SONG.

Come away, come away, death,
And in fad cyprefs let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,

I am flain by a fair cruel maid.
My fhrowd of white, ftuck all with yew,
O, prepare it.

My part of death no one so true

Did fhare it.

Not a flower, not a flower fweet,

On

my black coffin let there be ftrown:

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corps, where my bones fhall be thrown. A thousand thousand fighs to fave,

Lay me, O! where

True lover never find my grave,

Το weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clo. No pains, Sir; I take pleasure in finging, Sir. Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, Sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or other.

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the taylor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal! (8) I would have men of fuch conftancy put to fea, that their bufinefs might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it,

that

(8) I would have men of such conftancy put to fea, that their business might be every where, and their intent every where, &c.] Mr. Warburzon fufpects this place to have fuffer'd under the indolence of editors: and therefore, tho' I have not disturb'd the text, I think it very proper to fubjoin his emendation, and reafons for it.

"Not only the Antithefts (which is no mean confideration, when "the queftion is on Shakespeare's writings;) but the fenfe requires, « we should read;

that their bufine's might be every where, and their intent no rubere, &c. "Because,

that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.

[Exit. Duke. Let all the reft give place. Once more, Cefario, Get thee to yond fame fovereign cruelty :

Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

The parts, that fortune hath beftow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune:
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That Nature pranks her in, attracts my foul.
Vio. But if he cannot love you, Sir,-
Duke. It cannot be fo answer'd.
Vio. Sooth, but you muft.

Say, that fome Lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her fo: muft fhe not then be anfwer'd?
Duke. There is no women's fides

Can bide the beating of so strong a paffion,
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold fo much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite:
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That fuffers furfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the fea,
And can digeft 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 doft 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 lov'd a man,

As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I fhould your Lordship.

"Because, a man, that suffers himself to run with every wind, and "fo makes his bufiness every where, cannot he said to have any In"" tent; for that word fignifies a determination of the mind to fome"thing. Befides, the conclufion, of making a good voyage out of "nothing,-evidently directs to this emendation.

Duke.

Duke. And what's her history?

Vio. A blank, my Lord: fhe never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damafk cheek: (9) fhe pin'd in thought,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She fat like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may fay more, fwear more, but, indeed,
Our fhews are more than will; for ftill we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But dy'd thy fifter of her love, my boy?
Vio. I'm all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too-and yet I know not-
Sir, fhall I to this Lady?

Duke. Ay, that's the theam.

To her in hafte; give her this jewel: fay,

My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt.

(9)

She pined in thought;

And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She fate like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at Grief.] This very fine image, which has been fo univerfally applauded, it is not impoffible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Affembly of Foules. And her befidis wonder difcretlie,

the

Dame Pacience yfittinge there I fonde
With face pale, upon an bill of fonde.

If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, how amply has he repaid that debt in heightning the picture! How much does green and yellow melancholy tranfcend the Old Bard's face pale; the monument, his bill of fand; and what an additional beauty is, miling at Grief, for which there are no ground, nor traces, in the original! Our Author has given us this fine picture again in another place, but, to fhew the power and extent of his genius, with features and lineaments varied.

yet thou

Do'ft look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'graves,
And fmiling [harfh] extremity out of act.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This abfurd old play, I have elsewhere taken notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a number of mafter-touches, fo peculiar to himself, that a knowing reader may with eafe and certainty diftinguish the traces of his pencil.

SCENE

SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.

Sir To.

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.

COM

OME thy ways, Signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lofe a fcruple of this fport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Would't thou not be glad to have the niggardly rafcally fheep-biter come by fome notable fhame? Fab. I would exult, man; you know, he brought me out of favour with my Lady, about a bear-baiting here.

Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue, fhall we not, Sir Andrew ?

Sir And. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.

Sir To. Here comes the little villain: how now, my

nettle of India?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolic's coming down this walk, he has been yonder i'th fun practising behaviour to his own fhadow this half hour. Obferve him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative ideot of him. Clofe, in the name of jefting! lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Throws down a letter, and Exit.

Enter Malvolio.

Mal. "Tis but fortune, all is fortune.

Maria once

told me, fhe did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that fhould fhe fancy, it fhould be one of my complexion. Befides, the ufes me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What fhould I think on't?

Sir To. Here's an over-weaning rogue.

Fab. Ch, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!

Sir And. 'Slife, I could fo beat the rogue.

Sir To. Peace, I say.

Mal. To be Count Malvolio,

Sir To. Ah, rogue!

Sir And. Piftol him, pistol him.

Sir To. Peace, peace.

Mal. There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir And. Fy on him, Jezebel!

Fab. O, peace, now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him..

Mal. Having been three months married to her, fitting in my state

Sir To. O for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!-Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come down from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia fleeping.

Sir To. Fire and brimstone!*

Fab. O, peace, peace.

Mal. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them, I know my place, as I would they fhould do theirs

for my uncle Toby

Sir To. Bolts and fhackles !

Fab. Oh, peace, peace, peace; now, now.

to afk

Mal. 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 fome rich jewel.. Toby approaches, curtfies there to me.

Sir To. Shall this fellow live

Fab. Tho' our filence be drawn from us with cares, yet, peace.

Mal. I extend my hand to him. thus ; quenching my. familiar fmile with an auftere regard of controll.

Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o'th' lips then?

Mal.