E-Text

Twelfth Night

Act II

SCENE I. The sea-coast.


[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]


ANTONIO.

Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?


SEBASTIAN.

By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the

malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore

I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone.

It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on

you.


ANTONIO.

Let me know of you whither you are bound.


SEBASTIAN.

No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere

extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of

modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to

keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express

myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,

which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of

Messaline whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him

myself and a sister, both born in an hour; if the heavens had

been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;

for some hours before you took me from the breach of the sea was

my sister drowned.


ANTONIO.

Alas the day!


SEBASTIAN.

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me,


was yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not, with

such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will

boldly publish her, - she bore mind that envy could not but call

fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem

to drown her remembrance again with more.


ANTONIO.

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.


SEBASTIAN.

O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.


ANTONIO.

If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.


SEBASTIAN.

If you will not undo what you have done - that is, kill

him whom you have recovered - desire it not. Fare ye well at once;

my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of

my mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell

tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.


[Exit.]


ANTONIO.

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many cnemies in Orsino's court,

Else would I very shortly see thee there:

But come what may, I do adore thee so

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.


[Exit.]



SCENE II. A street.


[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]


MALVOLIO.

Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?


VIOLA.

Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but

hither.


MALVOLIO.

She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved

me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover,

that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will

none of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to

come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's

taking of this. Receive it so.


VIOLA.

She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.


MALVOLIO.

Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is

it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it

lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.


[Exit.]


VIOLA.

I left no ring with her; what means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!

She made good view of me; indeed, so much,

That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts distractedly.

She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger.

None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.

I am the man; - if it be so, - as 'tis, -

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper-false

In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master's love;

As I am woman, now alas the day!

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time, thou must untangle this, not I;

It is too hard a knot for me to untie!


[Exit.]


SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.


[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]


SIR TOBY.

Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be a-bed after midnight is to

be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st.


SIR ANDREW.

Nay; by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late

is to be up late.


SIR TOBY.

A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be

up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go

to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives

consist of the four elements?


SIR ANDREW.

Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of

eating and drinking.


SIR TOBY.

Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. -

Marian, I say! - a stoup of wine.


[Enter CLOWN.]


SIR ANDREW.

Here comes the fool, i' faith.


CLOWN.

How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?


SIR TOBY.

Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.


SIR ANDREW.

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had

rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a

breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very

gracious fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus,

of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very

good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?


CLOWN.

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no

whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no

bottle-ale houses.


SIR ANDREW.

Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is

done. Now, a song.


SIR TOBY.

Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.


SIR ANDREW.

There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a -


CLOWN.

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?


SIR TOBY.

A love-song, a love-song.


SIR ANDREW.

Ay, ay; I care not for good life.


CLOWN.

SONG

O, mistress mine, where are you roaming?

O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,

That can sing both high and low:

Trip no further, pretty sweeting;

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man's son doth know.


SIR ANDREW.

Excellent good, i' faith.


SIR TOBY.

Good, good.


CLOWN.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;

Youth's a stuff will not endure.


SIR ANDREW.

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.


SIR TOBY.

A contagious breath.


SIR ANDREW.

Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.


SIR TOBY.

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 ANDREW.

An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.


CLOWN.

By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.


SIR ANDREW.

Most certain: let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'


CLOWN.

'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd

in't to call thee knave, knight.


SIR ANDREW.

'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call

me knave. Begin, fool; it begins 'Hold thy peace.'


CLOWN.

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.


SIR ANDREW.

Good, i' faith! Come, begin.


[They sing a catch.]


[Enter MARIA.]


MARIA.

What a caterwauling 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 TOBY.

My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a

Peg-a-Ramsey, and

[Singing.]

'Three merry men be we.'

Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley,

lady.

'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.'


CLOWN.

Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.


SIR ANDREW.

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 TOBY.

[Singing] O, the twelfth day of December, -


MARIA.

For the love o' God, peace!


[Enter MALVOLIO]


MALVOLIO.

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 ale-house 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 TOBY.

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!


MALVOLIO.

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 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 TOBY.

'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'


MARIA.

Nay, good Sir Toby.


