Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare — Free Audiobook

1 Act 1 33:41

Twelfth Night, or What You Will by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Orsino, Duke of Illyria. Performed by Joshua Christensen. Sebastian. Played by Rachel Olson. Antonio, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian, performed by Alan Drake. The Sea Captain, performed by Kara Schallenberg. Valentine, gentleman attending on the Duke, read by Zachary Brewstergeis. Jurio, a gentleman attending on the Duke, performed by Heather Barnett. Sir Toby Belch, uncle to Olivia, performed by Alan Drake. Sir Andrew Aguecheek Malvolio, Steward to Olivia, John Gonzales Fabian, Servant of Olivia, James Rye Feasty the Clown, Larissa Jaworski Olivia, a rich countess, performed by Kristen Hughes. Violet Mariah, Olivia's waiting woman.

Servant. Larissa Jaworski. First officer. Christy Nowak. Second officer. A priest. J. C. Lundberg. Narrator. A city in Illyria. and the sea-coast near it. Act I. Scene I. An apartment in the Duke's Palace. Enter Duke, Curio, and other lords. Musicians attending.

If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it, that surfeiting the appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall. O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odor. Enough, no more. Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, that notwithstanding thy capacity receiveth as the sea, naught enters there of what validity and pitch soe'er, but falls into abatement and low price, even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy, that it alone is high fantastical. Will you go hunt, my lord? What, Curio? The heart. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have. Oh, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, methought she purged the air of pestilence.

That instant was I turned into a heart, and my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, ere since pursue me. Enter Valentine. How now? What news from her? So please, my lord, I might not be admitted, but from her handmaid do return this answer. The element itself, till seven years' heat, shall not behold her face at ample view, but like a cloistress she will veil at walk in water once a day her chamber round with eye-offending brine, all this to season a brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh and lasting in her sad remembrance. O she that hath a heart of that fine frame, to pay this debt of love but to a brother! How will she love when the rich golden shaft hath killed the flock of all affections else that live in her, when liver, brain, and heart?

These sovereign thrones are all supplied and filled, her sweet perfections with one self-king. Away before me to sweet beds of flowers. Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

End of Scene One.

Scene Two. The Sea-Coast. Enter Viola, a captain, and sailors. What country, friends, is this? This is Illyria, lady. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother, he is in Elysium. P-Pachance he is not drowned. What think you, sailors? It is perchance that you yourself were saved. O, my poor brother! And so perchance may he be. True, madam. And, to comfort you with chance, assure yourself, after our ship did split, when you and those poor number saved with you hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, most provident in peril, bind himself, courage and hope both teaching him the practice. To a strong mast that lived upon the sea, where, like Arian on the dolphin's back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, so long as I could see.

LAREDA For saying so, there's gold. Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, whereto thy speech serves for authority the like of him. Knost thou this country? LAREDA Aye, madam, well, for I was bred and borne not three hours' travel from this very place. LAREDA Who governs here? A noble duke, in nature, as in name. What is his name? Orsino. Orsino. I have heard my father name him. He was a bachelor then. And so is now, or was so very late. For but a month ago I went from hence, and then twas fresh in murmur, as you know what great ones do the less will prattle of, that he did seek the love of fair Olivia. What's she? A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count, that died some twelve months since, then leaving her in the protection of his son, her brother, who shortly also died, or whose dear love, they say, she hath abjured the company and sight of men.

Oh, that I served that lady, and might not be delivered to the world till I had made mine own occasion mellow what my estate is. That were hard to compass, because she will admit no kind of suit. No, not the Duke's. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain. And though that nature, with a beauteous war, doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits with this thy fair and outward character. I prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously. Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent. I'll serve this Duke. Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing and speak to him in many sorts of music that will allow me very worth his service.

What else, mayhap, to time I will commit? Only shape thou silence to my wit. LARAPT. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be. When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. LARAPT. I thank thee. Lead me on.

End of Scene Two. Olivia's House.

Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. Sir Toby Belch, what a plague means my niece! To take the death of her brother thus, I am sure, cares an enemy to life. Sir Toby, by my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier a night. Your cousin, my lady, takes great exception to your ill hours. Why, let her accept before accepted. Aye, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too. And they be not. Let them hang themselves on their own straps. That quaffing and drinking will undo you. I heard my lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish knight that you brought in one knight here to be her wooer.

Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek? Aye, he. He's as tall a man as any's in Elyria. What's that to the purpose? Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. Aye, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats. He's a very fool, and a prodigal. Fie that you say so! He plays o' the viol de gambos, and speaks three or four languages, word for word, without a book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. He hath indeed all, most natural, for besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller, and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. By his hand. They are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of him.

Who are they? They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly. In your company? With drinking healths to my niece. I'll drink to her as long as there's a passage in my throat and drink in Elyria. He's a coward and a coistrel that would not drink to my niece till his brains turn o'er the toll like a Parish-top. What wench? Castellano-Volgo. For here comes Sir Andrew Agueface. Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Sir Toby Belch. How now, Sir Toby Belch? Sweet Sir Andrew. Bless you, fair shrew. And you too, sir. A cost, Sir Andrew, a cost. What's that? My niece's chambermaid. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. My name is Mary, sir. Good Mistress Mary Accost. You mistake, knight. Accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.

By my truth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of Accost? Fare you well, gentlemen. And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightest never draw sword again. And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? Sir, I have not you by the hand. Merry, but you shall have. And here's my hand. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to the buttery bar and let it drink. Wherefore, sweetheart, what's your metaphor? It's dry, sir. Why, I think so. I am not such an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest? A dry jest, sir. Are you full of them? Aye, sir. I have them at my fingers' ends.

Mary, now I let go your hand. I am barren. Exit. O knight, thou lackest a cup of canary. When did I see thee so put down? Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has, but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. And no question. And I thought that I'd forswear it. I'll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby. Pourquoi, my dear knight? What is pourquoi, do or not do? Would I have bestowed that time in the tongues that I have, in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting? Oh, but had I followed the arts— Then hast thou an excellent head of hair. Why, would that have mended my hair? Past question.

For thou seest it will not curl by nature. But it becomes me well enough, doth not? Excellent. It hangs like flax on a distaff. Faith, I'll home tomorrow, sir. Toby, your niece will not be seen, or if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me. The Count himself here hard by woos her. She'll none on the count. She'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit. I have heard her swear it. Tut! There's life in it, man.

I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow of the strangest mind in the world. I delight in masks and revels, sometimes altogether. Art thou good at these kickshaws'es night? As any man in Illyria whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters, and yet I will not compare with an old man. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? Faith, I can cut a caper. And I can cut the mutton to it. And I think I have the back trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before him? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress Moll's pictures? Why dost thou not go to the church in a galliard, and come home in a caranto? My very walk should be a jig.

What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg. It was formed under the star of a galliard. Aye, it is strong. It does indifferent well in flame-colored stock. Shall we set about some revels? What shall we do else? We are not born under Taurus. Taurus? That's sides and heart. No, sir. It is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper. Ha! Higher! Ha! Excellent! Excellent.

Scene Four. The Duke's Palace. Enter Valentine and Viola in man's attire.

If the Duke continue these favors toward you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced. He hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he in constant, sir, in his favours? No. Believe me. I thank you. Here comes the Count. Enter Duke, Curio, and attendance. Who saw Cesario, ho? On your attendance, my lord, here. Stand you a while aloof. Cesario. Thou knowest no less but all. I have unclasped to thee the book even of my secret soul. Therefore, good youth, address thy gate unto her. Be not in thine access. Stand at her doors, and tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow till thou have audience.

Sure, my noble lord, if she be so abandoned to her sorrow as it is spoke, she never will admit me. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, rather than make unprofitable return. Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then? O, then unfold the passion of my love. Surprise her with this course of my dear faith. It shall become thee well to act my woes. She will attend it better in thy youth, than in enuncios of more grave aspect. I think not so, my lord. Dear lad, believe it! For they shall yet belie thy happy years that say, Thou art a man. Diana's lip is not more smooth and rubious. Thy small pipe is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound. And all is semblative a woman's part. I know thy constellation is right apt for this affair.

