Part 1 out of 3
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
by William Shakespeare
ORSINO, Duke of Illyria.
SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, brother to Viola.
ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian.
A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola
VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke
CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke
SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia.
SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.
MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia.
FABIAN, Servant to Olivia.
CLOWN, Servant to Olivia.
OLIVIA, a rich Countess.
VIOLA, in love with the Duke.
MARIA, Olivia's Woman.
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other
SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it.
SCENE I. An Apartment in the DUKE'S Palace.
[Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending.]
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.--
That strain again;--it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.--Enough; no more;
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soever,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.--How now! what news from her?
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But like a cloistress she will veiled walk,
And water once a-day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'd,--
Her sweet perfections,--with one self king!--
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
SCENE II. The sea-coast.
[Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and Sailors.]
What country, friends, is this?
This is Illyria, lady.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd--What think you, sailors?
It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.
True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself,---
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,--
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.
For saying so, there's gold!
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.
Who governs here?
A noble duke, in nature
As in name.
What is his name?
Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
He was a bachelor then.
And so is now,
Or was so very late; for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur,--as, you know, what great ones do,
The less will prattle of,--that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.
O that I served that lady!
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.
That were hard to compass:
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;
It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap to time I will commit;
Only shape thou silence to my wit.
Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
I thank thee. Lead me on.
SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]
What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her
brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
Why, let her except, before excepted.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits
Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these
clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too;
an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady
talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in
one night here to be her wooer.
Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
What's that to the purpose?
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
very fool, and a prodigal.
Fye that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo,
and speaks three or four languages word for word without book,
and hath all the good gifts of nature.
He hath indeed,--almost natural: for, besides that he's a
fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of
a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought
among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that
say so of him. Who are they?
They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her as
long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria.
He's a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano-vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.
[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!
Sweet Sir Andrew?
Bless you, fair shrew.
And you too, sir.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
My niece's chamber-maid.
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
My name is Mary, sir.
Good Mistress Mary Accost,--
You mistake, knight: accost is, front her, board her,
woo her, assail her.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
Is that the meaning of accost?
Fare you well, gentlemen.
An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never
draw sword again.
An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?
Sir, I have not you by the hand.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to
the buttery-bar and let it drink.
Wherefore, sweetheart? what's your metaphor?
It's dry, sir.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my
hand dry. But what's your jest?
A dry jest, sir.
Are you full of them?
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let
go your hand I am barren.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see
thee so put down?
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 great eater of beef, and, I
believe, that does harm to my wit.
An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.
Pourquoy, my dear knight?
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. Oh, had I but followed the arts!
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to
see a houswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.
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 woos her.
She'll none o' the Count; she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her
swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest
mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes
Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the
degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
Faith, I can cut a caper.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
And, I think, I have the back-trick simply as strong as
any man in Illyria.
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 sink-a-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.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in
flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?
What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
Taurus? that's sides and heart.
No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha,
higher: ha, ha!--excellent!
SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.
[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]
If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,
you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three
days, and already you are no stranger.
You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,
in his favours?
No, believe me.
[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.]
I thank you. Here comes the count.
Who saw Cesario, ho?
On your attendance, my lord; here.
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 denied 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
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then?
O, then unfold the passion of my love,
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
I think not so, my lord.
Dear lad, believe it,
For they shall yet belie thy happy years
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:--some four or five attend him:
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company:--prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
I'll do my best
To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
SCENE V. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]
Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open
my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my
lady will hang thee for thy absence.
Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs
to fear no colours.
Make that good.
He shall see none to fear.
A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was
born, of, I fear no colours.
Where, good Mistress Mary?
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are
fools, let them use their talents.
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?
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning
away, let summer bear it out.
You are resolute, then?
Not so, neither: but I am resolved on two points.
That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break,
your gaskins fall.
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.
Peace, you rogue; no more o' that; here comes my lady: make
your excuse wisely; you were best.
[Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO.]
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.--God bless
Take the fool away.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you
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. Anything
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.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
Misprision in the highest degree!--Lady, Cucullus non facit
monachum; that's as much to say, I wear not motley in my
brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Can you do it?
Dexteriously, good madonna.
Make your proof.
I must catechize you for it, madonna.
Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.
Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
Good fool, for my brother's death.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being in heaven.--Take away the fool, gentlemen.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.
Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better
increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox;
but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
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.
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 known discreet man, though
he do nothing but reprove.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires
to speak with you.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman.
Fie on him!
Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or
not at home; what you will to dismiss it.