CLOWN.

'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'


MALVOLIO.

Is't even so?


SIR TOBY.

'But I will never die.'


CLOWN.

Sir Toby, there you lie.


MALVOLIO.

This is much credit to you.


SIR TOBY.

[Singing] 'Shall I bid him go?'


CLOWN.

'What an if you do?'


SIR TOBY.

'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'


CLOWN.

'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'


SIR TOBY.

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?


CLOWN.

Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth

too.


SIR TOBY.

Thou'art i' the right. - Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs:

A stoup of wine, Maria!


MALVOLIO.

Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at anything

more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil

rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.


[Exit.]


MARIA.

Go shake your ears.


SIR ANDREW.

'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry,

to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him

and make a fool of him.


SIR TOBY.

Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll

deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.


MARIA.

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 nayword, 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 TOBY.

Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.


MARIA.

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.


SIR ANDREW.

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


SIR TOBY.

What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?


SIR ANDREW.

I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.


MARIA.

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 grounds

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 TOBY.

What wilt thou do?


MARIA.

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 TOBY.

Excellent! I smell a device.


SIR ANDREW.

I have't in my nose too.


SIR TOBY.

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that

they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.


MARIA.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.


SIR ANDREW.

And your horse now would make him an ass.


MARIA.

Ass, I doubt not.


SIR ANDREW.

O 'twill be admirable!


MARIA.

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.


[Exit.]


SIR TOBY.

Good night, Penthesilea.


SIR ANDREW.

Before me, she's a good wench.


SIR TOBY.

She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?


SIR ANDREW.

I was adored once too.


SIR TOBY.

Let's to bed, knight. - Thou hadst need send for more money.


SIR ANDREW.

If I cannot recover your niece I am a foul way out.


SIR TOBY.

Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,

call me Cut.


SIR ANDREW.

If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.


SIR TOBY.

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;

Methought it did relieve my passion much;

More than light airs and recollected terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times: -

Come, but one verse.


CURIO.

He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.


DUKE.

Who was it?


CURIO.

Feste, 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:

For, such as I am, all true lovers are;

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,

Save in the constant image of the creature

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


VIOLA.

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.


DUKE.

Thou dost speak masterly:

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;

Hath it not, boy?


VIOLA.

A little, by your favour.


DUKE.

What kind of woman is't?


VIOLA.

Of your complexion.


DUKE.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?


VIOLA.

About your years, my lord.


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.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,

Than women's are.


VIOLA.

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,

Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.


VIOLA.

And so they are: alas, that they are so;

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.


CLOWN.

Are you ready, sir?


DUKE.

Ay; pr'ythee, sing. [Music]


CLOWN.

SONG

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 strown:

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there!


DUKE.

There's for thy pains.


CLOWN.

No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.


DUKE.

I'll pay thy pleasure, then.


CLOWN.

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.


DUKE.

Give me now leave to leave thee.


CLOWN.

Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy

doublet of changeable taffeta, 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. -


[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]


Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:

Tell her my love, more noble than the world,

Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,

Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;

But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems

That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.


VIOLA.

But if she cannot love you, sir?


DUKE.

I cannot be so answer'd.


VIOLA.

'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?


DUKE.

There is no woman's sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion

As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart

So big to hold so much; they lack retention.

Alas, their love may be called appetite, -

No motion of the liver, but the palate, -

That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much: make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me

And that I owe Olivia.


VIOLA.

Ay, but I know, -


DUKE.

What dost thou know?


VIOLA.

Too well what love women to men may owe.

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

My father had a daughter loved a man,

As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,

I should your lordship.


DUKE.

And what's her history?


VIOLA.

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined 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 shows 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. -

Sir, shall I to this lady?


DUKE.

Ay, that's the theme.

To her in haste: give her this jewel; say

My love can give no place, bide no denay.


[Exeunt.]



SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden.


[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]


SIR TOBY.

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.


FABIAN.

Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be

boiled to death with melancholy.


SIR TOBY.

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally

sheep-biter come by some notable shame?


FABIAN.

I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour

with my lady about a bear-baiting here.


SIR TOBY.