Some four or five, attend him, all, if you will, for I myself am best when least in company.

Prosper well in this, and thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, to call his fortunes thine. I'll do my best to woo your lady. And yet what a barful strife! Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. Exeunt.

V. Olivia's House Enter Maria and Clown.

Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang thee for thy absence. Let her hang me. He that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colors. Make that good. He shall see none to fear. Good Lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born, of I fear no colors. Where, good mistress Mary? In the wars. And that may you be bold to say in your foolery. Well, God give them wisdom that have it, and those that are fools, let them use their talents. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent, or to be turned away. Is that not as good as a hanging to you? Mr. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage, and for turning away let summer bear it out.

You are resolute, then? Mr. Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points. Mr. That if one break the other will hold, and if both break your gascons fall? Mr. Apt. In good faith, very apt. Well, go thy way. If Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria. P.S. Peace, you rogue, no more of that. Here comes my lady. Make your excuse wisely. You were best. Exit. WIT, and to be thy will, put me into good fooling. Those wits that think they have thee do very oft prove fools, and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quenopoulos? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. Enter Lady Olivia with Malvolio. God bless thee, lady.

Take the fool away. Do you not here, fellows? Take away the lady. Go to, you're a dry fool. I'll know more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest. Two faults, Madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend. For give the dry full drink, then is not the full dry. Bid the dishonest man mend himself. If he mend, he is no longer dishonest. If he cannot, let the butcher mend him. Anything that's mended is but patched. Virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamities, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take away the fool, therefore I say again, take her away.

Sir, I bade them take away you. Miss prison in the highest degree. Lady, caculous non facet monarchum, that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain. Good Madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. Can you do it? Dexterously, good Madonna. Make your proof. I must catechise you for it, Madonna, my good mouse of virtue. Answer me. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof. Good Madonna, why mourn'st thou? Good fool, for my brother's death. I think his soul is in hell, Madonna. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. The more fool, Madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. What thinks you of this fool, Malvolio? Doth he not mend?

Yes. And shall do till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity that decays the wise doth ever make the better fool. LARED GOD SEND YOU, SIR, A SPEEDY INFIRMITY, FOR THE BETTER INCREASING YOUR FOLLY. Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool. LARED HOW SAY YOU TO THAT, MALVOLIO? LARED I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal. "'As I'm put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already. Unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he's gagged. I protest. I take these wise men that crow so at these set kind of fools no better than the fools' zanies."

"'Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite.' To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail, nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. Mr. Brown. Now, Mercury, endu thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools. RENTER MARIA. Madam. There is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you. LORI From the Count Orsino, is it? I know not, madam. Tis a fair young man, and well attended. LORI Who of my people hold him in delay? Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. LORI Fetch him off, I pray you.

He speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him. Exit Maria. LORI Go, you Malvolio. If it be a suit from the Count, I am sick or not at home. What you will, to dismiss it. Exit Malvolio. Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. Mr. Thou hast spoke for us, Madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool, whose skull Jove cram with brains. For here he comes. Enter Sir Toby. Mr. One of thy kin has a most weak peer martyr. By mine honour half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin? A gentleman. A gentleman? What gentleman? Tis a gentleman here. A plague o'er these pickled herrings. How now, Sat? Good Sir Toby! Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? Letchery!

I defy letchery. There's one at the gate. Ay, Mary, what is he? Let him be the devil, and he will. I care not. Give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. Exit. What's a drunken man like, fool? Mr. Brown. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman. One draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. Mr. Brown. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit, O my cuz, for he's in the third degree of drink. He's drowned. Go, look after him. Mr. Brown. He is but mad yet, Madonna, and the fool shall look to the madman. Exit. Re-enter Malvolio. Madam, yon young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick. He takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you.

I told him you were asleep. He seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? He's fortified against any denial. Tell him he shall not speak with me. He has been told so, and he says he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench. But he'll speak with you. What kind of man is he? Why, of mankind. What manner of man? A very ill manner. He'll speak with you, will you or no. Of what personage in years is he? Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy. As a squash is before tis a peas cod, or a codling, when tis almost an apple, tis with him in standing water between boy and man. He is very well favored, and he speaks very shrewishly.

