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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 fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit.
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 five-fold 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!

Re-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, shew thy force: Ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed, must be; and be this so! [Exit.

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express myself. You must know of me, then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called 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 pleased, 'would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned.

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 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 VIOLA; 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 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. [Exit.

Vio. I left no ring with her: What means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed 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 't is,)
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy it is 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 Toby. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed 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 Toby. 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 Toby. 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 Toby. 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 gratillity; for Malvolio'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?
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 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 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, 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 not?"

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

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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't.

Sir Toby. 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 Toby. 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 anything 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 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

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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.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.-A Room in the DUKE's Palace.

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,

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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. 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
thyself,

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

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