sir.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, 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 corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clown. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing,

Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Clown. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clown. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal! 3-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.

'Though death is a part in which every one acts his share, yet of all these actors no one is so true as I.'-Johnson. 2 A species of thin silk.

3 A precious stone of various colors.

Duke. Let all the rest give place.—

[Exeunt Curio and Attendants.

Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands.

The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune :
But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems,
That nature pranks 1 her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir?
Duke. I cannot be so answer'd.

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 ;
You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?
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 call'd 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.

1 Adorns.

Vio.

Ay, but I know,

Duke. What dost thou know?

Vio. Too well what love women to men may

owe : 1

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?

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 pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy,

She sat like patience on a monument,

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.

Ay, that's the theme.

To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,

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

SHAK.

I Have.

2 Denial.

IV.

D

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 of favor 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 :-shall we not, sir Andrew?

Sir An. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter MARIA.

Sir To. Here comes the little villain.-How now,

my metal of India ? 1

Mal

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree. volio's coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behavior to his own shadow, this half-hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative

1 My wench of gold.

idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [the men hide themselves.] Lie thou there; [throws down a letter.] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit Maria.

Enter MALVOLIO.

Mal. 'Tis 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,1 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 't?

Sir To. Here's an overweening rogue!

2

Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him. How he jets under his advanced plumes!

Sir An. Slight, I could so beat the rogue !—
Sir To. Peace, I say.

Mal. To be count Malvolio ;

Sir To. Ah, rogue!

Sir An. Pistol him, pistol him!

Sir To. Peace, peace!

Mal. There is example for 't: the lady of the strachy 3 married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir An. Fie on him, Jezebel !

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

3 Probably, robes, from the Italian word straccio, signifying clouts, tatters.

+ Puffs him up.