One would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. Exit. Re-enter Maria. Give me my veil. Come, throw it o'er my face. We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. Enter Viola and Attendance. The Honourable Lady of the House. Which is she? Speak to me. I shall answer for her. Your will? 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 loth 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 comfortable, even to the least sinister usage."

Whence came you, sir? 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. Are you a comedian? 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?" If I do not usurp myself, I am. LARES. Most certain. If you are she, you do usurp yourself. For what is yours to bestow is not yours to preserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. LARES. Come to what is important in it. I forgive you the praise. LARES. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and tis poetical.

It is the more like to be feigned. I pray you keep it in. I heard you a saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not 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. Mr. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way. Mr. Brown. 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. Sure you have some hideous matter to deliver when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office. 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.

Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you? 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 others, profanation. Give us the place alone. We will hear this divinity. Exeant Maria and Attendance. Now, sir, what is your text? Most sweet lady. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text? In Orsino's bosom. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom? To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. Oh, I have read it. It is heresy. Have you no more to say? Good madam. Let me see your face. 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. Look you, sir! Such a one I was this present. Is't not well done?

Excellently done, if God did all. Tis ingrain, sir. Twill endure wind and weather. Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on. Lady, you are the cruellest she alive, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy. 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?" I see what you are. You are too proud. But if you were the devil you are fair. My lord and master loves you. Oh, such love could be but recompensed, though you were crowned the nonpareil of beauty.

How does he love me? With adorations, fertile tears, with groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 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 divulged, free, learned 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. If I did love you in my master's flame, with such a suffering, such a deadly life, in your denial I would find no sense. I would not understand it. Why? What would you? Make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house. Write loyal cantons of contemnid 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! Oh, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth, but you should pity me. You might do much. What is your parentage? Above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman. 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.

I am no feed-post, lady. Keep your purse. My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love, make his heart of flint that you shall love. And let your fervor, like my master's, be placed in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty. Exit. 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 to give thee fivefold blazon. Not to fast, soft, soft, unless the master were the man. How now, even so quickly, one may 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? Here, madam, at your service. 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 to-morrow, I'll give him reasons for it. Hie thee, Malvolio. Madam, I will. Exit. 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.

End of scene 5. End of act 1.

2 Act 2 36:32

The Seacoast. Enter Antonio and Sebastian. Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you? By our 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. Let me know of you, whether you are bound. 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 Rodrigo.

My father was that Sebastian of Messalane, 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 have so ended? But you, sir, altered that, for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. Alas, the day! A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful, though I could not with such esteemable 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. Oh, I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

Oh, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. 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 count Orsino's court. Farewell. Exit. 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 adore thee so. That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

Exit.

End of Scene One Scene Two. A Street. Enter Viola. Malvolio following. Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia? Even now, sir, on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. 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 never be so hardy to come again in his affairs. Unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it so. She took the ring of me? I'll none of it. 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. I left no ring with her. What means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed 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 force 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, fonders 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 sigh shall poor Olivia breathe? O time! Thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me to untie.

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes, and Diluculo sugere thou knowest. Nay, by my truth I know not, but I know to be up late is to be up late. 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 life consist of the four elements? Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking. Thou art a scholar. Let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say, a stout of wine. Enter Clown. Here comes the fool, me faith. How now, my hearts, did you never see the picture of we three? Welcome, ass.

Now, let's have a catch. By my troth the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather 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 Piggrogromitus, of the Vapians, passing the equinoctial of Cubus. It was very good, ye faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst? I did impetticose thy gratility, for Melvolio's nose is no whip-stock, my lady has a white hand, and the myrmidons are no bottle-ale-houses. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling when all is done. Now a song. Come on, there's a sixpence for you. Let's have a song. There's a testerel of me, too. If one I give a— Would you have a love song or a song of good life?

A love song. A love song. Ay, I care not for good life. 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. Excellent, goody faith. Good, good. 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. A mellifluous voice as I am true knight. A contagious breath. Very sweet and contagious, E. Faith. To hear by the noise it is a dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance instead? Shall we rouse the night owl in the catch that will draw these souls out of one weaver?

