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And in sad cypress let me be laid ;
I am flain by a fair cruel maid.
O, prepare it.
of death no one so true
black coffin let there be strown:
My poor corps, where my bones fall be thrown.
Lay me, O! where
To weep there.
Clo. Truly, Sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or other.
Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.
Clo. Now the melancholy god prote& thee, and the taylor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal! (8) 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,
(8) I would barve men of such conftancy put 10 sea, tbat their business might be every where, and their intent every where, &c.] Mr. Warburton suspects this place to have suffer'd under the indolence of editors : and therefore, tho' I have not disturbid the text, I think it very proper to subjoin his emendation, and reasons for it.
“ Not only the Antithesis (which is no mean confideration, when " the question is on Shakespeare's writings ;) but the sense requires, « we thould read; that their bufine's might be every wbere, and their intent no where, &c.
that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.
Vio. But if she cannot love you, Sir,-
muft. 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 the not then be answer'd ?
Duke. There is no women's fides
Vio. Ay, but I know-
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe,
" Because, a man, that suffers himself to run with every wind, and “ so makes his business every where, cannot be said to have any In
; for that word signifies a determination of the mind to fomes " thing. Besides, the conclusion, of making a good voyage out of nothing,-evidently directs to this emendation.
Duke. And what's her history?
Vio. A blank, my Lord: she never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i'th'bud, Feed on her damask cheek: (9) fhe 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 shews are more than will; for ftill we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But dy'd thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio. I'm all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too-and yet I know notSir, shall I to this Lady?
Duke. Ay, that's the theam. To her in haste; give her this jewel : say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. (Exeunt.
Sbe pined in thought;
Smiling at Grief.] This very fine image, which has been fo universally applauded, it is not impossible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Adembly of Foules.
And her befidis wonder discretlie,
With face pale, upon an bill of fonde. If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, how amply has he repaid that debt in heightning the picture! How much doesthe green and yellow melancholy transcend the Old Bard's face pale; the monument, his bill of sand; and what an additional beauty is, miling at Grief, for which there are no ground, nor traces, in the original! Our Author has given us tħis fine picture again in ano. ther place, but, to fhew the power and extent of his genius, with features and lineaments varied.
Do'st look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'graves,
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This absurd old play, I have elsewhere taken notice, was not entirely. of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a number of master-touches, so peculiar to himself, that a knowing reader may with ease and certainty distinguish the traces of his pencil.
SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. Sir To. OME thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
Fab. I would exult, man ; you know, he brought me out of favour with my Lady, about a bear-baiting here.
Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again ; and we will fool him black and blue, mall we noi, Sir Andrew ?
Sir And. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.
Enter Maria. Sir To. Here comes the little villain: how now, my nettle of India ?
Mar. Get all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's coming down this walk, he has been yonder i'ch fun practising behaviour to bis own shadow this half hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative ideot of him. Close, in the name of jefting! lie thou there ; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.
[Throws down a letter, and Exit.
Enter Malvolio. Mal. 'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that should me fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, the uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't ? Sir To. Here's an over-weaning rogue.
Fab. Ch, peace : contemplation makes a rare Turkey-cock of him ; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes ! Sir And. 'Slife, I could so beat the
Mal. There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. Sir And. Fy on him, Jezebel!
Fab. O, peace, now he's deeply in ; look, how imagination blows him.
Mal. Having been three months married to her, fitting in my state Sir To. O. for a stone-bow, to hit him in the
eye! Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come down from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia fleeping.
Sir To. Fire and brimstone!
Mal. 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 all for my uncle Toby
Sir To. Bolts and shackles !
Mal. 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 some rich jewel.. Toby approaches, curtfies there to me.
Sir To. Shall this fellow live?
Fab. Tho' our silence be drawn from us with cares, yet, peace.
Mal. I extend my hand to him. thus ; quenching my. familiar smile with an austere regard of controll.
Sir To. And does not Toby take you a. blow o'th? lips then?