To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool

him black and blue: - shall we not, Sir Andrew?


SIR ANDREW.

An we do not, it is pity of our lives.


[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 him, for the love of

mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot

of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.]


Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout

that must be caught with tickling.


[Exit Maria.]


[Enter MALVOLIO.]


MALVOLIO.

'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she

did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, 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 her. What should I think on't?


SIR TOBY.

Here's an overweening rogue!


FABIAN.

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;

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 him, 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 state, -


SIR TOBY.

O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!


MALVOLIO.

Calling my officers about me, in my branched 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; court'sies there to me:


SIR TOBY.

Shall this fellow live?


FABIAN.

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.


MALVOLIO.

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my 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?


MALVOLIO.

'You must amend your drunkenness.'


SIR TOBY.

Out, scab!


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 ANDREW.

That's me, I warrant you.


MALVOLIO.

'One Sir Andrew':


SIR ANDREW.

I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.


MALVOLIO.

What employment have we here?


[Taking up the letter.]


FABIAN.

Now is the woodcock near the gin.


SIR TOBY.

O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to

him!


MALVOLIO.

By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very

C's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It

is in contempt of question, her hand.


SIR ANDREW.

Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?


MALVOLIO.

[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good

wishes.' Her very phrases! - By your leave, wax. - Soft! - and the

impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my

lady. To whom should this be?


FABIAN.

This wins him, liver and all.


MALVOLIO.

[Reads]

'Jove knows I love,

But who?

Lips, do not move,

No man must know.'


'No man must know.' - What follows? the numbers alter'd! - 'No man

must know': - If this should be thee, Malvolio?


SIR TOBY.

Marry, hang thee, brock!


MALVOLIO.

'I may command where I adore:

But silence, like a Lucrece knife,

With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;

M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'


FABIAN.

A fustian riddle!


SIR TOBY.

Excellent wench, say I.


MALVOLIO.

'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' - Nay, but first let me see, - let

me see, - let me see.


FABIAN.

What dish of poison has she dressed him!


SIR TOBY.

And with what wing the stannyel checks at it!


MALVOLIO.

'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I

serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal

capacity; there is no obstruction in this; - And the end, - What

should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that

resemble something in me. - Softly! - M, O, A, I. -


SIR TOBY.

O, ay, make up that: - he is now at a cold scent.


FABIAN.

Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a

fox.


MALVOLIO.

M, - Malvolio; M, - why, that begins my name.


FABIAN.

Did not I say he would work it out?

The cur is excellent at faults.


MALVOLIO.

M, - But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that

suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.


FABIAN.

And O shall end, I hope.


SIR TOBY.

Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'


MALVOLIO.

And then I comes behind.


FABIAN.

Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more

detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.


MALVOLIO.

M, O, A, I; - This simulation is not as the former: - and

yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of

these letters are in my name. Soft; here follows prose. -

'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above

thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some

achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy

fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them.

And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy

humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly

with servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put

thyself into the trick of singularity: She thus advises thee that

sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and

wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to;

thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee

a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch

fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with

thee,

'The fortunate-unhappy.'


Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be

proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I

will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the

very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me;

for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did

commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being

cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and

with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her

liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in

yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of

putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! - Here is yet a

postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou

entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles

become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my

sweet, I pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do

everything that thou wilt have me.


[Exit.]


FABIAN.

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of

thousands to be paid from the Sophy.


SIR TOBY.

I could marry this wench for this device:


SIR ANDREW.

So could I too.


SIR TOBY.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.


[Enter MARIA.]


SIR ANDREW.

Nor I neither.


FABIAN.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.


SIR TOBY.

Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?


SIR ANDREW.

Or o' mine either?


SIR TOBY.

Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?


SIR ANDREW.

I' faith, or I either?


SIR TOBY.

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the

image of it leaves him, he must run mad.


MARIA.

Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?


SIR TOBY.

Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.


MARIA.

If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his

first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow

stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a

fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now

be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a

melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable

contempt; if you will see it, follow me.


SIR TOBY.

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!


SIR ANDREW.

I'll make one too.


[Exeunt.]

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