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None of my Lord's ring; why, he sent her none.
I am the man-If it be fo, as, 'tis ; )
Poor Lady, she were better love a dream.
Difguife, I fee, 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, if 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 fighs shall poor Olivia breathe ?
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me t'unty. [Exit.

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Changes to Olivia's House.

Enter Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew. Sir To.

PPROACH, Sir Andrew : not to be a

bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and Diluculo furgere, thou know'ft,

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 unfill'd çan ; to be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that to go to bed after midnight, is to go bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements ?

Sir And. 'Faith, so they fay; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir To. Th'art a scholar, let us therefore eat and drink. Maria! I say !-a stoop of wine.


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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, afs, now let's have a catch.

Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breaft. I had rather than forty fhillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to fing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou waft in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spok'st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians pafsing the Equinoctial of Queubus : 'twas very good, i'faith : I sent thee fix-pence for thy Lemon, hadit it?

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity';' for Malvolio's nose is no whip-stock. 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's Six-pence 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.

Clown sings,
O misrefs mine, where are you roaming ?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming,

That can fing both high and low,
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,

Every wise man's fon doth know,
Sir And. Excellent good, i'faith!
Sir To. Good, good.
Clo. What is love? 'tis not hereafter :
Present mirth hath present laughter :


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What's to come, is fiill unfure;
* In decay there lies no plenty:
Then come kiss me, sweet, and twenty:

Youth's a fluff will not endure.
Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am a true Knight.
Sir To. A contagious breath.
Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make ihe welkin dance, indeed ? Shall we rouze the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver ? shall we do that ?

Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am a 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 the 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. Sir And. Good, i'faith: come, begin.

[They sing a catch


Enter Maria.

HAT Mar. W

a catterwauling 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.

* In delay there lies no plenty : ] This is a proverbial. Saying corrupted ; and should be read thus,

In decay there lies no plenty.' A Reproof of Avarice, which stores up perishable Fruits till they decay. To these Fruits the Poet, humorously, compares Youth or Virginity; which, he says, is a Sluff will not enduto.

Sir To. My Lady's a Catayan, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men be we Am not I consanguinious ? 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 dispos'd, 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,– [Singing. Mar. For the love o'God, peace.

Enter Malvolio. 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 ale-house of my Lady's house, that ye squeak out your *cottiers 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. Sneck up!

(Hiccoughs. Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My Lady bade me tell


that tho’ she harbours you as her Uncle, she's nothing ally'd to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, 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

Sir To. Farewel, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
Mal. Nay, good Sir Toby.
Clo. His eyes do fhew, his days are almost done.
Mal. Is't even so ?
Sir To. But I will never die.
Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to you.
Sir To. Shall I bid him go?

* coziers catches] Cottiers. Rustic, clownish.
Vol. III.


Clo. What, an if you do ?
Sir To. Shall í bid him go, and Spare not ?
Clo. O, no, no, no, you dare not.
Sir To. Out o'time, Sir, ye

lie: art thou

any more than a steward? doft 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 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 challange: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; fince the youth of the Duke's was to day with my Lady, the is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nay-word, 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.

Mar. Marry, Sir, sometimes 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.


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