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Sir To. Good, good.
Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance* indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?
Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
Sir And. Most certain: Let our catch be, Thou knave.
Clo. Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.
Sir And. "Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold thy peace.
Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And. Good, i' faith! Come, begin.
[They sing a catch.
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 To. My lady's a Cataian,† we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men be we. Am not I consanguineous? am I not 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 To. O, the twelfth day of December,[Singing. Mar. For the love of 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!T 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
* Drink till the sky turns round. * Name of an old song.
+ Romancer. Equivalent to filly fally, shilly shally. Hang yourself.
and your misdemeanours, 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.
Mal. Nay, good Sir Toby.
Clo. His eyes do show his days are almost done.
Mal. Is't even so ?
Sir To. But I will never die.
Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to you.
Sir To. Shall I bid him go?
Clo. What an if you do?
Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Sir To. 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?
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 chain* with crumbs-A stoop of wine, Maria!
Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule;t she shall know of it, by this hand.
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 mouth.
Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nay-word, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.
Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
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 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 excellences, 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.
* Stewards anciently wore a chain.
+ Method of life.
Sir To. 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 To. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And. I have't in my nose too.
Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him." Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass.
Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.
Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
Sir To. Good night, Penthesilia.*
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 i' the end, call me Cut.t
Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now; Come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt.
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.
Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing
Duke. Who was it?
Cur. Festo, 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:
That is beloved.-How dost thou like this tune ?
Where Love is throned.
Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
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?
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.
Vio. I think it well, my lord.
Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as roses; whose fair flower,
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.§
Clo. Are you ready, Sir?
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,
Duke. There's for thy pains.
Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, Sir.
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 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.
Once more, Cesario,
[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.
Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty:
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
That nature prankst her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. 'Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as, perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
Vio. Ay, but I know,
Duke. What dost thou know?
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
* A precious stone of all colours.