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ACT II.

SCENE 1.The Sea-coast.

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. Ant. Will you stay no longer ? nor will you not, that I

go
with

you? Seb. By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, , distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone : It were a bad recompense for

your love, to lay any of them on you. Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.

Seb. No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom, I know, you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! but, you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before

you

took from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned.

Ant. Alas, the day!

me

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resem. bled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not, with such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair : she is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
Seb. O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your

servant. Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the count Orsino's court: farewell.

[Exit. Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino's court, Else would I very shortly see thee there : But, come what

may,

I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[Exit.

SCENE II.-A Street.

Enter V10LA; Malvolio following. Mal. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia?

Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might

[Exit.

have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: And one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so.

Vio. She took the ring of me; I'll none of it.

Mal. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

Vio. I left no ring with her: What means this lady? Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me; indeed, so much, That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none. I am the man ;-If it be so, (as 'tis,) Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it, for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms ! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we; For, such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly; And I, poor monster, fond as much on him; And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me: What will become of this ! As I am man, My state is desperate for my master's love;

As I am woman, now alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe ?
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie.

(Exit.

SCENE III.-A Room in Olivia's House.

Enter Sir Toby Belch, and Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st,

Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late, is to be up late.

Sir To. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can: To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early ; so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives consist of the four elements ?

Sir And. 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.–Marian, I say !-a stoop of wine!

Enter Clown.
Sir And. Here comes the fool, i'faith.

Clo. How now, my hearts, did you never see the picture of we three? Sir To. Welcome, ass.

Now let's have a catch. Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In

sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman; Hadst it?

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratility; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

-Sir And. Excellent ! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. Sir To. Come on; there is six-pence for you:

let's

have a song.

Sir And. There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a

Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song.
Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

SONG.
Clo. O mistress mine, where are you roaming ?

O, stay and hear ; your true love's coming,

That can sing both high and low :
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.

Sir And. Excellent good, i'faith!
Sir To. Good, good.

Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter ;

Present mirth hath present laughter ;

What's to come, is still unsure :

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