the clown; but the leading note of the play is fun, as if Shakspere had been able to throw off all thought of melancholy, and had devised Malvolio to help his friends u fleet the time carelessly,” as they did in the golden world. Still though, as ever in the comedies, except The Merry Wives, there ’s the shadow of death and distress across the sunshine. Olivia’s father and brother just dead, Viola and Sebastian just rescued from one death, Viola threatend with another, and Antonio held a pirate and liable to death. And still the lesson is, as in As You Like It, “ Sweet are the uses of adversity ” ; out of their trouble all the lovers come into happiness, into wedlock. The play at first sight is far less striking and interesting than Much Ado and As You Like It. No brilliant Beatrice or Benedick catches the eye, no sad Rosalind leaping into fife and
9﻿Introduction
joyousness at the touch of assured love. Instead of them, instead of the manly young Orlando, the self-conceited Malvolio is brought to the front, the drunkards and clown come next; none of these touch any heart; and it’s not till we look past them, that we feel the beauty of the characters who stand in half-light behind. Then we become conscious of a quiet harmony of colour and form that makes a picture full of charm, that grows on you as you study it, and becomes one of the possessions of your life. As the two last plays reach backward and forward, so does Twelfth Night: to the earliest Love's Labour's Lost for the cut at women’s painting their faces that we find here; for its men forswearing for three years the company of women, and then of course admitting them and falling in love with the first ones they see, which is the prototype of Olivia abjuring for seven years the company of men, then soon admitting one (as is supposed)» falling in love at first sight with him (though he’s a woman), and marrying his brother, whom she supposes to be he. For the pair of one family so like as to be mistaken for one another, we go back to the double Antipholus and the double Dromio of Shakspere’s second play, The Comedy of Errors, which gives us, too, the incidents of* both a wife (Antipholus’s of Ephesus) and sweetheart (Dro-mio’s of Syracuse) mistaking another man for her husband and her lover (though here Viola is only a woman disguised). To the same play we go for the refusal or denial of money when trusted to one by another, and for the members of a family sunderd
io﻿Introduction
by shipwreck, as we look on to Pericles for a somewhat like incident. In the Errors we get, too, the saving, though here only of one member of the family, by the binding to a mast. To The Two Gentlemen of Verona we go for the parallel to Viola sent disguised as a page by Duke Orsino to woo Olivia for him, to the loving Julia sent by the man she loves (Proteus) to woo Sylvia for him. Romeo and Juliet gives us in the love-lorn Romeo repulst by Rosalind, and at once giving her up for Juliet, the match of Duke Orsino resigning the longd-for Olivia, and at the moment taking up Viola. The Merchant of Venice gives us another Antonio willing to give his life for his friend Bassanio, just as here in Twelfth Night Antonio1 faces danger, nay, death, a pirate’s due, for his love to his friend Sebastian. And to the same Merchant we surely go for recollections of the opening scene here,
“ That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour ! ”
and for a parallel to the Duke’s love of music through the play. Henry IV. gives us in Falstaff and his followers the company whence Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek come, as the Second Part of that play gives us Falstaff playing on Justice Shallow as Sir Toby in Twefth Night plays on Sir Andrew. Is not also Slender’s echoing of Shallow in Merry Wives something like Sir Andrew echoing all Sir Toby’s
1 The second self-sacrificing Antonio is Leonato’s brother in Much Ado.
II﻿Introduction
sayings here, and fancying himself a man for it ? As to the reach forward of the play, I’ve already alluded to its link with Pericles. It is to the Sonnets that we turn for a parallel (9) to Viola’s pleading with Olivia to marry the Duke, and not forbear to leave a copy of her beauty to the world, an idea which has found expression also in Romeo (Act I., sc. i., p^ 30), and to the Sonnets to his mistress for Shakspere’s love of music; while to match Viola’s entire devotion even to death to the Duke’s most unjust will we must look forward, even past the Sonnets, to the true and loving Imogen’s willingness to die in obedience to her deceived and headstrong husband’s iniquitous sentence of death on her (Gymb.f III. iv.). Note, too, that it is with Perdita of Winter's Tale that Mrs. Jamieson mainly compares Viola, though, as we have seen, Jnlia in The Two Gentlemen is in circumstances nearest her. The interest of this middle time of Shak-,spere’s work is to me great, showing as it does the development of his early powers, the forecast of his later ones. It is at once the fulfilment of the old promise of his genius, and the prophecy of the new.