Shall we do that? Then you love me, let's do it. I'm dogger to catch. Byre lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Most certain. Let our catch be thou knave. Hold thy peace, thou knave. Knight, shall I be constrained in to call thee knave, knight? Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool. It begins, hold thy peace. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. Good, dear faith. Come, begin. Hold thy peace, hold thy peace, thou knave. Hold thy peace, hold thy peace. Thank you. Hold thy peace, thou knave. Hold thy peace, thou knave. Hold thy peace, thou knave. Hold thy peace, thou name. Hold thy peace, thou name. Enter 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.

My lady's a Cataean. We are politicians. Malvolio's a Pegaramsey, and three merry men we are. Am I not consanguous? Am I not of her blood, Tillyvilley lady? There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady. Beshrew me the knight's inadmirable fooling. 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. Oh, the twelfth day of December! With a love, O God! Enter Malvolio. My masters, are you mad? 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 cozier's catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneak up. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbors you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, 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. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone. Nay, good Sir Toby. His eyes do show his days are almost done. Is't even so? But I will never die. Sir Toby, there you lie. This is much credit to you. Shall I bid him go? What, and if you do? Shall I bid him go and spare not? Oh, no, no, no, no, you dare not. Out of 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? Yes, by St. Anne and ginger shall be hot in to mouth, too. Thou art in a right. Go, sir, rub your chains with crumbs. A stout of wine, Maria. 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. Go shake your ears. "'Twer 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." "'Do it, knight. I'll write thee a challenge, or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.' "'Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night.

Since the youth of the Counts was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For M. Malvolio, let me alone with him.' If I do not gull him into a nayward 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. Possess us? Possess us. Tell us something of him. Marry, sir. Sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. Oh, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog. What? For being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight? I have no exquisite reason for it, but I have reason good enough. 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 who look on him love him, and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

What wilt thou do? I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein, by the color of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expression 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. Excellent! I smell a device. I haft in my nose, too. He shall think, by the letters thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color. And your horse, now, would make him an ass? Ass, I doubt not. Oh, twill be admirable. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him.

I will plant you, too. 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. Good night, Pentothelia. Before me she's a good wench. She's a beagle, true bread, and one that adores me. What of that? I was adored once, too. Let's go to bed, knight. Thou hast need, send for more money. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a far way out. Send for money, knight. If thou hast her not in the end, call me cut. If I do not, never trust me. Take it how you will. Come, come. I'll go burn some sack. Tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight. Come, knight.

End of Scene Three. Scene Four. The Duke's Palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. 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. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. Who was it? Bestie, the jester, my lord, a fool that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house. 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, unstayed and skittish in all motions else, save in the constant image of the creature that is beloved. How dost thou like this tune? It gives a very echo to the seat where love is throned. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon it, young though thou art, thine eye hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy? A little, by your favour. What kind of woman is it? Of your complexion. She is not worth thee, then. What years of faith? About your years, my lord. Too old by heaven! Let still the woman take an elder than herself, so wears she to him, so swayed 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.

I think it well, my lord. Then let thy love be younger than thyself. Well, thy affection cannot hold the bent. For women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour. And so they are, at last that they are so, to die even when they to perfection grow. Re-enter Curio and Clown. 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. Are you ready, sir? Ay, prithee, sing.

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with you, oh, 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 aware. Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there. There's for thy pains. No pains, sir. I take pleasure in singing, sir. I'll pay thy pleasure, then. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another. Give me now leave to leave thee. Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal.

I would have men of such constancy put to sea that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. Exit. Let all the rest give place. Curio and attendants retire. Once more, Cesario, 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 bestowed upon her, tell her I hold as giddily as fortune. But tis that miracle and queen of gems that nature pranks her in attracts my soul. But if she cannot love you, sir— I cannot so be answered. Sooth, but you must! Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, 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 answered? 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 called appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate, that suffers surfeit, coyment, and revolt. But mine is all as hungry as the sea, and can digest as much. Make no compare between the love a woman can bear me, and that I owe Olivia. Olivia, but I know. What dost thou know? Olivia, too well what love women to men may owe. In faith they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be, perhaps, were I woman I should your lordship.

