ACT I

Scene I

Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; [Musicians attending].

Duke.

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

That strain again, it had a dying fall;

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odor. Enough, no more,

’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,

That notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soe’er,

But falls into abatement and low price

Even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy

That it alone is high fantastical.

Cur.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

Duke.

What, Curio?

Cur.

The hart.

Duke.

Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence!

That instant was I turn’d into a hart,

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

E’er since pursue me.

Enter Valentine.

How now, what news from her?

Val.

So please my lord, I might not be admitted,

But from her handmaid do return this answer:

The element itself, till seven years’ heat,

Shall not behold her face at ample view;

But like a cloistress she will veiled walk,

And water once a day her chamber round

With eye-offending brine; all this to season

A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh

And lasting in her sad remembrance.

Duke.

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame

To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

How will she love when the rich golden shaft

Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else

That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,

These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d

Her sweet perfections with one self king!

Away before me to sweet beds of flow’rs,

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow’rs.

Exeunt.

 ¶ 

Scene II

Enter Viola, a 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.

Perchance he is not drown’d—what think you, sailors?

Cap.

It is perchance that you yourself were saved.

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,

When you, and those poor number saved with you,

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 liv’d upon the sea;

Where like [Arion] on the dolphin’s back,

I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

So long as I could see.

Vio.

For saying so, there’s gold.

Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

The like of him. Know’st thou this country?

Cap.

Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born

Not three hours’ travel from this very place.

Vio. Who governs here?

Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name.

Vio. What is his name?

Cap. Orsino.

Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name him. 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 her

In the protection of his son, her brother,

Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,

They say, she hath abjur’d 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!

Cap.

That were hard to compass,

Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the Duke’s.

Vio.

There is a fair behavior 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

With this thy fair and outward character.

I prithee (and I’ll pay thee bounteously)

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid

For such disguise as haply shall become

The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke;

Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him,

It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing

And speak to him in many sorts of music

That will allow me very worth his service.

What else may hap, to time I will commit,

Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Cap.

Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be;

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

Vio. I thank thee. Lead me on.

Exeunt.

 ¶ 

Scene III

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 a’ 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; and 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 Aguecheek?

Mar. Ay, he.

Sir To. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.

Mar. What’s that to th’ purpose?

Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

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, almost 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 sub- stractors that say so of him. Who are they?

Mar. They that add moreov’r, 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 coystrill that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ th’ toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter Sir Andrew [Aguecheek].

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch?

Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew!

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew.

Mar. And you too, sir.

Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And. What’s that?

Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid.

[Sir And.] Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

Mar. My name is Mary, sir.

Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accost—

Sir To. You mistake, knight. ‘Accost’ is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of ‘accost’?

Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir To. And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.

Sir And. And 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’ butt’ry-bar, and let it drink.

Sir And. Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor?

Mar. It’s dry, sir.

Sir And. Why, I think so. I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest?

Mar. A dry jest, sir.

Sir And. Are you full of them?

Mar. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends. Marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

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 a Christian or 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. And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.

Sir To. Pourquoi, my dear knight?

Sir And. What is ‘pourquoi’? Do, or not do? I would I had bestow’d that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O had I but follow’d the arts!

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair?

Sir To. Past question, for thou seest it will not [curl by] nature.

Sir And. But it becomes [me] well enough, does’t not?

Sir To. Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.

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 fellow o’ th’ strangest mind i’ th’ world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

Sir To. Art thou good at these kickshawses, 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. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig.

I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a- pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form’d under the star of a galliard.

Sir And. Ay, ’tis strong; and it does indifferent well in a [dun-]color’d stock. Shall we [set] about some revels?

Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

Sir And. Taurus? That[’s] sides and heart.

Sir To. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher! Ha, ha, excellent!

Exeunt.

 ¶ 

Scene IV

Enter Valentine, and Viola in man’s attire.

Val. If the Duke continue these favors towards 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 humor or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favors?

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 awhile 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 abandon’d 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.

Vio.

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

Duke.

O 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 nuntio’s 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 and 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.

[Aside.]

Yet a barful strife!

Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Exeunt.

 ¶ 

Scene V

Enter Maria and Clown [Feste].

Mar. Nay, either tell me 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.

Clo. Let her hang me! He that is well hang’d in this world needs to fear no colors.

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 colors.”

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 a 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; or if both break, your gaskins fall.

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 Lady Olivia with Malvolio [and Attendants].

Clo. Wit, and’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.

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

Oli. Go to, y’ are a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest.

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. Any thing that’s mended is but patch’d; virtue that transgresses is but patch’d with sin, and sin that amends is but patch’d with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. 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 to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna.

Oli. Make your proof.

Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll bide your proof.

Clo. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou?

Oli. Good fool, for my brother’s death.

Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul, being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

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. God 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 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-bullets. There is no slander in an allow’d fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

Clo. Now Mercury indue thee with leasing, for thou speak’st well of fools!

Enter Maria.

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 he comes—

Enter Sir Toby.

one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.

Oli. By mine honor, 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-herring! How now, sot?

Clo. Good Sir Toby!

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate.

Oli. Ay, marry, what is he?

Sir To. Let him be the devil and 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 crowner, 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.]

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. H’as been told so; and he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he’ll speak with you.

Oli. What kind o’ 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; as a squash is before ’tis a peas- cod, or a codling when ’tis almost an apple. ’Tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favor’d, and he speaks very shrewishly. One would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.

Oli. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

Exit.

Enter Maria.

Oli.

Give me my veil; come throw it o’er my face.

We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.

Enter [Viola].

Vio. The honorable lady of the house, which is she?

Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. Your will?

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty—I pray you tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would be loath to cast away my speech; for besides that it is excellently well penn’d, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

Oli. Whence came you, sir?

Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

Oli. Are you a comedian?

Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet (by the very fangs of malice I swear) I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am.

Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission; I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

Oli. Come to what is important in’t. I forgive you the praise.

Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical.

Oli. It is the more like to be feign’d, I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow’d your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone. If you have reason, be brief. ’Tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.

Vio. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind—I am a messenger.

Oli. Sure you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as full of peace as matter.

Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you?

Vio. The rudeness that hath appear’d in me have I learn’d from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation.

Oli. Give us the place alone, we will hear this divinity. [Exeunt Maria and Attendants.] Now, sir, what is your text?

Vio. Most sweet lady—

Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

Vio. In Orsino’s bosom.

Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

Oli. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text; but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. [Unveiling.] Is’t not well done?

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all.

Oli. ’Tis in grain, sir, ’twill endure wind and weather.

Vio.

’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on.

Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive

If you will lead these graces to the grave,

And leave the world no copy.

Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labell’d to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

Vio.

I see you what you are, you are too proud;

But if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you. O, such love

Could be but recompens’d, though you were crown’d

The nonpareil of beauty.

Oli.

How does he love me?

Vio.

With adorations, fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Oli.

Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him,

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;

In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant,

And in dimension, and the shape of nature,

A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him.

He might have took his answer long ago.

Vio.

If I did love you in my master’s flame,

With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life,

In your denial I would find no sense,

I would not understand it.

Oli.

Why, what would you?

Vio.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

And call upon my soul within the house;

Write loyal cantons of contemned love,

And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

Hallow your name to the reverberate hills,

And make the babbling gossip of the air

Cry out “Olivia!” O, you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth

But you should pity me!

Oli.

You might do much.

What is your parentage?

Vio.

Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.

Oli.

Get you to your lord.

I cannot love him; let him send no more—

Unless (perchance) you come to me again

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well.

I thank you for your pains. Spend this for me.

Vio.

I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse;

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,

And let your fervor like my master’s be

Plac’d in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

Oli.

“What is your parentage?”

“Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.” I’ll be sworn thou art;

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit

Do give thee fivefold blazon. Not too fast! soft, soft!

Unless the master were the man. How now?

Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

What ho, Malvolio!

Enter Malvolio.

Mal.

Here, madam, at your service.

Oli.

Run after that same peevish messenger,

The [County’s] man. He left this ring behind him,

Would I or not. Tell him I’ll none of it.