Viola is the true heroine of the play. She is sad for her brother’s supposed death, yet she hopes with the hopefulness of youth and her own escape. She doesn’t mope or shut herself up like Olivia, but, like Juliet, looks disaster full in the face, and at once takes practical steps for her future life. Sympathy with Olivia’s loss draws Viola first to her, but as she can’t . enter her service, she resolves to go into the Duke’s (Shakspere’s women of course take naturally to boys’
12﻿Introduction
disguises, because their characters were always acted by boys).1 She knows the Duke’s love of music; she can sing. Her voice, like Cordelia’s, was ever soft, gentle, and low, “ an excellent thing in woman ; ” and in the Duke’s love-lorn state, Viola is the very person for him. He wants sympathy, and she gives it him; into her gentle breast he pours the sorrows of his secret soul. Her pity for him opens her heart to him; but how bitter-sweet were his confidences to her ! Still, his happiness, not hers, is what she wants, and she’ll win it him, though in doing so she break her heart. Valentine has faild, but she ’ll not fail: he was urged by duty, she by love. Olivia she will see and does see. (Notice the woman’s curiosity to see her rival’s face and compare it with her own, as Julia does Sylvia’s picture after seeing her in The Two, Gentlemen:	both loved ones have, like Chaucer’s
ladies, “ eyes grey as glass.”) Then note how in pleading Orsino’s cause, through all her words her own love for the Duke speaks, just as in Chaucer’s description of his duke’s love, Blanche, the young poet describes and praises his own love. Note too the difference between the real love that Viola describes, and the fancied love the Duke feels (Romeo’s for Rosalind).
1 “ The boys who acted Rosalind, Viola, and Julia, had the difficult task of pretending to be girls disguised as boys. In spite of all this, it may be doubted whether Shakespeare has not suffered more than he has gained by the genius of latter day actresses, who bring into the plays a realism and a robust emotion which sometime# obscure the clear poetic value of the author’s conception. The boys were no doubt very highly trained and amenable to instruction ; so.that the parts of Rosalind and Desdemona may well have been rendered with a clarity and simplicity which served as a transparent medium for the author’s wit and pathos.”—Prof. Raleigh’s Shakespeare 1907, pp. 119-120. I don’t share Prof. Raleigh’s doubt.—F. J. F.
13﻿Introduction
Had his love been like Viola’s, no refusal* no rebuff, would have kept him from Olivia’s feet. (Contrast Viola’s tenderness to Olivia with Rosalind’s -sharpness to Phoebe.)' Then comes the touching scene between Viola and the Duke, where the music make» her speak masterly of love, where Shakspere reveals his own heart’s history with his aged wife, and where Viola herself, in answer to the Duke’s fancied greatness of his love, gives him such hints of her own far deeper devotion to him, that, though she never told her love, no man but one blinded by phantasm could have faild to catch the meaning of her words. But still she will appeal again to his unwilling love, Olivia, for him. Then comes the last scene. The man she loves, forgetting he ’s a man, out of spite threatens her with death, and she will take it joyfully for him, whom she then declares she loves more than her life. At last the Duke, seeing that Olivia is impossible to him, turns to his friend and confidante, his half-self, now woman, and challenges the fulfilment • of her oft-repeated vows. She denies them not, but confesses she loves him still. She has what she wills, and all is happiness and peace. The Duke has a fanciful nature like Olivia. He is one of your dreamy musical men, and Romeo is his parallel in the earlier time. Still, he is a man not to be despised, one of a rich, beautiful, artistic nature, had music in his soul, loved flowers, would make a husband tender and true, and say the prettiest* sweetest things to his wife.
