Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire

VALENTINE. If the Duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,

you are like to be much advanc'd; he hath known you but three

days, and already you are no stranger.

VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call

in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,

in his favours?

VALENTINE. No, believe me.

Enter DUKE, CURIO, and ATTENDANTS

VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count.

DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho?

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. 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 nuncio's of more grave aspect.

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. I'll do my best

To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!

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

SCENE V. OLIVIA'S house

Enter MARIA and CLOWN

MARIA. 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.

CLOWN. Let her hang me. He that is well hang'd in this world needs

to fear no colours.

MARIA. Make that good.

CLOWN. He shall see none to fear.

MARIA. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was

born, of 'I fear no colours.'

CLOWN. Where, good Mistress Mary?

MARIA. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your

foolery.

CLOWN. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are

fools, let them use their talents.

MARIA. 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?

CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning

away, let summer bear it out.

MARIA. You are resolute, then?

CLOWN. Not so, neither; but I am resolv'd on two points.

MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break,

your gaskins fall.

CLOWN. 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.

MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady. Make

your excuse wisely, you were best. Exit

Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO

CLOWN. Wit, an'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!

OLIVIA. Take the fool away.

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

OLIVIA. Go to, y'are a dry fool; I'll no more of you. Besides, you

grow dishonest.

CLOWN. 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. Anything

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.

OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you.

CLOWN. 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.

OLIVIA. Can you do it?

CLOWN. Dexteriously, good madonna.

OLIVIA. Make your proof.

CLOWN. I must catechize you for it, madonna.

Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

OLIVIA. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your

proof.

CLOWN. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?

OLIVIA. Good fool, for my brother's death.

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

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

CLOWN. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul

being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.

OLIVIA. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? Doth he not mend?

MALVOLIO. Yes, and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.

Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

CLOWN. 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.

OLIVIA. How say you to that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO. 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.

OLIVIA. 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 known discreet man, though

he do nothing but reprove.

CLOWN. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well

of fools!

Re-enter MARIA

MARIA. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires

to speak with you.

OLIVIA. From the Count Orsino, is it?

MARIA. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

OLIVIA. Who of my people hold him in delay?

MARIA. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

OLIVIA. 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.

CLOWN. 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-

one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.

Enter SIR TOBY

OLIVIA. By mine honour, half drunk! What is he at the gate, cousin?

SIR TOBY. A gentleman.

OLIVIA. A gentleman! What gentleman?

SIR TOBY. 'Tis a gentleman here. [Hiccups] A plague o' these

pickle-herring! How now, sot!

CLOWN. Good Sir Toby!

OLIVIA. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this

lethargy?

SIR TOBY. Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

OLIVIA. Ay, marry; what is he?

SIR TOBY. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not; give me

faith, say I. Well, it's all one. Exit

OLIVIA. What's a drunken man like, fool?

CLOWN. 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.

OLIVIA. 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.

CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna, and the fool shall look to the

madman. Exit

Re-enter MALVOLIO

MALVOLIO. 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.

OLIVIA. Tell him he shall not speak with me.

MALVOLIO. Has 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.

OLIVIA. What kind o' man is he?

MALVOLIO. Why, of mankind.

OLIVIA. What manner of man?

MALVOLIO. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

OLIVIA. Of what personage and years is he?

MALVOLIO. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy;

as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis

almost an apple; 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and

man. He is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one

would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

OLIVIA. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

MALVOLIO. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. Exit

Re-enter MARIA

OLIVIA. Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;

We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

Enter VIOLA

VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA. 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.

OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA. 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.

OLIVIA. Are you a comedian?

VIOLA. 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?

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

VIOLA. 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.

OLIVIA. Come to what is important in't. I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; 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 dialogue.

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

VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer.

Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

OLIVIA. Tell me your mind.

VIOLA. I am a messenger.

OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the

courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA. 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.

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

VIOLA. 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 cars, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

OLIVIA. Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.

[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS] Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA. Most sweet lady-

OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.

Where lies your text?

VIOLA. In Orsino's bosom.

OLIVIA. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA. To answer by the method: in the first of his heart.

