Fal. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o'er-I reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? shall I have a coxcomb of frize? "Tis time I were chok'd with a piece of toasted cheese. Eva. Seese is not good to give putter: your pelly is all putter. Fal. Seese and putter! Have I liv'd to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of late-walking, through the realm. Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to Hell, that ever the Devil could have made you our delight? Ford. What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax? Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? Ford. And as wicked as his wife? Eva. And given to taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings, and swearings, and starings, pribbles and prabbles? Fal. Well, I am your theme: you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me: use me as you will. Ford. Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozen'd of money, to whom you should have been a pander: over and above that you have suffer'd, I think, to repay that money will be a biting affliction. Mrs. Ford. Nay, husband, let that go to make amends: Forgive that sum, and so we'll all be friends. Ford. Well, here's my hand: all's forgiven at last. Page. Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a posset to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her, Master Slender hath married her daughter. Mrs. Page. Doctors doubt that: if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Dr. Caius' wife. [Aside. Enter SLENder. Slen. Whoa, hoa! hoa! father Page! Page. Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatch'd? Slen. Dispatch'd!—I'll make the best in Gloucestershire know on't; would I were hang'd, la, Page. Of what, son ? [else. Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she's a great lubberly boy: if it had not been i' th' church, I would have swing'd him, or he should have swing'd me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir, and 'tis a post-master's boy. Page. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. Slen. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl: if I had been married to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him. INTRODUCTION TO TWELFTH THERE has been much discussion concerning the date which should be assigned to this exquisite comedy. Mr. Tyrwhitt attributed its production to the year 1614. Mr. Chalmers assigns the date of 1613 to the play, that is one year earlier: but the Rev. Joseph Hunter, another industrious commentator, in the second part of his New Illus A fool's cap of Welsh materials. Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not tell you, how you should know my daughter by her garments? Slen. I went to her in white, and cried, 'mum,' and she cried 'budget,' as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster's boy. [marry boys? Eva. Master Slender, cannot you see but Page. O, I am vex'd at heart. What shall I do? Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose; turn'd my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the Doctor at the deanery, and there married. Enter Doctor CAIUS. Caius. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened; I ha' married un garçon, a boy; un paisan, by gar, a boy: it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am cozened. Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green? How now, Master Fenton? [her. Page. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven Heaven give you many, many merry days.- Sir John and all. Ford. Let it be so.-Sir John, NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL. trations of the Life, Studies, and Writings of Shakespeare, assigns a much earlier date to this comedy-namely, about 1599, but certainly not later than 1601. This conclusion he arrives at from a passage which he has discovered in a manuscript work in the British Museum, being a sort of journal by one John Manningham, a barrister of the Middle Temple, at this period. The passage is as follows:-"1601. Feb. 2.-At our feast, wee E 2 had a play called Twelve Night; or, What you Will, much like the Comedy of Errors, or Menechmi, in Plautus; but most like and neere to that in Italien, called Inganni. A good practice in it to make the steward believe 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 apparraile, &c., and when he came to practise, making him believe they took him to be mad." For simplicity of plot, and arrangement of characters-for an amusing series of adventures --and for propriety of design, this play has scarcely an equal. We have in it two plots, totally dissimilar, yet bound up together by so fine and imperceptible a link, that you cannot tell where the one merges into the other. Neither is there here any mark of elaborate construction. The artist is not seen endeavouring to force a catastrophe: the characters fall into their places with a natural ease and grace, as if they were our veritable neighbours, and we already knew all about them. The scene of this pleasant "comedie" is in Illyria, a warm and sunny clime, peculiarly so at the bright "season of the year," when love most rejoices, and smiles in the bright and beauteous face of nature with a serener joy;-a clime where the moon is far more beautiful in its soft brightness than the sun, and where the night is something so intensely lovely, that words often fail to describe it;-where fruits blush among green leaves, and baccated bushes bend beneath the ruddy load they bear; where the slightest breath of air cools one's brow, and wakes up a slumberous sound among the leaves, that with tiny cymbals make softest music, and you hear the fresh grateful melodies of falling waters. Its comedy is rich, hearty, rollicking, abandoned; actually glorious in its wild, mad, measureless revelry. "In no point," says Mr. Thomas Carlyle, "does he (Shakespeare) exaggerate, but only in laughter. Fiery objurgations, words that pierce and burn, are to be found in Shakespeare: yet he is always in measure here; never what Johnson would remark as a specially good hater.' But his laughter seems to pour from him in floods; he heaps all manner of ridiculous nicknames on the butt; tumbles and tosses him in all sorts of horse-play; you would say roars and laughs. And then, if not always the finest, it is always a genial laughter. Not at mere weakness, at misery, or poverty-never. No man who can laugh, what we call laughing, will laugh at these things. It is some poor character only desiring to laugh, and have the credit of wit, that does so. Laughter means sympathy; good laughter is not the crackling of thorns under the pot.' Even at stupidity and pretension, this Shakespeare does not laugh otherwise than genially." THE PLOT.