Sir To. My Lady's a Catayan, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramfey, and Three merry men be we Am not I confanguinious? am I not of her blood? Tilly valley, Lady! there dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady. [Singing.

Clo. Befhrew me, the Knight's in admirable fooling. Sir And. Ay, he does well enough if he be difpos'd, and fo 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 o'God, peace.

Enter Malvolio.

Mal. My mafters, are you mad? or what are you? have you no wit, manners, nor honefty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? do ye make an ale-house of my Lady's houfe, that ye fqueak out your *cottiers catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? is there no refpect of place, perfons, nor time in you?

Sir To. We did keep time, Sir, in our catches. Sneck up! [Hiccoughs.

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My Lady bade me tell you, that tho' fhe harbours you as her Uncle, fhe's nothing ally'd to your diforders. If you can feparate 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 farewel.

Sir To. Farewel, dear heart, fince I must needs be gone. Mal. Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo. His eyes do fhew, his days are almost done.

Mal. Is't even fo?

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?

coziers catches] Cottiers. Ruftic, clownish.
VOL. III.

[Singing

Clo.

Clo. What, an if you do?

Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and Spare not?
Clo. O, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To. Out o'time, Sir, ye lie: art thou any more than a steward? doft thou think, because thou art virtuous, there fhall be no more cakes and ale?

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger fhall be hot i'th' mouth too.

Sir To. Thou'rt i'th'right. Go, Sir, rub your chain with crums. A floop of wine, Maria.

Mal. Miftrefs Mary, if you priz'd my Lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; fhe shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit.

Mar. Go fhake 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 promife with him, and make a fool of him.

Sir To. Do't, Knight, I'll write thee a challange: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; fince the youth of the Duke's was to day with my Lady, fhe is much out of quiet. For Monfieur 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 ftraight in my bed: I know, I can do it.

Sir To. Poffefs us, poffefs us, tell us fomething of him.

Mar. Marry, Sir, fometimes he is a kind of a Pu

ritan.

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reafon, dear Knight.

Sir And. I have no exquifite reason for't, but I have reafon good enough.

Mar.

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing conftantly but a time-pleafer; an affection'd afs, that cons state without book, and utters it by great fwarths: the best persuaded of himself: so cram'd, 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 fome obscure epiftles of love, wherein, by the colour of his beard, the fhape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expreffure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he fhall find himself moft feelingly perfonated. I can write very like my Lady your Niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make diftinction of our hands. Sir To. Excellent, I fmell a device.

Sir And. I have't in my nose too.

Sir To. He fhall 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 horfe now would make him an afs.

Mar. Afs, I doubt not.

Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my phyfic will work with him. I will plant you two,

and let the fool make a third, where he fhall find the letter: obferve his conftruction of it: for this night to bed, and dream on the event. Farewel.

Sir To. Good night, Penthifilea.

Sir And. Before me, fhe's a good wench.

[Exit.

Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; what o'that?

Sir And. I was ador'd once too.

Sir To. Let's to bed, Knight: thou hadft need fend for more money.

O 2

Sir

Sir And. If I cannot recover your Niece, I am a foul way out.

Sir To. Send for money, Knight; if thou haft her not i'th'end, call me cut.

Sir And. If I do not, never truft me, take it how you will.

Sir To. Come, come, I'll go burn fome fack, 'tis two late to go to bed now: come, Knight; come, Knight.

Duke.

SCENE V.

Changes to the Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

GIV

[Exeunt.

IVE me fome mufic; now, good morrow,
friends:

Now, good Cefario, but that piece of song,
That old antique fong, we heard last night;
Methought, it did relieve my paffion much;
More than light airs, and recollected terms
Of these moft brifk and giddy-paced times.
Come, but one verse.

Cur. He is not here, so please your Lordship, that fhould fing it.

Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Fefte, the jefter, 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. [Mufic.

Come hither, boy; if ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me;
For fuch as I am, all true lovers are;

Unftaid and fkittish in all notions elfe,

Save in the conftant image of the creature

That is belov'd. How doft thou like this tune?

Vio. It gives a very echo from the feat Where love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou doft speak mafterly.

My life upon't, young tho' thou art, thine eye
Hath ftaid upon fome favour that it loves:
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?

Vio. About your years, my Lord.

Duke. Too old, by heav'n; let ftill the woman take An elder than herself, fo wears fhe to him: So fways fhe level in her husband's heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, fooner loft and worn,. Than women's are.

Vio. I think it well, my Lord.

Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyfelf, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:

For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.
Vio. And fo they are: alas, that they are so,
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Enter Curio and Clown.

Duke. O, fellow, come; the fong we had last night,— Mark it, Cefario, it is old and plain;

The spinfters and the knitters in the fun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with

bones,

Do use to chant it: it is filly footh,

It gives a very echo to the feat

Where love is thron'd.] We should read, from the feat: i. e. it reaches the Throne of Love, and reverberates thence.