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! 101

Mal. 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.

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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."

Mal. Is't even so?

Sir To. "But I will never die."

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to you.
Sir To. "Shall I bid him go?"

Clo.

"What an if you do?"

Sir To. "Shall I bid him go, and spare not?"
Clo. “O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

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Sir To. Oat o' tune, sir. ye lie. Art any more than a steward? 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 crums. A stoup of wine, Maria!

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it by this hand.

[Exit.

Mar. Go shake your ears. Sir And. "Twere 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 11.

Sir To. Do't. knight: I'll write t a challenge; or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

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Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night. since the youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him if I do not gull him into a nayword, 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.

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Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan. Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'ld beat him like a dog!

Sir To. What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.

Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds 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 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 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.

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!

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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 And. Before me, she's a good wench.

[Exit.

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.

201 Sir To. Send for money, knight if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut.

SHAK. I.-24

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.

SCENE IV. The DUKE's palace.

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.

[Exount.

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.

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

Duke. Who was it?

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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 plays. 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,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature

That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?
Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat

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Where Love is throned.

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?

Of your complexion.

Vio.
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 30 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 display'd, 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,

Like the old age.

Clo. Are you ready, sir?

Duke. Ay; prithee, sing.

Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;

am slain by a fair cruel maid.

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

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50

[Music.

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My poor corpse, 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.

Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 70 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 taffeta, 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 in. tent every where; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Exit. 81 Duke. Let all the rest give place.

[Curio and Attendants retire.
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 bestow'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 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 hide 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.

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.

And what's her history?

Duke.
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

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