Sir To. What wilt thou do? Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: I can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device. Sir And. I hav't in my nose too. Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him. Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that coJour. 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 the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea". [Exit. Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench. Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; What o' that? Sir And. I was adored once too. Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.-Thou hadst need -send for more money. Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut. Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A room in the Duke's palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. Duke. Give me some music: Now, good morrow, Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that - should sing it. Duke. Who was it? Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is about the house. Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while, [Exit Curio.-Music. Come hither, boy; If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me: Where Love is thron'd. Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy? Vio. Duke. What kind of woman is't? Vio. A little, by your favour. Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i'faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, Vio. I think it well, my lord. For women are as roses; whose fair flower, 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 bonest, Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, * Countenance. + Simple truth. + Lace makers. 6 Times of simplicity. [Music. Clo. Are you ready, sir? Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing. SONG. Clo. Come away, come away, death, My part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown; Lay me, 0, where Sad true lover ne'er find my grave, Duke. There's for thy pains. Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then. 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 taffata, for thy mind is a very opal*-I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.-Farewell. [Exit Clown. Duke. Let all the rest give place. [Exeunt Curio and Attendants. Once more, Cesario, * A precious stone of all colours. Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty: Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 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. Duke. And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, • Decks. |