“ A great deal of careful work,” says Munro, “ has been expended by the great dramatist on the other
14﻿Introduction
characters of the play. The two captains are splendid, solid men, true-hearted and faithful in adversity, exceptional, perhaps, in the London of Shakspere,— then as now the meeting-place of diverse types of different nationalities,—but such men as long service on the sea often breeds. Toby Belch is a poor, fallen specimen of a knight; he has sworn eternal enmity to respectability, thinks carousing late equivalent to being up early, and excuses his open roguery with a comic invective and humorous allusion, which in themselves are highly diverting. We are tempted to forgive his wildness for his wit, such as it is, until we know the truth about his foolish and hopeless dupe, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. Toby has filcht him of his money and would i?ob him of his horse, turns his poor brain with flattering insinuation, feeds his unbounded conceit on every occasion, and twists him this way and that, as circumstances require, like a weathercock in the wind. Sir Andrew thinks himself a bully and a fighter, and Sir Toby helps him to that conclusion, but we see how he behaves before the timid Viola, and he has not the sense to see his ‘ friends * are playing with him. The highest reaches of his intellect are to echo the bibulous witticisms of Sir Toby, and to compose the most foolish letter that ever betrayd a man’s poor intellect. He is accredited by his friend with knowledge of the tongues, but speedily discloses his own ignorance,—does indeed know a few snatches of French like many of the dandies of his day, but the simplest of words in that language is unknown to him. Malvolio is Toby’s antithesis;
15﻿Introduction
he conforms to every law of propriety, is regular, quiet and dutiful. But he, too, is conceited like Sir Andrew, and in that surpasses him. A different station in the world and a different character have developt a different ambition: Sir Andrew aspires to be con-siderd a bravo and a gallant, such as one might see in St. Paul’s Walk or the Paris Garden any day: Malvolio, spending his life in a great house, dreams of himself as the master of such a onej being a servant he would be master of servants; commanded by the fair Olivia,’ he aspires to be equal to her. He ha3 already dreamt himself wedded to his lady before Maria lays her plot for him. Why not there is example for’t; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.” Maria’s letter was all he wanted. Every word of it was a largesse to his imagination and to his conceit. Its very obscurity was a warrant of its authenticity. Its merest suggestions led him from being a grave and careful puritan to becoming a vain and ridiculous fool. A sounder man would have become immediately sceptical, but Malvolio’s caution had departed from him, and he was ready to fall into the snare laid for him by Maria. If his behaviour in the first place was ludicrous, his punishment was pitiful: convicted of madness, he was shut up in the dark, and tormented by people who were not all his superiors. With all his faults he was faithful, and this Olivia knew. She would not have had harm happen to him for half her dowry. Feste, the clown, indulges in verbal quibbles, is affected with the common style of contemporary wit, turning
16﻿Introduction
a sentence inside out like a cheveril glove. This he knows ; but yet underneath many of his sayings there lies a wisdom which reminds us of that of Lear’s Fool, stript of its bitterness. Feste is not bitter; if we áre to judge him by his songs, he has a tender heart that feels pathos in things. He is a good ventriloquist, too, and deceives Malvolio with ease into thinking he is Sir Topas. Maria is the spirit of mischief in the comedy: it is she who brings into juxtaposition the various masculine characters who help in the fun; she plays them one against the other, and in their criticisms apart they have their defects and weaknesses proclaimd. Maria has a strong and healthy nature that turns rather to the freedom of Sir Toby than the narrow and bigoted restraint of Malvolio. She likes laughter, and the steward is so demure. Her own nature leads her to the robuster natures among men. She would have, no doubt, a great difficulty as “ my lady ” to keep Sir Toby within the bounds of respectability, but she understands him well and is resourceful; and if anybody in the world could do it, she could.”
The play as acted on the London boards loses all its romantic beauty. Viola is extinguisht, except in the farce of the challenge, by the drunkards and their spirited catch, “ Saturday, Sunday, Monday.”
The play was acted at the barristers’ feast at the Middle Temple, on February 2, 1601-2, as Manning-ham tells us in his diary found by Mr. Hunter among the Harleian MSS in the British Museum. He says: “ Febr., 1601.—At our feast wee had a play called _____________________________i?___________.......﻿Introduction
Twelve Night, or What You Will, much like The Comedy , o/ Errors, or Meneehmi in Plautus, but most like and neere to that in Italian called Inganni. A good practise in it to make the steward beleive 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 gesture, in smiling, his apparaile, &c., and then when he came to practise, making him believe they took him to be mad.” The Italian play, GV Inganni (one by Nicolo Secchi, pr. 1562, another by Ourzio Gonzaga, pr. 1592), contains a brother, and a sister so like him drest as a man, as to lead to mistakes like those in Shakspere’s play. But another Italian play, GV Ingannati, pr. 1585, englisht 1862, contains more likenesses to Twdfth Night. However, the original that Shakspere used was doubtless Bamaby Rich’s History of Apolonius and Silla, printed in Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. i., p. 387, from “ Riche his Farewell to Mili-tarie profession,” 1581. Rich probably borrowd from Belieforest’s Histoires Tragiques, tom. iv., Hist. viime, as Belleforest did from Bandello, Pt. II.; novel 36. The comic characters are Shakspere’s own; and Olivia and Viola, with Sebastian and the Duke, are infinitely superior to their prototypes in the play called GV Ingannati. The play was first printed in ** the Folio of 1623. With it I end the group of the three sparkling, Sunny, or Sweet-time Comedies, the other two being Much Ado About Nothirig and As You Like It. AIVs Well that Ends Well, “ the darkening Comedy,” though it may be put with its foregoers,
.	18﻿Introduction
is so different in tone from them that I prefer to keep it by itself. The date of the play is fixt by Manning-ham’s allusion to it in 1601, printed above. It was not mentiond by Meres in 1598, as one of Shakspere’s plays. The song, “ Farewell, dear heart,” II. iii., was first publisht in Robert Jones’s Boolce of Ayres, 1601. The map spoken of by Maria (III. ii.) is a reference to the great map publisht with Hakluyt’s Voyages, 1599-1600.1 These considerations establish the date with sufficient accuracy as 1601-2.