And what's her history? A blank, my lord. She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pined 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 shows are more than will, for still we prove much in our vows, but little in our love. But die thy sister of her love, my boy? 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? Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste. Give her this jewel. Say, my love can give no place. Bide no de nay. Exeunt. SCENE V. Olivia's Garden. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. Come thy ways, Signor Fabian. Nay, I'll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly, rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? Mr. Brown. I would exult man. You know he brought me out of favour with my lady about a bear baiting here. Mr. Brown. To anger him. We'll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue. Shall we not, Sir Andrew? Mr. Brown. And we do not. It is pity of our lives.

Enter Maria. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India? Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio is coming down this walk. He has been yonder in the 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 idiot of him. Close in the name of jesting. Lie thou there. Throws down a letter. For here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. Exit. Enter Mulvulio. It is but fortune. All is fortune. Moriah once told me she did affect me, and I have heard her come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides— She uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her.

What should I think, aunt? Here's an overweening rogue. Oh, peace. Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him. He jets under his advanced plumes. Slight. I could so beat the rogue. Peace, I say? To be... count? Now, Volio. Ah, rogue! Pistol him! Pistol him! Peace! Peace! There is example for it. The lady of the straki married the yeoman of the wardrobe. Fie on him, Jezebel! Oh, peace! Now he's deeply in. Look how imagination blows him. Having been three months married to her, Sitting in my state. Oh, for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye. Calling my officers about me in my branched velvet gown. Having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping. Fire and brimstone. Oh, peace, peace.

And then to have the humor of state, and after a demure travel of regard. Telling them, I know my place as I would they should do theirs. To ask for my kinsman, Toby. Bolts and shackles. Oh, peace, peace, peace. Now, now. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch. Or play with my, um, some rich jewel? Toby approaches. Curtseys, there, to me. Shall this fellow live? Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. I extend my hand to him, thus, quenching my familiar smile. With an astir regard of control. And does not Toby take thee a blow of the lips, then? Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech.

What? What? You must amend your drunkenness. Out, Scab. Nay, patience. Or we break the sinews of our plot. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight. That's me. I warrant you. One Sir Andrew. I knew t'as I, for many do call me fool. What employment have we here? Taking up the letter. Now is the woodcock near the gin. Oh, peace. And the spirit of humor's intimate reading aloud to him. By my life, this is my lady's hand. These be her very C's, her U's, and her T's. And thus makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand. Her C's, her U's, and her T's? Why that? To the unknown beloved, this. And my good wishes, her very phrases, by your leave, wax soft.

And the impressor, her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal, tis my lady. To whom should this be? This wins him, liver and all. Jove knows I love, but who? Lips, do not move. No man must know. No man must know? What follows? The number's altered. No man must know.

If this should be thee, Marvolio? Marry, hang thee, Brock. I may command where I adore, but silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore. M-O-A-I doth sway my life. A Fustrian riddle. Excellent wench, say I. M-O-A-I doth sway my life. Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see. What dish of poison has she dress'd him? And with what wing the stanjel cheek's at it? I may command where I adore.

Why, she may command me. I serve her. She is my lady. This is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. In the end, what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me softly, M-O-A-I. Ah, ah, make up that. He is now at a cold scent. Salter will cry uponst for all this, though it be as rank as a fox. M-Malvolio. M. Why, that begins my name. Did I not say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults. M-Malvolio.

There is no consonancy in the sequel that suffers under probation. A should follow, but O does. And O shall end, I hope. Aye, or I'll cudgel him and make him cry, O. And then I comes behind. Aye, and you had any I behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you. M-O-A-I. The simulation is not as the former, and yet to crush this a little it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft, here follows prose. If this fall into thy hand, revolve, in my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands. Let thy blood and spirit embrace them, and to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slow, and appear fresh.

Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state. Put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gardered? I say, remember. Go to, thou art maid, if thou desirest to be so. If not, let me see thee, your steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. Farewell, she that would alter services with thee, the fortunate unhappy.

