« PreviousContinue »
Mar. Sir, I have not you by the nand. Sir And. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
Mar. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink.
Sir And. Wherefore. sweet heart? what's your metaphor?
Mar. It's dry, sir.
Sir And. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? Mar. A dry jest, sir.
Sir And. Are you full of them?
Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
[Erit MARIA. Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?
Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down: Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man has but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit.
Sir To. No question.
Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, sir Toby.
Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear knight?
Sir And. What is pourquoy? do or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: O, had I but followed the arts!
Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of
Sir And. Why, would that have mended my hair? Sir To. Past question; for thou seest, it will not curl by nature.
Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff'; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.
Sir And. 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the count himself, here hard by, wooes her.
Sir To. She'll none o' the count; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't, man. Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't
Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria.
Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water, but in a sinka-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.
Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent
Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance a his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? Val. No, believe me.
Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.
Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho?
Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here. Duke. Stand you awhile aloof. — Cesario, Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd To thee the book even of my secret soul: Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, Till thou have audience.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord: What then?
I know, thy constellation is right apt
Prosper well in this, I'll do my best,
Mar. Make that good.
Clo. He shall see none to fear.
Mal. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him: Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever
Mar. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where make the better fool. that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
Clo. Where, good mistress Mary?
Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
Clo. Well, God give them wisdom, that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents. Mar. Yet you will be hanged, for being so long absent: or, to be turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you?
Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. Mar. You are resolute then?
Clo. Not so neither; but I am resolved on two points.
Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.
Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt! Well, go thy way; if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.
Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that; here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [Exit.
Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO.
Clo. Wit; and 't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit. bless thee, lady!
Oli. Take the fool away.
Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'm no more of you besides, you grow dishonest.
Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him: Any thing that's mended, is but patched: virtue, that transgresses, is but patched with sin; and sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue: If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, What remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower: the lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away.
Oli. Sir, bade them take away you.
Clo. Misprision in the highest degree! - Lady, Cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Oli. Can you do it?
Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna.
Oli. Make your proof.
Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna; Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.
Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou . Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. Clo. I think, his soul is in hell, madonna. Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. Clo. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. the fool, gentlemen.
Take away Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better encreasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn, that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool.
Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio?
Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.
Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets: There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools!
Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires to speak with you.
Ol. From the count Orsino, is it?
Mar. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.
Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay?
Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye on him! [Exit MARIA.] I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to disGo you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, miss it. [Exit MALVOLIO.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy with brains, for here he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.
Oli. A gentleman? What gentleman? Sir To. 'Tis a gentlemen here - A plague o'these pickle-herrings! How now, sot? Clo. Good Sir Toby,
Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery: There's one at the gate.
Oli. Ay, marry; what is he?
Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. [Exit. Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool?
Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him. sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd go, look after him.
Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown
Mal. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you; I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
Mal. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of man is he? Mal. Why, of mankind.
Oli. What manner of man?
Mal. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no.
Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me, have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.
Oli. Of what personage, and years, is he? Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrew-divinity. [Erit MARIA.] Now, sir, what is your ishly; one would think, his mother's milk were text? scarce out of him.
Vio. Most sweet lady,
Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?
Vio. In Orsino's bosom.
Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom? Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
Oli. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.
Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and shew you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I was this present: Is': not well done? [Unveiling.
Vio. Excellently done, if God did all.
Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, I pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excel-weather. lently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. Oli. Whence came you, sir?
Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. Oli. Are you a comedian?
Vio. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?
Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission; I will on with my speech in your praise, and then shew you the heart of my message.
Oli. Come to what is important in't I forgive you the praise.
Vio. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poctical.
Oli. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy.
Oli. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: It shall be inventoried; and every particle, and utensil, labelled to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to 'praise me?
Vio. I see you what you are: you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you; O, such love Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd The nonpareil of beauty!
Oli. How does he love me? Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. Oli. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
A gracious person but yet I cannot love him; He might have took his answer long ago.
Vio If I did love you in my master's flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it.
Why, what would you?
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Oli. You might do much: What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : I am a gentleman.
Here, madam, at your service. Oli. Run after that same peevish messenger, The county's man: he left this ring behind him, Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him: If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio. Mal. Madam, I will.
SCENE I.. - The Sea-coast.
Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.
Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I
go with you?
Seb. 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.
Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
Seb. 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 hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned.
Ant. Alas, the day!
Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful : ut, though I could not, with such estimable wonJer, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a 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.
Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.
Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it 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. [Erit.
Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies 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. [Erit.
SCENE II. -A Street.
Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following. Mal. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia?
Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.
Mal. 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
Vio. She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.
Mal. 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.
Vio. I left no ring with her: What means this
Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her!
She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st,
Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late, is to be up late.
Sir To. 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 And. 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking.
Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! ————— a stoop of wine!
Sir And. There's a testril cf me too if one knight give a
Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
Sir To. A love-song, a love song.
Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
Clo. O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
Every wise man's son doth know.
Sir And. Excellent good, i'faith.
Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir To. A contagious breath.
Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.
Sir To. 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 And. An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Sir And. Most certain: let our catch be, Thou knave.
be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight. Clo. Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? I shall
Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd thy peace. one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold
Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
[They sing a catch.