Canon Ellacombe, in his paper on the seasons of Shakspere’s Plays (New Shahs. Soc. Trans., 1880-6, Pt. I.), fixes the season of Twelfth Night as probably Spring. Three days are represented in the play, with an interval of three days between the first and second, but there are inconsistencies. Daniel’s “Time-Analysis” (New Shahs. Soc. Trans., 1877-79, p. 175).
1 See Mr. H. L. Coote’s paper in the New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1877-9, pp. 88-100.
37—B
*9﻿﻿Twelfth Night-.
OR, WHAT YOU WILL
DRAMATIS DERSONÆ
Orsino, Duke of Illyria. Sebastian, Brother to Viola. Antonio, a Sea Captain, Friend to Sebastian.
A Sea Captain, Friend to Viola.
) Gentlemen at-Valen e, I tending on the
Curio,
Sir Toby Olivia.
Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.
) Duke. Belch, Uncle to
Malvolio, Steward to Olivia. AMS } Servants to Olivia.
Olivia, a rich Countess. Viola, Sister to Sebastian. Maria, Olivia's Woman.
Lords, a Priest, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and Attendants.
SCENE.—A City in Illyria ; and the Sea-coast near it
ACT FIRST
Scene I.—A Room in tlie 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 sound That breathes upon a bank of violets,
21﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE ONE
Stealing and giving odour !—Enough; no more :
*T is 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, naught enters there,
Of what validity 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 purged the air of pestilence !
That instant was I turned into a hart.
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me.—
Enter Valentine
How now ] what news from her ] 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,
22﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE two
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 killed the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and filled—■
Her sweet perfections—with one self king !—
. Away before me to sweet beds of flowers : Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
Scene II.—The Sea-coast Enter Viola, Captain, and Sailors
Vio. What country, friends, is this i Cap.	This is Illyrh, lady.
Vio. And what should I do in Illyria ?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance, he is not drowned:—what think you, sailors %
______-________________ 23﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE TWO
Gap. It is perchance that you yourself were saved.
Vio. O my poor brother ! and so, perchance, may he be.
Cap. True, madam : and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after your ship did split,
When you, and this 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.
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 ?
Gap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born Not three hours’ travel from this very place.
Vio. Who governs here *?
Gap. A noble duke, in nature as in name.
Vio. What is his name %
Gap.	Orsino.
Vio. Orsino ! I have heard my father name him :
•___________24_____________﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night
SCENE TWO
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’t was 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 1
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 loss,
They say, she hath abjured the company And sight of men.
Vio.	0, that I served 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.
25﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
I prithee,—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.
Gap. 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.
____________ 26﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.
Sir To. Confined 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 1
Mar. Ay, he.
Sir To. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.
Mar. What’s that to the purpose i
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, 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, ’t is thought among
27﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
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 1
Mar. They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company.
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 coystrel that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish-top. What, wench ! Gastiliano vulgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.
Enter Sir Andrew Ague-cheek
Sir And. Sir Toby Belch, how now, Sir Toby Belch %
Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew !
Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew.
Mar. And you too, sir.
Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
Sir And. What ’s that ?
Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid.
Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
Mar. My name is Mary, sir.
28﻿———
ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE THREE
Sir A nd. 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 her part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst 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. Yow, 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 1
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?
29	_______﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
Mar. Ay, sir ; I have them at my fingers’ ends •. marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
[Exit Maria
Sir To. 0 knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary. When did I see thee so put down i
Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you saw 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.
Sir To. No question.
Sir And. An I thought that, I’d forswear it.— I ’ll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.
Sir To. Potirquoi, 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.
Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does’t not?
30﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE THREE
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
i
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 1
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
31﻿act one	Twelfth Night
SCENE FOUR
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, ’t is strong, and does indifferent well in a flame-coloured stock. 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.
Sir To. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Andrbw dances.\ Ha! higher: ha, ha !—excellent !	[Exeunt.
Scene IY. — 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 :
32﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE FOUR
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.
Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants
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 unclasped 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 abandoned to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds Bather than make unprofited return.
Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord, what then ?
Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love ;
33﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE FOUR
Surprise her with discourse of 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 in 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 :—[aside\ yet, a barful strife ! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt.
34﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Scene Y.—A Room in Olivia’s House Enter Maria and Clown
Mar. Hay, 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 ?
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.
Ma/r. 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 %﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Glo. 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.
Glo. 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.
Glo. 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.
Enter Olivia and Malvolio
God bless thee, lady !
Oli. Take the fool away.
Glo. 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 good﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
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 : anything 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 remedy1? 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.
OIL Sir, I bade them take away you.
Glo. Misprision in the highest degree !—Lady, cucullus non facit monachum: that ’s as much to say as, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
OIL Can you do it ?
Glo. Dexteriously, good madonna.
OIL Make your proof. "
Glo. I must catechise you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
OIL Well, sir, for want of other idleness, 111 bide your proof.
Glo. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou ?
OIL Good fool, for my brother’s death.
¿2﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE FIVE
Glo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
Glo. 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 ?
Mai. Yes, and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him : infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
Glo. 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 1
Mai. 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.
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
38﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
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.
Qlo. 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 1 Mar. I know not, madam:	is a fair young
man, and well attended.
Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay 1 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.
do. 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.
39﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE FIVE
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. JT is a gentleman here—a plague o’ these pickle-herring !—How now, sot 'l
Glo. 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.]
Glo. 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 crowner, and let him sit o’ my coz ; for he’s in the third degree of drink, —he’s drowned : go, look after him.
Glo. He is but mad yet, madonna ; and the fool shall look to the madman.	[Exit.
40﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Re-enter Malvolio
Mai. Madam, yond young fellow swears lie 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 foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to he said to him, lady 1 he’s fortified against any denial.
OIL Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
Mai. ’Has been told so; and he says, he ’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he ’ll speak with you.
OIL What kind o’ man is he ?
Mai. Why, of man kind.
OIL What manner of man 1
Mai. Of very ill manner; he ’ll speak with you, will you or no.
OIL Of what personage and years is he 1
Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy ; as a squash is before’t is a peas-cod, or a codling when ’t is almost an apple : ’t is with him e’en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks
41﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
very shrewishly; one would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.
Oli. Let him approach : call in my gentlewoman.
Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.	[Exit.
Re-enter Maria
Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my . face.
We ’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.
Enter Yiola
Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she
Oli. Speak to me ; I shall answer for her. Your will 1
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 even to the least sinister usage.
Oli. Whence came you, sir 1
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.
42﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night	SCENE FIVE
Oli. Are you a comedian 1 * ___ x
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 Jt is 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: ’t is not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir i here lies your way.
Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.—Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.
Oli. Tell me your mind.
43﻿ACT ONE	Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Vio. I am a messenger.
Oli. Bure, 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.
OK Yet you began rudely. What are you ? what would you ?
Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me, have I learned 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.] How, 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.
44﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
OIL 0, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say ?
Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.
OIL 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 I was this present: is Jt not well done %	[Unveiling.
Vio. Excellently done, if God did all.
OIL ’T is in grain, sir; ?t will endure wind and weather.
Vio. ’T is beauty truly blent, 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.
OIL 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 *2
Vio. I see you, what you are,—you are too proud;
45﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you : O, such love Could be but recompensed, though you were crowned
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:	v
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble ;
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learned, 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,
46﻿ACT ONE
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
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 Placedjn contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit.
Oli. {What is your parentage h ’
1 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 ?
_____	_____________147_______________________﻿act ONE	Twelfth' Night	SCENE five
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
Mai.	Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger,
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,
H or 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. Mai. Madam, I will.	[Exit
Oil. 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; What is decreed must be,—and be this so ! [Exit.
»
48﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE ONE
ACT SECOND
Scene I.—The Sea-coast Enter Antonio and Sebastian
Ant. Will you stay no longer i 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 Mes-saline, whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both bora in an
—_______—_______—.....49______________-_______﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE ONE
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:	j
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.
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.	[Exit.
Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies in Orsino’^T court,﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE TWO
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 Yiola; Malvolio following
Mai. Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia 1
Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.
Mai. 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. Beceive it so.
Vio. She took the ring of me;—I ’ll none of it.
Mai. 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.
37 v﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE TWO
Vio. I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her ! She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That, as 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 man:—if it be so,—as’t is,—
Poor lady, she were better love her 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 of, such we be.—
How will this fadge ? My master loves her dearly ; And I, poor monster, fond as much on him As 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 to untie.	[Exit.
52﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
Scene III.—A Hoorn in Olivia’s House
Enter Svr Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-
cheek
Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed , after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou knowest,—
Sir And. Hay, 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 earlyso that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements %
Sir And. Faith, so they say; but I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking.