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

VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA. 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. [Unveiling] Look you, sir, such a one I

was this present. Is't not well done?

VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

VIOLA. '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.

OLIVIA. 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?

VIOLA. 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!

OLIVIA. How does he love me?

VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA. 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.

VIOLA. 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.

OLIVIA. Why, what would you?

VIOLA. 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;

Halloo your name to the reverberate hals,

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!

OLIVIA. You might do much.

What is your parentage?

VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA. 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.

VIOLA. 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

Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. Exit

OLIVIA. '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

MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA. 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.

MALVOLIO. Madam, I will. Exit

OLIVIA. 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

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ACT II. SCENE I. The sea-coast

Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN

ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with

you?

SEBASTIAN. 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.

ANTONIO. Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN. 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 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 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.

ANTONIO. Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN. 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 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.

ANTONIO. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

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

servant.

SEBASTIAN. 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

ANTONIO. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many cnemies 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 and MALVOLIO at several doors

MALVOLIO. Were you not ev'n now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arriv'd but

hither.

MALVOLIO. 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.

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

MALVOLIO. 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

VIOLA. 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. OLIVIA'S house

Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW

SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be abed after midnight is to

be up betimes; and 'diluculo surgere' thou know'st-

AGUECHEEK. 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 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?

AGUECHEEK. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of

eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY. Th'art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.

Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.

Enter CLOWN

AGUECHEEK. Here comes the fool, i' faith.

CLOWN. How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture of 'we

three'?

SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

AGUECHEEK. 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?

CLOWN. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no

whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no

bottle-ale houses.

AGUECHEEK. 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.

AGUECHEEK. There's a testril of me too; if one knight give a-

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

SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song.

AGUECHEEK. 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.

AGUECHEEK. Excellent good, i' faith!

SIR TOBY. Good, good!

CLOWN sings

What is love? 'Tis 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.

AGUECHEEK. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

SIR TOBY. A contagious breath.

AGUECHEEK. 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?

AGUECHEEK. An you love me, let's do't. I am dog at a catch.

CLOWN. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

AGUECHEEK. Most certain. Let our catch be 'Thou knave.'

CLOWN. 'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd

in't to call thee knave, knight.

AGUECHEEK. 'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call

me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

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

AGUECHEEK. Good, i' faith! Come, begin. [Catch sung]

Enter MARIA

MARIA. 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 TOBY. 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.

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

AGUECHEEK. 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 TOBY. [Sings] O' the twelfth day of December-

MARIA. For the love o' God, peace!

Enter MALVOLIO

MALVOLIO. 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 ale-house 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!

MALVOLIO. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell

you that, though she harbours you as her kins-man, she's nothing

allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your

misdemeanours, 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 TOBY. [Sings] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.

MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLOWN. [Sings] His eyes do show his days are almost done.

MALVOLIO. Is't even so?

SIR TOBY. [Sings] But I will never die. [Falls down]

CLOWN. [Sings] Sir Toby, there you lie.

MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go?

CLOWN. [Sings] What an if you do?

SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go, and spare not?

CLOWN. [Sings] O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.

SIR TOBY. [Rising] Out 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?

CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' th' mouth

too.

SIR TOBY. Th' art i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs.

A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour at anything

more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil

rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

Exit

MARIA. Go shake your ears.

AGUECHEEK. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's ahungry,

to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him

and make a fool of him.

SIR TOBY. Do't, knight. I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll

deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA. 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 TOBY. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

AGUECHEEK. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear

knight?

AGUECHEEK. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good

enough.

MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything 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 TOBY. What wilt thou do?

MARIA. 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 forgotten matter we

can hardly make distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device.

AGUECHEEK. 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's in love with him.

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

AGUECHEEK. And your horse now would make him an ass.

MARIA. Ass, I doubt not.

AGUECHEEK. O, 'twill be admirable!

MARIA. 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.

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

SIR TOBY. She's a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me.

What o' that?

AGUECHEEK. I was ador'd once too.

SIR TOBY. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more

money.

AGUECHEEK. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end,

call me Cut.

AGUECHEEK. 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. 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

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.

Come, but one verse.

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

it.

DUKE. Who was it?

