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Mar. Make that good.
Clo. He shall see none to fear.
Mar. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where make the better fool. that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
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 hanged, for being so long absent: or, to be turned 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 resolved 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 [Exit.
Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO.
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, you're a dry fool; I'm 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 patched: virtue, that transgresses, is but patched with sin; and sin, that amends, is but patched 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.
Mal. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him: Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever
Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better encreasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn, that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two-pence 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 gagged. 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 distempered 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 allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!
Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires to speak with you.
Ou. 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: Fye on him! [Exit MARIA.] I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to disGo you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, miss 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, one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.
Al. Madam, yond young fellow swears he wil Scak 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 fore-knowledge 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. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff''s post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of man is he? Mal. Why, of mankind.
Oli. What manner of man?
Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her: Your will?
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 peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrew-divinity. ishly; one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
Oli. Let him approach: Call in my gent.c
gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
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.
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.
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 shew 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 feigned; I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face; heart. We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Oli. Tell me your mind.
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
Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared 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 [Erit MARIA.] Now, sir, what is your
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?
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 negociate with my face? you are now out of your text but we will draw the curtain, and shew you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I was this present: Is't not well done? [Unveiling.
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
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, labelled 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?
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; Holla 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.
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
SCENE I. The Sea-coast.
Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you?
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Seb. By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone: It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
Seb. No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called 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: out, 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
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:
Unless the master were the man. — How now?
Well, let it be.
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.
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. Fio. I left no ring with her: What means this lady?
Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her!
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
SCENE III. A Room in Olivia's House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Sir ANDREW AGUE
Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st,
Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late, is to be up late.
Sir To. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can: To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives consist of the four elements?
Mar. For the love o'God, peace.
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! My
Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. 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 To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
Mar. Nay, good sir Toby.
Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not.
Sir To. Out o'time? sir, ye lie. - 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'the mouth too.
Sir To. Thou'rt i'the right. Go, sir, rub your - A stoop of wine, Maria!
chain with crums:
Mal. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour 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 to 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
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 a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know, I can do it.
Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us something
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 devil 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 crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, 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 To. What wilt thou do?
Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles
of love; wherein, by the colour of his bea:d, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most :eelingly 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 shal 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 And. And your horse now would make him
Mar. Ass, I doubt not.
Sir And. O, 'twill be adinirable.
Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physick 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, Pen hesilea.
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 adored 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 the 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, kuight; come knight. [Exeunt.
- A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Enter DURE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others. Duke. Give me some musick:- Now, good morrow, friends:
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of seng,
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. Musick, Come hither, boy; If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it, remember me: For, such as am, all true lovers are; Unstaid and skittish 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 eyo Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?