Sir To. Thou ’rt a scholar: let us therefore eat and drink.—Maria, I say !—a stoop of wine !
Sir And. Here comes the fool, i’ faith.
Enter Clown
Clo. How now, my hearts ! Did you never see the picture of We Three*?
Sir To. Welcome, ass. How let’s have a catch.
Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent﻿ï~
ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE THREE
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 Pigrogro-mitus, of the Yapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus : Jt was very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman : hadst it ?
Glo. 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.
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. There’s a testril of me too : if one . knight give a—
Glo. 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.
Song
Glo. 0 mistress mine ! where are you roaming ?
0, stay and hear ; your true love 3s coming, That can sing both high and low ;
Trip no farther, pretty sweeting ;
______________________________________________________﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every tvise man’s son doth know.
Sir And. Excellent good, i’ faith.
Sir To. Good, good.
Clo. What is love ? ’t is 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
55﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE three
\
shall be constrained in ’t to call thee knave, knight.
Sir And. ’T is not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins, Hold thy 'peace.
Glo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And. Good, i' faith. Come, begin.
[They sing the catch.
Enter Maria
Mar. What a caterwauling 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 Cataian; we are politicians; Malvolio Js ay Peg-a-Bamsey, and Three merry men be we. Am not I consanguineous ? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally, lady! [Sings.'] There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady /
Glo. 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.
Sir To. [Sings.]	0, the twelfth day of
December,—
Mar. For the love o’ God, peace !
56﻿act two	Twelfth Night	scene three
Enter Malvolio
Mat. 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 ale-house 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!
Mai. 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 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 gone.
Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.
Clo. His eyes do show} his days are almost done.
Mai. Is’t even so ?
Sir To. But I will never die.
Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mai. This is much credit to you.
57﻿
ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE THREE
Sir To. Shall I bid him go ?
Glo. What an if you do ?
Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not ?
Clo. 0, no, no, no, no, you dare not.
Sir To. Out o’ time!—Sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward 1 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 crumbs.—A stoop of wine, Maria !
Mai. 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. t	[Exit.
Mar. Go shake your ears.
Sir And. ’T were as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him.
Sir To. Do % 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 to-night. Since the youth of the count’s was to-day with my﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE THREE
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, 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 i thy exquisite reason, dear knight 2
Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for % but I have reason good enough.
Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or anything constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swaths : 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 his﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE THREE
^ 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 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’s in love with him 1
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 bhe fool make a third, where he shall find the letter : observe his construction of it. Eor this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
Sir To. Good nighfc, Penthesilea. [Exit Makia.
Sir And. Before me, she’s a good wench.
60﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FOUR
Sir To. She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o’ that ?
Sir And. I was adored once too.
Si/r To. Let’s to bed, knight.—Thou hadst need send for more money.
Si/r 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.
Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
Sir To. Come, come; I ’ll go burn some sack ; ’t is too late to go to bed now : come, knight; come, knight.	’	[Exeunt.
Scene IY.—A Room in the Duke’s Palace Enter Duke, Yiola, Curio, and others
Duke. Give me some music:—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.
61﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FOUR
Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.
Duke. Who was it 1
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.—Music.
Come hither, boy : if ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me;
For such as I am all true lovers are,—
TJnstaid and skittish in all motions else Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved.—How dost thou like this tune 1 Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned.
Duke.	Thou dost speak masterly.
My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy %
Vio.	A little, by your favour.
Duke. What kind of woman is’t 1 Vio.	Of your complexion.
Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i’ faith ?
Vio. About your years, my lord.
62﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FOUR
Duke. Too olcl, *>y Heaven : let still the woman
take
An elder than herself ; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband’s heart:
For, boy, however we do praise-ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are.
Vio.	I think it well, my lord.
Duke. Then, let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
Vio. And so they are : alas, that they are so,— To die, even when they to perfection grow !
Re-enter Curio and Clown
Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night.—
Mark it, Cesario; it is old, and plain :
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
63﻿AOT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FOUR
Like the old age.
Glo. Are you ready, sir ?
Duke. Ay; prithee, sing.	[Music.
Song
Glo. Gome away, come away, death, in sad cypress let me be laid ;
Fly away, fly away, breath ;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
0, prepare it;
My part of death, no one so true Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown ;
Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, 0, where Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
Duke. There’s for thy pains.
Glo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
Duke. I 'll pay thy pleasure then.
64﻿act two	Twelfth Night	S0ENE F0UR
Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.
Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, j for thy mind is a very opal!—I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that 5s it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.—Farewell.	[Exit.
