Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you? Seb. By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore, I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. Seb. No, 'sooth, sir. My determinate voyage is mere extravagancy; but I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in: therefore, it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom, 1 know, you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! but, you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. Ant. Alas, the day! Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her-she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O, good Antonio! forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it 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. [Exit. Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom? Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. Oli. O! I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say? Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir; such a one I was this present: is't not well done? [Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir: 'twill endure wind and weather. Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on. Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave, Oli. O sir, I will not be so hard-hearted. I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle, and utensil, labelled to my will; as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? Vio. I see you what you are: you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you: O! such love Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd The nonpareil of beauty! Oli. How does he love me? Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him. Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame, Oli. Why, what would you? Oli. You might do much. What is your parentage? Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman. Oli. Get you to your lord: I cannot love him. Let him send no more, "Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: Unless the master were the man.-How now! Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN. Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you? Seb. By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore, I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. Seb. No, 'sooth, sir. My determinate voyage is mere extravagancy; but I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in: therefore, it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called 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 pleased, would we had so ended! II. but, you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. Ant. Alas, the day! Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her-she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O, good Antonio! forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! SCENE II.A Street. Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following. Vio. Even now, sir: on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this: receive it so. Vio. She took the ring of me!-I'll none of it. Mal. Come, sir; you peevishly threw it to her, and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [Exit. Vio. I left no ring with her: what means this Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! None of my lord's ring? why, he sent her none. Poor lady, she were better love a dream. In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly; Enter Clown. Sir And. Here comes the fool, i' faith. Clo. How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture of we three? Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch. Sir And. 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? Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand. and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. Sir To. Come on: there is sixpence for you; let's have a song. Sir And. There's a testril of me, too: if one knight give a Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? Sir To. A love-song, a love-song. Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life. SONG. Clo. O, mistress mine! where are you roaming? That can sing both high and low. Every wise man's son doth know. Sir And. Excellent good, i' faith. Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter. Youth's a stuff will not endure. Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do [Erit. that? What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe. SCENE III.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and Sir ANDREW AGUE CHEEK. Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st, Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know, to be up late, is to be up late. Sir To. A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives consist of the four elements? Sir And. 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking. Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.-Marian, I say!—a stoop of wine! Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch. Clo. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be, "Thou Knave." Clo. "Hold thy peace, thou knave," knight? I shall be constrain’d in't to call thee knave, knight. Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins, “Hold thy peace." Clo. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. Enter MARIA. Mar. What a catterwauling 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. Sir To. 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-valley, lady! "There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!" [Singing. Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. Sir And. 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. Sir To. "O! the twelfth day of December," Mar. For the love o' God, peace! Enter MALVOLIO. [Singing. Mal. 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? Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Snick up! Mal. 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. Sir To. "Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone." Mar. Nay, good sir Toby. Clo. "His eyes do show his days are almost done." Sir To. "But I will never die." Sir To. "Shall I bid him go, and spare not?" Sir To. 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 and ale? Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too. Sir To. Thou'rt i' the right.-Go, sir: rub your chain with crumbs.-A stoop of wine, Maria! Mal. Mistress. Mary, if you prized 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 to 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 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. Sir To. Possess us, possess us: tell us something of him. |