CURIO. 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?

VIOLA. 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 favour that it loves;

Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA. A little, by your favour.

DUKE. What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA. Of your complexion.

DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

VIOLA. 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 won,

Than women's are.

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. 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.

CLOWN. Are you ready, sir?

DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music]

FESTE'S SONG

Come away, come away, death;

And in sad cypress 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 to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there!

DUKE. There's for thy pains.

CLOWN. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE. I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

CLOWN. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN. 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 everything, and their intent everywhere: 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 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.

VIOLA. But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE. I cannot be so answer'd.

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. Ay, but I know-

DUKE. What dost thou know?

VIOLA. 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?

VIOLA. 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 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?

VIOLA. 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. OLIVIA'S garden

Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN

SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

FABIAN. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be

boil'd to death with melancholy.

SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally

sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

FABIAN. I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' 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?

AGUECHEEK. And we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter MARIA

SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain.

How now, my metal of India!

MARIA. 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 the name of jesting! [As the men hide she drops

a letter] Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be

caught with tickling.

Exit

Enter MALVOLIO

MALVOLIO. '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 TOBY. Here's an overweening rogue!

FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;

how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!

AGUECHEEK. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue-

SIR TOBY. Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio!

SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue!

AGUECHEEK. Pistol him, pistol him.

SIR TOBY. Peace, peace!

MALVOLIO. There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy married

the yeoman of the wardrobe.

AGUECHEEK. Fie on him, Jezebel!

FABIAN. O, peace! Now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows

him.

MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my

state-

SIR TOBY. O, for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown,

having come from a day-bed- where I have left Olivia sleeping-

SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN. O, peace, peace!

MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour 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 TOBY. Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

MALVOLIO. 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 TOBY. Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile

with an austere regard of control-

SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

MALVOLIO. Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your

niece give me this prerogative of speech'-

SIR TOBY. What, what?

MALVOLIO. 'You must amend your drunkenness'-

SIR TOBY. Out, scab!

FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO. 'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a

foolish knight'-

AGUECHEEK. That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO. 'One Sir Andrew.'

AGUECHEEK. I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO. What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter]

FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading

aloud to him!

MALVOLIO. By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very

C's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It

is, in contempt of question, her hand.

AGUECHEEK. Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?

MALVOLIO. [Reads] 'To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good

wishes.' Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! And the

impressure her Lucrece with which she uses to seal; 'tis my lady.

To whom should this be?

FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO. [Reads]

Jove knows I love,

But who?

Lips, do not move;

No man must know.'

'No man must know.' What follows? The numbers alter'd!

'No man must know.' If this should be thee, Malvolio?

SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO. [Reads]

'I may command where I adore;

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;

M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.'

FABIAN. A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO. 'M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.'

Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.

FABIAN. What dish o' poison has she dress'd him!

SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

MALVOLIO. 'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I

serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal

capacity; there is no obstruction in this. And the end- what

should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that

resemble something in me. Softly! M. O. A. I.-

SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that! He is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank

as a fox.

MALVOLIO. M- Malvolio; M- why, that begins my name.

FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out?

The cur is excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO. M- But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that

suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.

FABIAN. And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'

MALVOLIO. And then I comes behind.

FABIAN. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more

detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

MALVOLIO. M. O. A. I. This simulation is not as the former; and

yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of

these letters are in my name. Soft! here follows prose.

[Reads]

'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above

thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some

achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy

Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them;

and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy

humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly

with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put

thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that

sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and

wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I say, remember, Go to,

thou art made, if thou desir'st to be so; if not, let me see thee

a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch

Fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with

thee,

THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.'

Daylight and champain discovers not more. This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-garter'd; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-garter'd, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a postscript.

[Reads] 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain'st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.'

Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do everything that thou

wilt have me. Exit

FABIAN. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of

thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY. I could marry this wench for this device.

AGUECHEEK. So could I too.

SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

Enter MARIA

AGUECHEEK. Nor I neither.

FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

AGUECHEEK. Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy

bond-slave?

AGUECHEEK. I' faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream that when the

image of it leaves him he must run mad.