Duke. Let all the rest give place.—
[Exeunt Ourio and Attendants, Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty :
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that Fortune hath bestowed upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as Fortune;
But’t is that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir ?
Duke. I cannot be so answered.
Vio.	Sooth, but you must. |
Say, that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia : you cannot love her;﻿'ACT TWO
Twelfth Night	SCENE "FOUR
You tell her so; must she not then be answered 1 Duke. There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart So big to hold so much : they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,—
No motion of the liver, but the palate,—
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.
Vio.	Ay, but I know—
Duke. What dost thou know ?
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe :
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
" My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
Duke.	And what’s her history h
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm V the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought: And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
66﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more : but, indeed, Our shows are more than will, for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy ? Vio. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too;—and yet I know not.— Sir, shall I to this lady ?
Duke.	that’s the theme.
To her in haste : give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.
Scene V.—Olivia’s Garden
Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek,
and Fabian
Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I ’ll come : if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly, rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame ?
Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.
22=*﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Sir To. To anger him, we ’ll have the bear
again ; and we will fool him black and blue ;— shall we not, Sir Andrew %
Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. Sir To. Here comes the little villain.-—
How now, my metal of India1?
Mar. Get ye all three into the box tree: Malvolio’s coming down this walk : he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half-hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting ! [The menJiide themselves.] Lie thou there [throws down a letterfor here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. 
Mai. ’T is but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me : and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on ’tl—
Enter Maria
Enter Malvolio
68﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
Sir To. Here’s an overweening rogue !
Fab. O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare . turkey-cock of him : liow he jets under his advanced plumes !
Sir And. ’Blight, I could so beat the rogue I Sir To. Peace, I say.—
Mod. To be Count Malvolio,—
Sir To. Ah, rogue !
Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir To, Peace, peace !—
Mai. There is example for’t; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.—
Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel!
Fab. O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.—
Mai. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,—
, Sir To. 0, for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye !—
Mai. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,-—
Sir To. Fire and brimstone !
Fab. O, peace ! peace !—
Mai. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard,—telling them
69﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE FIVE
I know my place, as I would they should do theirs, —to ask for my kinsman Toby.—
Sir To. Bolts and shackles !
Fab. O, peace, peace, peace ! now, now.—
Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches ; court’sies there to me.—
Sir To. Shall this fellow live ?
Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace !—
Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,—
Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then ?
Mai. Saying, ( Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech/—
Sir To. What, what?—
Mai. i You must amend your drunkenness.’—
Sir To. Out, scab !
Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.—
Mai. * Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight/—
70﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE FIVE
Sir And. That’s me, I warrant you.—
Mat 1 One Sir Andrew/—
Sir And. I 'knew ’t was I; for many do call me fool.—
Mai. [Seeing the letter.] What employment have we here ?
Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin.
Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him !
Mai. [Taking up the letter.] By my life, this is my lady’s hand ! these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her P’s; and thus makes she her great P’s. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.
Sir And. Her (7’s, her U’s, and her P’s: why that ?
Mai. [Beads To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes; her very phrases !—By your leave, wax.—Soft!—and theimpressure herLucreee, with which she uses to seal: ;t is my lady. To whom should this be h—
Fab. This wins him, liver and all.—
Mai. [Beads.1 Jove knows, Hove ;
But who ?
Zips, do not move :
No man must know.
No man must know.—What follows h the numbers
71﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
altered!—No man must know : if this should be thee,—Malvolio
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock!
Mai. [Beads.~\ I may command, where I adore ;
But silence, like a Lucrecd knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore ;
M, 0, Ay Iy doth sway my life.—
Fab. A fustian riddle.
Sir To. Excellent wench, say I.—
Mai. My Oy Ay Iy doth sway my life.
N ay, but first, let me see,—let me see.—
Fab. What a dish of poison has she dressed him !
Sir To. And with what wing the staniel checks' at it !—
Mai. I may command, where I ad.ore. Why, she may command me : I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this :—and the end,— what should that alphabetical position portend 1 if • I could make that resemble something in me,'— Softly !----My Oy Ay Iy---
Sir To. O ! ay ! make up that. He is now at a cold scent.
lab. Sowter will cry upon’t, for all this, though > it be as rank as a fox.﻿ACT TWO	Twelfth Night	SCENE five
Mai. Malvolio :—My—wliy, that begins my name.
Fab, Did not I say, he would work it out ? the cur is excellent at faults.-—
Mai,	—but then there is no consonancy in
the sequel; that suffers under probation : A should follow, but 0 does.—
Fab. And 0 shall end, I hope.
Sir To. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry 0 /—
Mai. And then I comes behind.—
Fab. Ay, an you had an eye behind you, you
*
might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.
