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that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Fare
[Exit. Duke. Let all the reft give place. Once more, Cefario, Get thee to yond fame fovereign cruelty:
Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,
The parts, that fortune hath beftow'd upon her,
Say, that fome Lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Can bide the beating of fo ftrong a paffion,
And can digeft as much; make no compare
And that I owe Olivia.
Vio. Ay, but I know
Duke. What dost thou know?
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe,
My father had a daughter lov'd a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
"Because, a man, that fuffers himfelf to run with every wind, and
Duke. And what's her hiftory?
Vio. A blank, my Lord: fhe never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damafk cheek: (9) fhe pin'd in thought,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
Duke. But dy'd thy fifter of her love, my boy?
Duke. Ay, that's the theam.
To her in hafte; give her this jewel: fay,
She pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She fate like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at Grief.] This very fine image, which has been fo univerfally applauded, it is not impoffible but our Author might oziginally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Affembly of Foules. And her befidis wonder difcretlie,
Dame Pacience yfittinge there I fonde
If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, how amply has he repaid that debt in heightning the picture! How much does the green and yellow melancholy tranfcend the Old Bard's face pale; the monument, his bill of Jand; and what an additional beauty is, fmiling at Grief, for which there are no ground, nor traces, in the original! Our Author has given us this fine picture again in ano. ther place, but, to fhew the power and extent of his genius, with features and lineaments varied.
Do't lock like Patience, gazing on Kings graves,
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This abfurd old play, I have elfewhere taken notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a number of mafter-touches, fo peculiar to himself, that a knowing reader may with ease and certainty diffinguish the traces of his pencil.
SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir To. Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lofe a feru-
ple of this fport, let me be boil'a to death with mé◄ lancholy.
Sir To. Would't thou not be glad to have the niggardly rafcaily fheep-biter come by fome notable fhame? 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, fhall we not, Sir Andrew?
Sir And. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.
Sir To. Here comes the little villain: how now, my nettle of India?
Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's coming down this walk, he has been yonder i'th fun practifing behaviour to his own fhadow this half hour. Obferve him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative ideot of him. Clofe, 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.
Mal. "Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me, he did affe&t me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that should the fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Befides, fhe ufes me with a more exalted refpect, than any one elfe that follows her. What fhould I think on't
Sir To. Here's an over weaning rogue.
Fab. Oh, peace: contemplation makes a rare Tarkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!
Sir And: 'Slife, I could fo beat the rogue.
Sir To. Peace, I fay.
Mal. To be Count Malvolio,
Sir To. Ah, rogue!
Sir And. Piftol him, pistol him.
Sir To. Peace, peace.
Mal. There is example for't: the Lady of the Stra chy 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 ftone-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 !
Fab. O, peace, peace.
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 fhould do theirs
for my uncle Toby
€ Sir To. Bolts and fhackles !
Fab. Oh, peace, peace, peace; now, now.
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 fome rich jewel. Toby approaches, curtfies there to me..
Sir To Shall this fellow live?
Fab. Tho' our filence be drawn from us with cares, yet, peace.
Mal. I extend my hand to him thus; quenching my familiar fmile with an auftere regard of controll.
Sir Fo. And does not Toby take you a blow o'th' lips then?
Mal. Saying, uncle Toby, my fortunes having caft me on your niece, give me this prerogative of fpeech
13 Sir To. What, what?
Mal. You must amend your drunkenness.
Sir To. Out, fcab!
Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the finews of our plot.
Mal. Befides, you wafte the treasure of your time -with a foolish Knight
Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.
Mal. One Sir Andrew;
Sir And. I knew it was I; for many do call me fool."
Mal. What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter. Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. Sir To. Oh peace! now the fpirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!
Mal. By my life, this is my Lady's hand thefe be her very C's, her U's, and her T's, and thus makes the her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.
Sir And Her C's, her U's, and her T's why that? Mal. To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good wishes; her very phrafes: by your leave, wax. Soft! and the impreffure her Lucrece, with which fhe ufes to feal; 'tis my Lady: to whom should this be?
Fab. This wins him, liver and all.'
Mal. Jove knows I love, but who, lips do not move, no man must know. No man must know what follows the number's alter'd -no man muft know-if this fhould be thee, Malvolio?
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, Brock! ·
Mal. I may command where I adore, but filence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless Stroke my heart doth gore, M. O. A. I. doth faway my life.
Fab. A fuftian riddle.
Sir To. Excellent wench, fay I. *