-The scene opens in the palace of Orsino, Duke of Illyria, who loves, but is rejected by Olivia, a noble lady. During this period a vessel has been wrecked near the coast, on board of which are the twin brother and sister, Sebastian and Viola. Viola is saved, but she supposes Sebastian to be the prey of the waves; and, after mourning his loss, disguised in malé attire like her brother's, she engages in the service of the Duke, under the assumed name of Cesario; who delegates her to urge his suit with Olivia. The lady remains inexorable; and, ignorant of her sex, becomes enamoured of Viola, who entertains a secret passion for the Duke. Sebastian and Antonio, a sea-captain, by whom his life was preserved in the storm, arrive at Illyria three years after; and the exact resemblance of Sebastian and Viola to each other, causes various mishaps. He meets Olivia, who, mistaking him for Viola, surprises him with a declaration of her love, and induces him to become her husband. He next encounters and wounds Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, who also mistakes him for Viola, his imaginary rival; he having been destined by her uncle, Sir Toby Belch, to become Olivia's lover. In the interim, Malvolio, Olivia's steward, whose vanity has made him the victim of a well-timed stratagem, is confined as a madman. Finally, the parties all meet: Olivia claims Sebastian as her husband; and the real sex and relationship between Sebastian and Viola, together with her love for the Duke, appearing, he espouses her as his future bride; and the whole concludes with the liberation of the enraged Malvolio. MORAL.-In this play Shakespeare has displayed great skill in pencilling the portraits of Folly and Vanity, in the persons of Ague-cheek and Malvolio; and, with a not less masterly hand, he has exhibited the weakness of the human mind, when Love has usurped the place of Reason. Twelfth Night; or, That You Will. ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. Persons Represented. SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, Brother to Viola. VALENTINE, Gentlemen attending on the Duke. CURIO, Sir TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia. FABIAN, Servants to Olivia. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and SCENE. A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it. SCENE I.-An Apartment in the DUKE's Palace. Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou, Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord? The hart. Enter VALENTINE. Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: Her sweet perfections,—with one self king!— SCENE II.-The Sea-coast. Enter VIOLA, Captain, and Sailors. Vio. What country, friends, is this? Cap. This is Illyria, lady. Vio. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. [sailors? Perchance he is not drown'd:-What think you, Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd. Vio. O my poor brother! and so, perchance, may he be. Cap. True, madam; and to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, [you, When you, and that poor number saved with 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, Vio. For saying so, there's gold: Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name. Cap. Orsino. [him: Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name 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 'twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, What great ones do, the less will prattle of,) That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. Vio. What's she? Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving In the protection of his son, her brother, [her Who shortly also died: for whose dear love, They say, she hath abjured the company And sight of men. Vio. O that I serv'd that lady, And might not be delivered to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow What my estate is! That were hard to compass, Because she will admit no kind of suit; No, not the Duke's. Cap. 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 Cap. Be you his page, and I your mute will 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. Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. Sir To. Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. Mar. 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? Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. [year. Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a 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' th' 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, all most natural: for besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they? Mar. They that add, moreover, he's drunk | nightly in your company. Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece: I'll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria! He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish top. Here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face. Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew. Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. [Belch! Sir To. My niece's chambermaid. Sir And. Is that the meaning of 'accost?' Sir To. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 'would thou might'st never draw sword again. Sir And. An you part so, Mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? Mar. Sir, I have not you by th' hand. Sir And. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. Mar. Now, sir, 'thought is free:' I pray you, bring your hand to th' buttery-bar, and let it drink. [metaphor? Sir And. Wherefore, sweetheart? what's your Mar. It's dry, sir. Sir And. Why, I think so; I am ass but I can keep my hand dry. Mar. A dry jest, sir. not such an But what's [your jest? Sir And. Are you full of them? Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends. [Exit MARIA. Sir To. O Knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary. When did I see thee so put down? Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than 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. Purquoy, my dear Knight? Sir And. What is purquoy? 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! [of hair. Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for thou see'st it will not curl by nature. [does't not? Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff. 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' th' Count; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in 't man. Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a *Keystril, a bastard hawk. fellow o' th' strangest mind i' th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. Sir To. Art thou good at these kickshaws, Knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man. Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, Knight? Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper. Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't. Sir And. Shall we set about some revels? Sir To. What shall we do else? Let me see thee caper: ha! higher: ha, ha!-excellent! [Exeunt. SCENE IV.-A Room in the DUKE's Palace. Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire. Val. If the Duke continue these favours toward you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanc'd: 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. Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants. Vio. I thank you. Here comes the Count. Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho? Vio. On your attendance, my lord, here. Duke. Stand you a while aloof.-Cesario, Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd 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, Rather than make unprofited return. [then? Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord; what Duke. Ŏ, then unfold the passion of my love; Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith. It shall become thee well to act my woes : She will attend it better in thy youth Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect. Vio. I think not so, my lord. Duke. Dear lad, believe it; 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; yet, [aside,] a barful strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt. SCENE V.-A Room in OLIVIA's House. Mar. Nay, either tell we 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. +Full of impediments. Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well hang'd 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. Mar. Yet you will be hang'd, for being so long absent; or, to be turn'd away, is not that as good as 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? Clo. Not so, neither; but I am resolv'd on two points. Mar. That if one break the other will hold. Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria. Mar. Peace, you rogue; no more o' that: here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [Exit. Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO. Clo. Wit, an 't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee do very oft prove fools; and, I that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.-God bless thee, lady! Oli. Take the Fool away. [the lady. Take away no more of Clo. Two faults, Madonna,+ that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry Fool drink, then is the Fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself,-if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. The lady bade take away the Fool; therefore, I say again, take her away. Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you. Clo. Misprision in the highest degree !-Lady, Cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Oli. What think you of this Fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend? Mal. Yes! and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. Clo. Heaven 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? Mal. 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 gagg'd. I protest I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, to be no better than the fools' zanies.‡ Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distemper'd appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you. Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it? Mar. I know not, Madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended. Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay? Mar. Sir Toby, Madam, your kinsman. Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him! Exit MARIA.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home,—what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit MALVOLIO.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, Madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for here comes one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.¶ Enter Sir TOBY BELCH. Oli. By mine honour, half drunk.-What is he at the gate, cousin? Sir To. A gentleman. Oli. A gentleman? what gentleman? Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here-A plague o' these pickle-herrings!-How now, sot? Clo. Good Sir Toby, Sir To. There's one at the gate. Sir To. Let him be the Devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. [Exit. Oli. What's a drunken man like, Fool? Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drown'd: go, look after him. Clo. He is but mad yet, Madonna; and the Fool shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown. Enter MALVOLIO. Mal. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep: he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. Oli. Tell him he shall not speak with me. Mal. He has been told so; and he says he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, or be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of man is he? Mal. Why, of mankind. Oli. What manner of man? Mal. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no. Oli. Of what personage, and years, is he? Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; between boy and man. He is very well favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him. |