Page images

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mul. This is much Credit to you.
Sir To. Shall I bid him go?

Clo. What and if you do?
Sir To Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo. O no, no, no, you dare not.,

Sir To. Out o'tune, Sir, ye lie: Art thou any more than a Steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there : shall be no more Cakes and Ale?

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and Ginger shall be hot i’th' Mouth too.

Sir To. Thou’rt i'th' right. Go, Sir, rub your Chain with Crums. A Stoop of Wine, Maria.

Mal. 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.

[Exit. Mar. Go shake your Ears. * Sir And. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a Man's a hungry, to challenge him the Field, and then to break Promise with him, and make a Fool of him.

Sir To. Do't, Knight, I'll write thee a Challenge : or I'll deliver thy Indignation to him by word of Mouth.

Mar. Sweet, Sir Toby, be patient for to Night'; since the Youth of the Duke'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 lye straight in my Bed : I know I can do it.

Sir To. Possess us, pofless us, tell us something of him.
Mar. Marry, Sir, lometimes he is a kind of a Puritan.
Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a Dog.

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

Sir And. I have no exquisite Reason for't, but I have Reason good enough. - Mar. The Devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing conftantly 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 cram'd, as he thinks, with Excellencies, that it is his ground of Faith, that all that look


on him, love him; and on that Vice in him will my Revenge find notable Cause to work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure Epistles of Love, wherein, by the colour of his Beard, the shape of his Leg, the manner of his Gate, the expressure of his Eye, Forehead, and Complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my Lady your Neice, on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distin&tion of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent, I smell a Device.
Sir And. I have't in my Nose too..

Sir To. He shall think by the Letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my Neice, and that she is in Love with him.

Mar. My purpose is indeed a Horse of that Colour. .
Sir And. And your Horse now would make him an Afs.
Mar. Ass, I doubt not.
Sir And. O 'twill be admirable..

Mar, Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my Physick ? 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. Farewel.

Sir To. Good Nighr, Penthifilea.
Sir And. Before me, she's a good Wench.

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

Sir And. I was ador'd once too.

Sir To. Let's to Bed, Knight : Thou hadft need fend for more Mony.

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

Sir To. Send for Mony, Knight; if thou hast her nor i’th end, call me Cur.

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

ŞirTo. Come, come, I'll go burn some Sack, 'tis too late to go to Bed now : Come, Knight, come, Knight.


[ocr errors]


SCENE IV. The Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.
Duke. Give me some Musick ; now good morrow,

Now good, Cafario, but that piece of Song,
That old and antick Song we heard last Night;
Methought it did relieve my Paffion much,
More than light Airs, and recolle&ed Terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-pac'd Times.
Come, but one Verse.

Cur. He is not here, so please your Lordship, that thould sing it.

Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Feste the "Jester, my Lord, a Fool that the LadyOlivia's Father took mucho delight in. He is about the House. Duke. Seek him out, and play the Tune the while.

[Musick. 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?

Vio. It gives a very Eccho to the Seat
Where Love is thron'd..

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly.
My Life upon't, young tho' thou art, thine Eye
Hath staid upon some Favour that it loves :
Hath it not, Boy ?

Vio. A little, by your Favour.
Duke. What kind of Woman is't?
Vio. Of your Complexion.
Duke. She is not worth thee then. What Years, i'faith?
V10. About your Years, my Lord.

Duke. Too old, by Heav'n; Let still the Woman take
An elder than her self, so wears she to him ;
So sways she level in her Husband's Heart.
For, Boy, however we do praise our selves,


Our Fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
M ore longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than Womens are.

Vio. I think it well, my Lord.

Duke. Then let thy Love be younger than thy self,
Or thy Affection cannot hold the bent :
For Women are as Roses, whose fair Flower
Being once displaid, doth fall the very hour.

Vio. And so they are: Alas, that they are so.
To dye, even when they to Perfection grow.

Enter Curio and Clown.
Duke. O Fellow come, the Song we had
M ark it, Cefario, 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 filly sooth,
And dallies with the Innocence of Love,
Like the old Age.

Clo. Are you ready, Sir?
Duke. I prethee sing.

Come away, come away, Death,

And in Jad Cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, Breath,

I am Rain by a fair Cruel Maid.
My Shrowd of white, stuck all with Tew, O prepare it.
My part of Death no one so true did pare 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 Corps, where my Bones Mall be thrown.
A thousand thousand Sighs to save, lay me O where
Sad trne Lover never find my Grave, to weep there.
Duke. There's for thy Pains.
Clo. No Pains, Sir, I take pleasure in singing, Sir.
Duke. I'll pay thy Pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, Sir, and Pleasure will be paid one time, or other.


Duke. Give me now leave, to leave thee.

Clo. Now the melancholly God prote& thee, and th: Taylor make thy Doublet of changeable Taffata, for this Mind is a very Opal. I would have Men of such Conftas cy put to Sea, thit their Business might be every thing, an their intent every where, for that's it that always makes : good Voyage of nothing. Farewel.

Duke. Let all the rest give place. Once more, Cefario,
Get thee to yond fame 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 Jems
That Nature pranks her in, attra&s my Soul,

Vio. But if she cannot love you, Sir.
Duke. It cannot be fo answer'd.

Vio. Sooth but you must. .
Say that some Lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your Love as great a pang of Heart
As you have for Olivia : You cannot love her ;
You tell her so; Must she not then be answer'd?

Duke. There is no Woman's Sides .
Can bide the beating of so strong a Passion,
As Love doth give my Heart : No Woman's Heart
S) big, to hold so much, they lack retention.
Alas, their Love may be call'd Appetite :
No motion of the Liver, but the Pallat,
That suffers 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.

Vio. Ay but I know
Duke. What doft thou know?

Vio. Too well what love Women to Men do owe:
In faith they are as true of Heart, as we.
My Farher had a Daughter lov'd a Man
As it might be, perhaps, were I a Woman,
I should your Lordship.
Duke. And what's her History?

« PreviousContinue »