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Sir And. I was adored once too.

Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.Thou hadst need send 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' the end, call me Cut.'

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

Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to-bed now: Come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Duke's Palace. Enter Duke, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.

Duke. 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.

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

Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Feste, the jester, 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.-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? Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:

[3] i. e. call me horse. So, Falstaff in King Henry IV. P I.: "-spit in my face, eall me horse." Curtal, which occurs in another of our author's plays, (i. e. a horse, whose tail has been docked,) and Cut, were probably synonymous. MALONE.

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd 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? Vio. About your years, my lord.

Duke. 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,

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 so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
Re-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 chaunt it; it is silly sooth,"

And dallies with the innocence of love,

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Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid ;7
Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

[4] Free is, perhaps, vacant, unengaged, easy in mind.
[5] It is plain, simple truth. JOHNSON.

[Music.

JOHNSON.

[6] The old age is the ages past, the times of simplicity.

JOHNSON.

"Lawn as white as driven snow,

"Cyprus black as e'er was crow."

[7] i. e. in a shroud of cypress or cyprus. Thus Autolyeus, in The Winter's Tale:

There was both black and white cyprus, as there is still black and white crape; and ancient shrouds were always made of the latter. STEEVENS.

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 ne'er 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 another.

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, 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. [Exit. Duke. Let all the rest give place.

-Once more, Cesario,

[Exe. CURIO and Attendants.

Get thee to yon' 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,

sir?

That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. But, if she cannot love you,
Duke. I cannot be so answer'd.

Vio. 'Sooth, but you must.

Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is,

[6] So Milton, describing the walls of heaven:

"With opal tow'rs, and battlements adorn'd. "

The opal is a gem which varies its appearance as it is viewed in different lights. "In the opal (says P. Holland's translation of Pliny's Nat. History, B. XXXVII. e 6.) you shall see the burning fire of the carbuncle or rubie, the glorious purple of the amethyst, the green sea of the emeraud, and all glittering together mixed after an incredible manner." STEEVENS.

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
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.

Vio. Ay, but I know,—

Duke. What dost thou know?

Vio. 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.

Duke. And what's her history?

Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the 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?

[9] Mr. Theobald supposes this might possibly be borrowed from Chaucer.
"And her besidis wonder discreetlie

Dame pacience ysitting there I fonde
With face pale, upon a hill of sonde."

And adds: "If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, how amply has be repaid that debt, in heightening the picture! How much does the green and yellow melancholy transcend the old bard's pale face; the monument his hill of sand." I hope this critic does not imagine Shakespeare meant to give us a picture of the face of patience, by his green and yellow melancholy; because, he says it transcends the pale face of patience given us by Chaucer. To throw patience into fit of melancholy, would be indeed very extraordinary. The green and yellow then belonged not to patience, but to her who sat like patience. To give patience a pale face was proper; and had Shakespeare described her, he had done it as Chaucer did But Shakespeare is speaking of a marble statue of patience; Chaucer of patience herself. And the two representations of her are in quite different views. Our poet speaking of a despairing lover, judiciously compares her to patience exercised on the death of friends and relations: which affords him the beautiful picture of patience on a monument. The old bard speaking of patience herself, directly, and not by comparison, as judiciously draws her in that circumstance where she is most exercised, and has occasion for all her virtue; that is to say under the losses of shipwreck. And now we see why she is represented as sitting on a kill of sand, to design the scene to be the sea-shore. It is

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.

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio. 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?

Duke. 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.

[Exeunt.

OLIVIA'S Garden. Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.

Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian.

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

Sir To. Would'st 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 :-Shall we not, sir Andrew ?

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

finely imagined; and one of the noble simplicities of that admirable poet. But the critic thought, in good earnest, that Chaucer's inventica was so barren, and his imagination so beggarly, that he was not able to be at the charge of a monument for his goddess, but left her, like a stroller, sunning herself upon a heap of sand. WARBURTON.

Dr. Percy thinks, that grief may here mean grievance, in which sense it is used in Dr. Powel's History of Wales, quarto, p. 356. MALONE.

Ancient tombs, indeed, (if we must construe grief into grievance, and Shake speare has certainly used the former word for the latter,) frequently exhibit cumbent figures of the deceased, and over these an image of Patience, without impropriety, might express a smile of complacence:

"Her meek hands folded on her modest breast,
With calm submission lift the adoring eye

Even to the storm that wrecks her."

I cannot help adding, that, to smile at grief, is as justifiable an expression as to rejoice at prosperity, or repine ut ill fortune. It is not necessary we should suppose the good or bad event, in either instance, is an object visible, except to the eye of imagination. STEEVENS.

[1] This was the most artful answer that could be given. The question was of such a nature, that to have declined the appearance of a direct answer must have raised suspicion. This has the appearance of a direct answer, that the sister died of her love; she (who passed for a man) saying, she was all the daughters of her father's house. WARBURTON.

[2] Denay, is denial. To denay is an antiquated verb sometimes used by Holinshed. STEEVENS.

VOL. IV.

F

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