Desire him not to flatter with his lord,

Nor hold him up with hopes: I am not for him.

If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.

Mal. Madam, I will.

Exit.

Oli.

I do I know not what, and fear to find

Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

What is decreed must be; and be this so.

[Exit.]

 ¶ 

William Hamilton, p. — James Caldwall, e.

ACT II

Scene I

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 call’d Rodorigo; 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 pleas’d, would we had so ended! But you, sir, alter’d that, for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drown’d.

Ant. Alas the day!

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled 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 drown’d 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 murther 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 recover’d, 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

Enter Viola and Malvolio at several doors.

Mal. Were you not ev’n now with the Countess Olivia?

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

Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir. You might have sav’d 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 return’d. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies, in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

Exit.

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 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 t’ untie.

[Exit.]

 ¶ 

Scene III

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes, and “deliculo 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 unfill’d 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. Does 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. Th’ art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say, a stoup 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 spok’st 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 gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Mermidons 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 sixpence 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.

Clown sings.

Sir And. Excellent good, i’ faith.

Sir To. Good, good.

Clown [sings].

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

Sir To. A contagious breath.

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?

Sir And. And you love me, let’s do’t. I am dog at a catch.

Clo. By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be ‘Thou knave.’

Clo. “Hold thy peace, thou knave,” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight.

Sir And. ’Tis not the first time I have constrain’d one to call me knave. Begin, fool. It begins, ‘Hold thy peace.’

Clo. I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

Sir And. Good, i’ faith. Come, begin.

Catch sung.

Enter Maria.

Mar. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not call’d up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

Sir To. My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [sings] “Three merry men be we.” Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! Lady! [Sings.] “There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.”

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos’d, and so do I too. He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

Sir To. [Sings.] “O’ the twelf day of December”—

Mar. For the love o’ God, peace!

Enter Malvolio.

Mal. My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches 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!

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that though she harbors you as her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir To. [Sings.]

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo. [Sings.]

Mal. Is’t even so?

Sir To. [Sings.]

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal. This is much credit to you.

Sir To. [Sings.]

Clo. [Sings.]

Sir To. [Sings.]

Clo. [Sings.]

Sir To. [To Clown.] Out o’ tune, sir! ye lie. [To Malvolio.] 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’ th’ mouth too.

Sir To. Th’ art i’ th’ right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stope of wine, Maria!

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you priz’d my lady’s favor 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 him.

Sir To. Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge, or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

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 an ayword, 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.

Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I’d 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 dev’l a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser, an affection’d ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so cramm’d (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 color 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 color.

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.

Exit.

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.

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 ador’d 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’ th’ 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.

 ¶ 

William Hamilton, p. — James Fittler, e.

Scene IV

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

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?

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 belov’d. How dost thou like this tune?

Vio.

It gives a very echo to the seat

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 favor that it loves.

Hath it not, boy?

Vio.

A little, by your favor.

Duke.

What kind of woman is’t?

Vio.

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;

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 flow’r

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!

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 chaunt 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.

Music.

The Song

[Clo.]

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.

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 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.

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 lov’d 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’ th’ bud

Feed on her damask cheek; she pin’d in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sate 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.

 ¶ 

Scene V

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, 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 boil’d 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 o’ 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 And. And we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter Maria.

Sir To. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio’s coming down this walk. He has been yonder i’ the sun practicing behavior to his own shadow this half hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative 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.

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, 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!

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

Sir And. ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

Sir To. Peace, I say!

Mal. To be Count Malvolio!

Sir To. Ah, rogue!

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him!

Sir To. Peace, peace!

Mal. There is example for’t: the Lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fab. O, peace! now he’s deeply in. Look how imagination blows him.

Mal. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state—

Sir To. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branch’d velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping—

Sir To. Fire and brimstone!

Fab. O, peace, peace!

Mal. And then to have the humor of state; and after a demure travel of regard—telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs—to ask for my kinsman Toby—

Sir To. Bolts and shackles!

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

Mal. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my—some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me—

Sir To. Shall this fellow live?

Fab.