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pathize with his gravity, his smiles, his cross garters, his yellow stockings, and imprisonment in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a stronger feeling than all this—it is Viola's confession of her love.

Duke. What's her history?

Viola. A blank, my lord, she never told her love :
She let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Prey 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 møre, but indeed,
Our shews 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."-

Shakspeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.

" Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour."

What we so much admire here, is not the image of Patience on a monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and after it. “ They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned.” How long ago is it since we first learnt to repeat them; and still, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert shore ! There are other passages of not less impassioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian,

whom she supposes to bave already deceived her in a promise of marriage.

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“ Blame not this baste of mine: if you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by : there before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace."

We have already said something of Shakspeare's songs. One of the most beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his own to it.

Duke. O fellow, come ; the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain ;
The spiosters 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.


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 strewn;

Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my hones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where
Sad true love never find my grave,

Too weep there."


Who after this will say that Shakspeare's genius was only fitted for comedy? Yet after reading other parts of this play, and particularly the garden scene where Malvolio picks up the letter, if we were to say that his genius for comedy was less than his genius for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in such matters is more saturnine than mercurial.

" Enter MARIA.

Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain :--How now, my nettle 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 bim, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there; for here come's the trout that must be caught with tickling.

[They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and Exit.


him ;

Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus pear, 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 ber. What should I think on't?

Sir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue !
Fabian. O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare turkey.cock of

how he jets under his advanced plumes !
Sir Andrew. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:-
Sir Toby Peace, I say.
Malvolio. To be count Malvolio ;-
Sir Toby. Ah, rogue !
Sir Andrew. 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.

Sir Andrew. Fie on hiin, 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 chair of 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 some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me:

Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?

Fabian. Though our silence Le drawn from us with cares, yet peace.

Malvolio. 1 extend my hand to him thus, quenching iny 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?
Malvulio. You must amend your drunkenness.
Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

Malvolio. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight

Sir Andren. That's me, I warrant you.
Malvolio. One Sir Andrew
Sir Andrew. I knew, 'twas I ; for many do call me fool.
Mulvolio. What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter."

The letter and his comments on it are equally good. If poor Malvolio's treatment afterwards iş

a little bard, poetical justice is done in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her insensibility to the violence of the Duke's passion is atoned for by the discovery of Viola's concealed love of him.

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