Mol. My Oy Ay I:—this simulation is not as the former :—and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft ! here follows prose.—[Heads.] If this fall into thy handy revolve. In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born greaty some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust wpon them. Thy Fates open their hands ; let thy blood and spirit embrace them : and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to bey cast thy humble sloughy and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let
____________—7.3.......................﻿act two	Twelfth Night	scene five
thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity ; she thus advises thee, that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and ivished to see thee ever cross-gartered ; I sayy remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be so ; if not, let me see thee a steivard still, the fellow of servants, and not loorthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services loith thee,
The Fortunate-Unhappy. Daylight and champain discover not more : this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-de-vise the very man.
I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend -my yellow stockings of late; she did praise my leg being cross-gartered ; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and, with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised !—Here is yet a postscript. \fReadsJ\ Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let
_________________________________________﻿ACT TWO
Twelfth Night
SCENE FIVE
it appear in thy smiling: thy smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.—Jove, I thank thee.—I will smile; I will do everything that thou wilt have me. [Exit.
Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device,-—
Sir And. So could I too.
Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest.
Sir And. Nor I neither.
Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Re-enter Maria
Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck ?
Sir And. Or o’ mine either ?
Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave ?
Sir And. T faith, or I either 1
Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.
Mar. Nay, but say true; does it work upon him h
Sir To. Like aqua-vitee with a midwife.﻿ACT THREE
Twelfth Night
SCENE ONE
Mar. If you will, then, see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady : he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors ; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests ; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.
Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit !
Sir And. 111 make one too.	[Exeunt.
ACT THTRD
Scene I.—Olivia’s Garden Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabor
Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy nlusic ! dost thou live by thy tabor ?
Clo. No, sir, I live by the church.
Vio. Art thou a churchman ?
Clo. No such matter, sir: I do live by the church, for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
___________-   z6— --------------———﻿ACT THREE	Twelfth Night	SCENE ONE
Vio. So thou may’st say, the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church.
Glo. You have said, sir.—To see this age !—A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: now quickly the wrong side may be turned outward !
Vio. Nay, that ’s certain: they, that dally nicely with words, may quickly make them wanton.
Glo. I would therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.
Vio. Why, man?
Glo. Why, sir, her name ?s a word ; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them.
Vio. Thy reason, man ?
Glo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words ; and words are grown so false, I am loth to prove reason with them.
Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.
Glo. Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if
_____	77﻿Twelfth Night
SCENE ONE
S
j ACT THBEP
I
that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible.
Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool ?
Clo. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly : she will keep no fool, sir, till sbe be married; and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings,—the husband ’s the bigger: I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.
Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb ; like the sun : it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress : I think I saw your wisdom there.
Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I ’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee.
\G-ives a piece of money.
Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard !
Vio. By my troth, I ’ll tell thee,—I am almost sick for one; though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within ?
Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir ?
Vio. Yes, being kept together, and put to uSe.
Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.﻿ACT THREE
Twelfth Night
SCENE ONE
Vio. I understand you, sir [gives another piece of money\’t is well begged.
Glo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Oressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you come: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin,—I might say, element, but the word is overworn.	[Exit
Vio. This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man’s art:
For folly that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.
Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek
Sir To. ’Save you, gentleman.
Vio. And you, sir.
Sir And. Dien vous garde, monsieur.
Vio. Et vous aussi ; votre serviteur.
Sir And. I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.
Sir To. Will you encounter the house? my
___________ 79 ______________﻿ACT THREE
SCENE ONE
Twelfth Night
niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.
Vio. I am bound to your niece, sir : I mean, she is the list of my voyage.
Sir To. Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.
Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
Vio. I will answer you with gait and entrance : -—but we are prevented.
Enter Olivia and Ma'Ria
Most excellent-accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you !
Sir And. That youth ’s a rare courtier. ‘ Rain odours I’—well.
Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.
Sir And. ‘Odours/.‘pregnant/ and ‘vouchsafed:’ —I ’ll get ’em all three all ready.
OIL Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. [Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria.] Give me your hand, sir.
Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service.
80﻿ACT THREE
Twelfth Night
SCENE ONE
Oli. "What is your name ?
Vio. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess. Oli. My servant, sir? ’T was never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
You ’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours :
Your servant’s servant,is your servant, madam.
Oli., For him, I think not on him : for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks, rather than filled with me !
Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf:—
Oli.	O, by your leave, I pray you,—
I bade you never speak again of him :
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres.
Vio.	Dear lady,—
Oli Give me leave, beseech you. I did send After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you : so did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
81﻿