Part 1 out of 3
TWELFTH NIGHT OR, WHAT YOU WILL
by William Shakespeare
ORSINO, Duke of Illyria
SEBASTIAN, 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 to Olivia
SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK
MALVOLIO, steward to Olivia
FABIAN, servant to Olivia
FESTE, a clown, servant to Olivia
OLIVIA, a rich countess
MARIA, Olivia's waiting 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, and other 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 sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more;
'T is 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 soe'er,
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 flow'rs;
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs.
SCENE II. The sea-coast.
[Enter VIOLA, a 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 abjur'd the company
And sight of men.
O that I serv'd 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 prithee, 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.
[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 of
Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes
are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and 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 Aguecheek?
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
What's that to th' 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.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, 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 coystrill that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.
[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK.]
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 chambermaid.
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,
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
And 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 th' hand.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
Now, sir, 'thought is free.' I pray you, bring your hand to th'
buttery-bar and let it drink.
Wherefore, sweet-heart? 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
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.
And I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow,
Pourquoi, my dear knight?
What is 'pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had bestow'd that
time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and
bear-baiting! O, had I but follow'd 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.
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.
She'll none o' th' 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' th' strangest mind i'
th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
Art thou good at these kickshawses, 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
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a
curtain before 'em? 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. What dost
thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the
excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star
of a galliard.
Ay, 't is 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 the caper. Ha! higher!
ha, ha, excellent!
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 advanc'd. 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
No, believe me.
I thank you. Here comes the Count.
[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and ATTENDANTS.]
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's 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.
[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 hang'd 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 hang'd for being so long absent; or to be turn'd
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 resolv'd on two points.
That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your
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
Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady; make your
excuse wisely, you were best.
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.'
[Enter LADY OLIVIA with MALVOLIO.]
God bless thee, lady!
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 grow
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 patch'd; virtue that transgresses is but
patch'd with sin; and sin that amends is but patch'd 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 as 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,
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, 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 gagg'd. 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
distemper'd 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 allow'd fool, though he
do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man,
though he do nothing but reprove.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st 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; 't is 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! [Exit MARIA.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the
count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.
[Exit MALVOLIO.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old,
and people dislike it.
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--
[Enter SIR TOBY.]
one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?
A gentleman! what gentleman?
'T is a gentleman here -- a plague o' these pickle-herring! 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, and he will, I care not; give me faith, say
I. Well, it's all one.
What's a drunken man like, fool?
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.
Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's
in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go look after him.
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 to a bench, but he'll speak
What kind o' 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 't is a peascod, or a codling when 't is almost
an apple: 't is with him in standing water, between boy and man.
He is very well-favour'd, 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.
[Enter VIOLA, and ATTENDANTS.]
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 loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is
excellently well penn'd, 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 't is poetical.
It is the more like to be feign'd; I pray you, keep it in. I
heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow'd your approach
rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
gone; if you have reason, be brief; 't is 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
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 appear'd 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.
Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.
[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS.] Now, sir, what is your text?
Most sweet lady,--
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies
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.
'T is in grain, sir; 't will endure wind and weather.
'T is beauty truly blent whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruell'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 labell'd 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
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 divulg'd, 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;
Halloo 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
Plac'd 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 you.
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 Roderigo. 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 pleas'd, would we had so ended! but you, sir, alter'd that;
for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drown'd.
Alas the day!
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembl'd me, was yet of
many accounted beautiful; but, though I could not, with such
estimable wonder, over-far believe that, yet thus far I will
boldly publish her: she bore mind that envy could not but call
fair. She is drown'd 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 recover'd, 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 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.
SCENE II. A street
[Enter VIOLA, MALVOLIO following.]
Were you not ev'n now with the Countess Olivia?
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arriv'd but
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have sav'd 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 return'd. 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 't is,
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. OLIVIA'S house
[Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW.]
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
A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd 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. Does not our life
consist of the four elements?
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and
Thou 'rt 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; 't was 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,
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? 'T is 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 that?
And 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 constrain'd 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.
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not call'd
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
Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.'
Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally;
lady! [Sings.] 'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos'd, and so do I too; he
does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
'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 alehouse 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 kins-man, she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and 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.
'Shall I bid him go?'
'What and 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' th' mouth too.
Th 'rt i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A
stoup of wine, Maria!
Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour at any thing more
than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule.
She shall know of it, by this hand.
Go shake your ears.
'T were 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 do it.
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 any thing constantly, but a
time-pleaser; an affection'd ass, that cons state without book,
and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
cramm'd, as he thinks, with excellencies, 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's 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, 't will 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 ador'd 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' th' end, call me
If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 't is too late to go to bed
now. Come, knight; come, knight.
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.
Go seek him out, and play the tune the while.
[Exit CURIO. Music plays]
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 thron'd.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd 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 worn,
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; prithee, sing.
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 every thing, and their intent every where; for that 's
it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
Let all the rest give place.
[CURIO and ATTENDANTS retire.]
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 't is 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 call'd 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 lov'd 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' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd 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.
[Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be
boil'd 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?
And we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Here comes the little villain.
How now, my metal 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! Lie thou there [throws down a
letter], for here comes the trout that must be caught with
'T is 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 advanc'd 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 branch'd 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
my-- some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies 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 foolish
That's me, I warrant you.
'One Sir Andrew.'
I knew 't was I; for many do call me fool.
What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter.]
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
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.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's; why that?
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; 't is my lady. To whom
should this be?
This wins him, liver and all.