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Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores

what o' that? Sir And. I was ador'd once too.

Sir To. Let's to bed, Knight: thou hadft need fend for more money.

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

Sir To. Send for money, Knight: if thou hast her not i'th'end, call me cut.

Sir ind. If I do not, never trust me, take it how

you will.

GHOW

Sir To. Come, come, I'll go burn some Sack, I'tis too late to go to bed now; come, Knight', come, Knight.

[Exeunt. SCENE changes to the Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.
Duke. TIVE me fome mufick; now, good mor-

J row, friends:
Now, good Cefario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique fong, we heard last night;
Methought, it did relieve my paffion much;
More than light airs, and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-placed times.
Come, but one verse.

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

Duke. Who was it?

Gur. Fefte the jefter, my Lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house, Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit Curio. [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 ?

Dio. It gives a very echo- to the feat
Where love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly.
My life upon't, young tho' thou art, thine eye
Hath ftaid upon some favour that it loves ::
Hath it not, boy?

Vio. A little, by your favour.
5. Duke. What kind of woman is't ?

Vio. Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then, What years, i' faith?

Vio. About your years, my Lord.

Duke. Too old, by heav'n; let itill the woman take An elder than herself, so wears she to him ; So fways 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 loft and worn, Than women's are.

Vio. I think it well, my Lord.

Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower, Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

Vio. And fo they are: alas, that they are so, To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Enter Curio and Clown.
Duke. O fellow, come; the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain ;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is filly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Clo. Are you ready, Sir?
Duke. I prythee, ling.

[Mufick.

SONG.

Duke. And what's her history?

Vio. A blank, my Lord : the never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i'th' bud, Feed on her damask cheek: (9) fhe 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 i We men may say more, swear more, but, indeed, Our shews are more than will; for ftill we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But dy'd thy sister of her love, my boy?

Vio. I'm all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too-and yet I know notSir, shall I to this Lady ?

Duke. Ay, that's the theam. To her in hafte; give her this jewel : say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt.

(9)

Sbe pined in thought;
And, with, a green and yellow melancholy,
She sate like Patience on a monuments

Smiling at Grief.] This very fine image, which has been fo universally applauded, it is not impoffible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Afjembly of Foules.

And her befidis wonder difcretlie,
Dame Pacience ysittinge there I fonde

With face pale, upon an bill of sonde. If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, how amply has he repaid that debt in heightning the picture! How much does the green and yellow melancholy transcend the Old Bard's face pale; the monument, his bill of fand's and what an additional beauty is (miling at Grief, for which there are no ground, nor traces, in the original! Our Author has given us this fine picture again in ano. ther place, but, to sew the power and extent of his genius, with features and lineaments varied.

yet thou

Do'st look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'graves,
And smiling (harsh] extremity out of act.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This absurd old play, I have elsewhere taken notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a number of master-touche3, so peculiar to himself, that a knowing reader may with care and certainty diftinguith the traces of his pencil.

SC EN E

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SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. 1 Sir To.

OME thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boild to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Would'ft thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

Fab. I would exult, man ; you know, he brought me out of favour with my Lady, about a bear-baiting here.

Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again ; and we will fool him black and blue, Thall we not, Sir Andrew ?

Sir And. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.

Enter Maria. Sir To. Here comes the little villain: how now, my netile of India ?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree ; Malvolio's. coming down this walk, he has been yonder i’th 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 ideot of him. Close, in the name of jefting! lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

[Throws down a letter, and Exit.

Enter Malvolio. Mal. 'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that should the fancy, it fhould be one of my complexion. Besides, the uses me with more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't ? Sir To. Here's an over-weaning rogue.

Fab.

Duke. And what's her history?

Vio. A blank, my Lord : she never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i'th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : (9) fhe 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 shews are more than will ; for ftill we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But dy'd thy sister of her love, my boy?

Vio. I'm all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too-and yet I know not-
Sir, shall I to this Ļady?

Duke. Ay, that's the theam.
To her in hafte; give her this jewel : say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay. . [Exeunt.

(9)

Sbe pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sate like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at Grief. ] This very fine image, which has been fo universally applauded, it is not impoffible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Asembly of Foules:

And her befidis wonder difcretlie,
Dame Pacience yfittinge there I fonde

With face pale, upon an bill of sonde.
If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, how amply
has he repaid that debt in heightning the picture! How much does

green and yellow melancholy transcend the Old Bard's face pale ; the monument, his bill of fand; and what an additional beauty is smiling at Grief, for which there are no ground, nor traces, in the original! Our Author has given us this fine picture again in ano. ther place, hut, to thew the power and extent of his genius, with features and lineaments varied.

the

1

yet thou

Do't look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'graves,
And smiling (harsh] extremity out of act.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This abfurd old play, I have elsewhere taken notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a number of master-touches, so peculiar to himself, that a knowing reader may with ease and certainty diftinguith the traces of his pencil.

SC EN E

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