MARIA. Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY. Like aqua-vita! with a midwife.

AIARIA. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his

first approach before my lady. He will come to her in yellow

stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-garter'd, a

fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now

be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a

melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable

contempt. If you will see it, follow me.

SIR TOBY. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

AGUECHEEK. I'll make one too. Exeunt

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ACT III. SCENE I. OLIVIA'S garden

Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor

VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music!

Dost thou live by thy tabor?

CLOWN. No, sir, I live by the church.

VIOLA. Art thou a churchman?

CLOWN. No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live

at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

VIOLA. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar

dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor

stand by the church.

CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a

chev'ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be

turn'd outward!

VIOLA. Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may

quickly make them wanton.

CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had name, sir.

VIOLA. Why, man?

CLOWN. Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word

might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals

since bonds disgrac'd them.

VIOLA. Thy reason, man?

CLOWN. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words

are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.

VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow and car'st for nothing.

CLOWN. Not so, sir; I do care for something; but in my conscience,

sir, I do not care for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir,

I would it would make you invisible.

VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?

CLOWN. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly; she will keep

no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands

as pilchers are to herrings- the husband's the bigger. I am

indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.

VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun- it

shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be

as oft with your master as with my mistress: think I saw your

wisdom there.

VIOLA. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.

Hold, there's expenses for thee. [Giving a coin]

CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send the a beard!

VIOLA. By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one;

[Aside] though I would not have it grow on my chin.- Is thy lady

within?

CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

VIOLA. Yes, being kept together and put to use.

CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a

Cressida to this Troilus.

VIOLA. I understand you, sir; 'tis well begg'd.

[Giving another coin]

CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar:

Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to

them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of

my welkin- I might say 'element' but the word is overworn.

Exit CLOWN

VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;

And to do that well craves a kind of wit.

He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

The quality of persons, and the time;

And, like the haggard, check at every feather

That comes before his eye. This is a practice

As full of labour as a wise man's art;

For folly that he wisely shows is fit;

But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW

SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman!

VIOLA. And you, sir.

AGUECHEEK. Dieu vous garde, monsieur.

VIOLA. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.

AGUECHEEK. I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.

SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you

should enter, if your trade be to her.

VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my

voyage.

SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.

VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what

you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are

prevented.

Enter OLIVIA and MARIA

Most excellent accomplish'd lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

AGUECHEEK. That youth's a rare courtier- 'Rain odours' well!

VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant

and vouchsafed car.

AGUECHEEK. 'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed'- I'll get 'em all

three all ready.

OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

[Exeunt all but OLIVIA and VIOLA] Give me your hand, sir.

VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service.

OLIVIA. What is your name?

VIOLA. Cesario is your servant's name, fair Princess.

OLIVIA. My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world

Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment.

Y'are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:

Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him; for his thoughts,

Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!

VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts

On his behalf.

OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you:

I bade you never speak again of him;

But, would you undertake another suit,

I had rather hear you to solicit that

Than music from the spheres.

VIOLA. Dear lady-

OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,

After the last enchantment you did here,

A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse

Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.

Under your hard construction must I sit,

To force that on you in a shameful cunning

Which you knew none of yours. What might you think?

Have you not set mine honour at the stake,

And baited it with all th' unmuzzled thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving

Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,

Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

VIOLA. I Pity YOU.

OLIVIA. That's a degree to love.

VIOLA. No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof

That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA. Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again.

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

If one should be a prey, how much the better

To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes]

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

Be not afraid, good youth; I will not have you;

And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,

Your wife is like to reap a proper man.

There lies your way, due west.

VIOLA. Then westward-ho!

Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!

You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA. Stay.

I prithee tell me what thou think'st of me.

VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are.

OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you.

VIOLA. Then think you right: I am not what I am.

OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be!

VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am?

I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

OLIVIA. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful

In the contempt and anger of his lip!

A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon

Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.

Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,

I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,

Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,

For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;

But rather reason thus with reason fetter:

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

VIOLA. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,

I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,

And that no woman has; nor never none

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

And so adieu, good madam; never more

Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

OLIVIA. Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move

That heart which now abhors to like his love. Exeunt