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gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 't was very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it?

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for MalFolio's nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottlealehouses.

Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now a song.

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

Clown sings.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming ?
0, 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 Toby. Good, good.

Clown sings.
What is love? 't is not hereafter ;
Present mirth hath present laughter ;

What's to come is still unsure :
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,

Youth's a stuff will not endure. Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

Sir Toby. A contagious breath.
Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

Sir Toby. 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. An 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 constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.

Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have constrained 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.

[They sing a catch.

Enter Maria. Mar. What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

Sir Toby. My lady's a Cataian; we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsay, and “Three merry men be we.” Am not I consanguineous ? am not I of her blood ? Tilly-vally, lady! “There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!” [Singing.

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

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. Sir Toby. O, the twelfth day of December,”—

(Singing. 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 Toby. 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 harbours 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, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir Toby. "Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone."

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo. “His eyes do shew his days are almost done."

Mal. Is 't even so ?
Sir Toby. “But I will never die.”
Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to you.
Sir Toby. “Shall I bid him go?" [Singing.
Clo. “ What an if you do ?”
Sir Toby. “ Shall I bid him go, and spare

Clo. “O no, no, no, no, you dare not.”

Sir Toby. Out o' time? sir, ye lie.—Art any more than a steward ? Dost thou think, because

you as

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thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur and ale?

Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be him into a nayword, and make him a common hot i' the mouth too.

recreation, do not think I have wit enough to Sir Toby. Thou’rt i' the right.—Go, sir, rub lie straight in my bed: I know I can do't. your chain with crums:-A stoop of wine, Maria! Sir Toby. Possess us, possess us; tell us someMal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's

thing of him. favour at anything more than contempt, you Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of would not give means for this uncivil rule ; she Puritan. shall know of it, by this hand.

[Exit. Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him Mar. Go shake your ears.

like a dog. Sir And. 'T were as good a deed as to drink Sir Toby. What, for being a Puritan ? thy when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him to the exquisite reason, dear knight? field; and then to break promise with him, and Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for't, but make a fool of him.

I have reason good enough. Sir Toby. Do't knight; I'll write thee a chal- Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anylenge; or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by thing constantly but a time-pleaser ; an affecword of mouth.

tioned ass, that cons state without book, and Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of since the youth of the count's was to-day with himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excel

lencies, that it is his ground 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 Toby. 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 Toby. Excellent ! I smell a device.
Sir And. I have't in my nose too.

Sir Toby. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

Sir Toby. And your horse now would make him an ass.

Mar. Ass, I doubt not.
Sir And. O, 't will 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 Toby. Good night, Penthesilea. Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.

Sir Toby. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o'that?

Sir And. I was adored once too.

Sir Toby. 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 Toby. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not in the end, call me Cut.

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you

will. Sir Toby. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.


Of these most brisk and giddy-pacéd 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. 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 Where love is throned.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?

Vio. A little, by your favour.
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

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent :
For women are as roses; whose fair flower,
Being once displayed, 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

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; pr'ythee sing.


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Clown sings.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cyprus let me be laid ;

Fly away, fly away, breath ;
I 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
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,


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 mayowe:
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.


To weep

Scene V.-Olivia's Garden.

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 Clown. 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 bestowed upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune ;
But 't is 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 answered.

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 answered ?

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 called appetite,No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much : make no compare

you know he

Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir ANDREW Ague

CHEEK, and Fabian. Sir Toby. 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 Toby. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

Pab. I would exult, man : brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.

Sir Toby. To anger him, we 'll have the bear again ; and we will fool him black and blue :Shall we not, Sir Andrew ? Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter MARIA. Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain :How now, my nettle of India ?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour 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

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