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should
be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes--
one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH.]
By mine honour, half drunk!--What is he at the gate, cousin?
A gentleman? What gentleman?
'Tis a gentleman here.--A plague o' these pickle-herrings!--How
Good Sir Toby,--
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.
Ay, marry; what is he?
Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me
faith, say I. Well, it's all one.
What's a drunken man like, fool?
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above
heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns
Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz;
for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drowned: go, look
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
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 foreknowledge of that too, and
therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
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.
What kind of man is he?
Why, of mankind.
What manner of man?
Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.
Of what personage and years is he?
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. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly;
one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
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
excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good
beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to
the least sinister usage.
Whence came you, sir?
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
Are you a comedian?
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?
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
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
show you the heart of my message.
Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.
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
gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon
with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.
No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.--
Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.
Tell me your mind.
I am a messenger.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the
courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no
taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as
full of peace as matter.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my
entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as
maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
Now, sir, what is your text?
Most sweet lady,--
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
Where lies your text?
In Orsino's bosom.
In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
Good madam, let me see your face.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my
face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain
and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this
present. Is't not well done?
Excellently done, if God did all.
'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.
'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.
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?
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!
How does he love me?
With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learn'd, and valiant,
And, in dimension and the shape of nature,
A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;
He might have took his answer long ago.
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?
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
You might do much. What is your parentage?
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.
Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
What is your parentage?
'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.'--I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast:--soft, soft!
Unless the master were the man.--How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.--
What, ho, Malvolio!--
Here, madam, at your service.
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.
Madam, I will.
I do I know not what: and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe:
What is decreed must be; and be this so!
SCENE I. The sea-coast.
[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]
Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?
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
Let me know of you whither you are bound.
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.
Alas the day!
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.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.
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.
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.
SCENE II. A street.
[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]
Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but
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.
She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.
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.
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!
SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]
Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be a-bed after midnight is to
be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st.
Nay; by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late
is to be up late.
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?
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of
eating and drinking.
Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.--
Marian, I say!--a stoup of wine.
Here comes the fool, i' faith.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
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?
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.
Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.
There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
A love-song, a love-song.
Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
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.
Excellent good, i' faith.
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.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
A contagious breath.
Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
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
An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Most certain: let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'
'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd
in't to call thee knave, knight.
'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call
me knave. Begin, fool; it begins 'Hold thy peace.'
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.
Good, i' faith! Come, begin.
[They sing a catch.]
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.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a
'Three merry men be we.'
Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley,
'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.'
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
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.
[Singing] O, the twelfth day of December,--
For the love o' God, peace!
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?
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
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, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'
Nay, good Sir Toby.
'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'
Is't even so?
'But I will never die.'
Sir Toby, there you lie.
This is much credit to you.
[Singing] 'Shall I bid him go?'
'What an if you do?'
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'
'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'
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
Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth
Thou'art i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs:
A stoup of wine, Maria!
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.
Go shake your ears.
'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.
Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll
deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
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
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.
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.
What wilt thou do?
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.
Excellent! I smell a device.
I have't in my nose too.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
Ass, I doubt not.
O 'twill be admirable!
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.
Good night, Penthesilea.
Before me, she's a good wench.
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?
I was adored once too.
Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more money.
If I cannot recover your niece I am a foul way out.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,
call me Cut.
If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.
Come, come; I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go
to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.
SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.
[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]
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.
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.
Who was it?
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's
father took much delight in: he is about the house.
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?
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.
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?
A little, by your favour.
What kind of woman is't?
Of your complexion.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?
About your years, my lord.
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.
I think it well, my lord.
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.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]
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.
Are you ready, sir?
Ay; pr'ythee, sing. [Music]
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!
There's for thy pains.
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
I'll pay thy pleasure, then.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
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.
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.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
I cannot be so answer'd.
'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?
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.
Ay, but I know,--
What dost thou know?
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.
And what's her history?
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.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
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?
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste: give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be
boiled to death with melancholy.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour
with my lady about a bear-baiting here.
To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--shall we not, Sir Andrew?
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India?
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.
'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?
Here's an overweening rogue!
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;
how he jets under his advanced plumes!
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--
Peace, I say.
To be Count Malvolio;--
Pistol him, pistol him.
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married
the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;
having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.
Fire and brimstone!
O, peace, peace.
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.
Bolts and shackles!
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.
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:
Shall this fellow live?
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an
austere regard of control:
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech':--
'You must amend your drunkenness.'
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a
That's me, I warrant you.
'One Sir Andrew':
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter.]