Part 2

VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would be loath to cast away my speech; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage.

OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.

OLIVIA. Are you a comedian?

VIOLA. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

OLIVIA. If I do not usurp myself, I am.

VIOLA. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.

OLIVIA. Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical.

OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MARIA. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.

VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind. I am a messenger.

OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.

OLIVIA. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you?

VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation.

OLIVIA. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

[_Exit Maria._]

Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA. Most sweet lady—

OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?

VIOLA. In Orsino’s bosom.

OLIVIA. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

OLIVIA. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. [_Unveiling._] Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is’t not well done?

VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA. ’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.

VIOLA. ’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, And leave the world no copy.

OLIVIA. 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?

VIOLA. 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!

OLIVIA. How does he love me?

VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant, And in dimension and the shape of nature, A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him. He might have took his answer long ago.

VIOLA. If I did love you in my master’s flame, With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it.

OLIVIA. Why, what would you?

VIOLA. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Hallow your name to the reverberate hills, And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me.

OLIVIA. You might do much. What is your parentage?

VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA. Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more, Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

VIOLA. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse; My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love, And let your fervour like my master’s be Plac’d in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty.

[_Exit._]

OLIVIA. What is your parentage? ‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft, soft! Unless the master were the man. How now? Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio!

Enter Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA. Run after that same peevish messenger The County’s man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not; tell him, I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him. If that the youth will come this way tomorrow, I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. Madam, I will.

[_Exit._]

OLIVIA. I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force, ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so!

[_Exit._]

## ACT II.

## SCENE I. The sea-coast.

Enter Antonio and Sebastian.

ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you?

SEBASTIAN. 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.

ANTONIO. Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN. 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! But you, sir, altered that, for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.

ANTONIO. Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN. 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.

ANTONIO. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

ANTONIO. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

SEBASTIAN. 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._]

ANTONIO. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, Else would I very shortly see thee there: But come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[_Exit._]

## SCENE II. A street.

Enter Viola; Malvolio at several doors.

MALVOLIO. Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

MALVOLIO. 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.

VIOLA. She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it.

MALVOLIO. 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._]

VIOLA. I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! She made good view of me, indeed, so much, That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none. I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see 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 of, 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 sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I, It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!

[_Exit._]

## SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House.

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know’st.

SIR ANDREW. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late.

SIR TOBY. 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. Does not our lives consist of the four elements?

SIR ANDREW. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY. Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.

Enter Clown.

SIR ANDREW. Here comes the fool, i’ faith.

CLOWN. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”?

SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.

SIR ANDREW. 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 spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?

CLOWN. 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 ANDREW. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

SIR TOBY. Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.

SIR ANDREW. There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a—

CLOWN. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song.

SIR ANDREW. Ay, ay. I care not for good life.

CLOWN. [_sings._] _O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know._

SIR ANDREW. Excellent good, i’ faith.

SIR TOBY. Good, good.

CLOWN. _What is love? ’Tis not hereafter, Present mirth hath present laughter. What’s to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty. Youth’s a stuff will not endure._

SIR ANDREW. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

SIR TOBY. A contagious breath.

SIR ANDREW. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

SIR TOBY. 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 that?

SIR ANDREW. And you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch.

CLOWN. By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW. Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou knave.”

CLOWN. “Hold thy peace, thou knave” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight.

SIR ANDREW. ’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins “Hold thy peace.”

CLOWN. I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW. Good, i’ faith! Come, begin.

[_Catch sung._]

Enter Maria.

MARIA. What a caterwauling 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 TOBY. My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [_Sings._] _Three merry men be we._ Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! “Lady”! _There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady._

CLOWN. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.

SIR ANDREW. 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 TOBY. [_Sings._] _O’ the twelfth day of December—_

MARIA. For the love o’ God, peace!

Enter Malvolio.

MALVOLIO. 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 coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

SIR TOBY. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MALVOLIO. 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, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone._

MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._

MALVOLIO. Is’t even so?

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _But I will never die._

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _Sir Toby, there you lie._

MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go?_

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _What and if you do?_

SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go, and spare not?_

CLOWN. [_Sings._] _O, no, no, no, no, you dare not._

SIR TOBY. 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?

CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.

SIR TOBY. Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

[_Exit._]

MARIA. Go shake your ears.

SIR ANDREW. ’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 TOBY. Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s was today 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 TOBY. Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.

MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

SIR ANDREW. O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog.

SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

SIR ANDREW. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.

MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds 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 TOBY. What wilt thou do?

MARIA. 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 gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device.

SIR ANDREW. I have’t in my nose too.

SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

MARIA. My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.

SIR ANDREW. And your horse now would make him an ass.

MARIA. Ass, I doubt not.

SIR ANDREW. O ’twill be admirable!

MARIA. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic 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. Farewell.

[_Exit._]

SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea.

SIR ANDREW. Before me, she’s a good wench.

SIR TOBY. She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that?

SIR ANDREW. I was adored once too.

SIR TOBY. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

SIR ANDREW. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut.

SIR ANDREW. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

SIR TOBY. 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.

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

DUKE. Who was it?

CURIO. 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 plays._]

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?

VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned.

DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA. A little, by your favour.

DUKE. What kind of woman is’t?

VIOLA. Of your complexion.

DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. 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.

VIOLA. And so 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 silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.

CLOWN. Are you ready, sir?

DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing.

[_Music._]