Daylight and champagne discovers not more. This is open. I will be proud. I will read, politic authors. I will baffle, Sir Toby. I will wash off gross acquaintance. I will be point device the very man. I do not now fool myself. To let imagination jade me, for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of light, and she did praise my leg being cross-gartered, and in this she manifests herself to my love. And with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars. I am happy. I will be strange, stout in yellow stockings and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my stars be praised. Here's yet a postscript.

Thou canst not choose, but know who I am. If thou entertain'st my love, let it appear in thy smiling. Thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile. Dear, my sweet, I prithee.

O Jove, I thank thee! I will smile. I will do everything. that thou wilt have me. Exit. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the sophy. I could marry the wench with this device. So could I too. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest. Nor I neither. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. Re-enter Maria. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck? Or mine neither. Shall I play my freedom at Tretrip, and become the bond-slave? If a'eth, or I either. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad! Nay, but say true, does it work on him? Like Aquavito with a midwife. If you will then see the fruits of the sport.

Mark his first approach before my lady. He will come to her in yellow stockings, and tis a color she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests, and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me. To the gates of Tartar. Thou most excellent devil of wit, I'll make one too. Exeunt. End of scene five. End of act two.

3 Act 3 39:25

Enter Viola and Clown with a Tabor. Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy table? No, sir, I live by the church. Art thou a churchman? No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him, or the church stands by thy table, if thy table stands by the church? You have said, sir, to see this age. A sentence is but a chervil glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward. Nay, that's certain. They that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton. I would, therefore, my sister had no name, sir. Why, man? Why, sir, her name's a word, and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton.

But, indeed, words are the very rascals since Bond's disgraced them. Thy reason, man? Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false I am loth to prove reason with them. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing. Not so, sir. I do care for something, but in my conscience, sir, I would not care for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool? No, indeed, sir, the lady Olivia has no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till she be married. And fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husbands the bigger. I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. I saw thee late at Count Orsino's.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun. It shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. Nay, hand thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold. There's expenses for thee. Now, Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard. By my troth, I'll tell thee I am almost sick for one. Though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? Would not a pair of these have bread, sir? Yes, being kept together and put to use. I would play Lord Pandarus a Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. I understand you, sir. Tis well begged. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar.

Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence you come, who you are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say element, but the word is overworn. Exit. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, and to do that well craves a kind of wit. He must observe their mood on whom he jests, the quality of persons and the time, and, like the haggard, check at every feather that comes before his eye. This is a practice as full of labor as a wise man's art, for folly that he wisely shows is fit. But wise men, folly, fallen, quite taint their wit. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. Save you, gentlemen. And you, sir. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. Et vous aussi, votre serviteur.

I hope so. You are, and I am yours. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. I am bound to your niece, sir. I mean, she is the list of my voyage. Taste your legs, sir. Put them to motion. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. I mean to go, sir, to enter. I will answer you with gate and entrance, but we are prevented. Enter Olivia and Maria. Most excellent, accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you. That youth's a rare courtier. Rain odours, well. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. Odours? Pregnant and vouchsafed? I'll get them all three already.

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria. Give me your hand, sir. My duty, madam, and most humble service. What is your name? Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess. My servant, sir. Twas never merry world since lowly feigning was called compliment. Your servant to the Count Orsino, youth. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours. Your servant's servant is your servant, madam. For him I think not on him. For his thoughts, would they were blanks rather than filled with me. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf. Oh, by your leave, I pray you, I bade you never speak again of him. But would you undertake another suit?

I had rather hear you to solicit that than music from the spheres. Dear lady— Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, after the last enchantment you did hear, a ring in chase of you. So did I abuse myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. Under your hard construction must I sit, to force that on you in a shameful cunning, which you knew none of yours. What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, and baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts that tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom, hides my heart. So let me hear you speak. I pity you. That's a degree to love. No, not a grise, for tis a vulgar proof that very oft we pity enemies.

Why, then methinks tis time to smile again. O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! If one should be a prey, how much the better to fall before the lion than the wolf.

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you. And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, your wife is like to reap a proper man. There lies your way, due west. Then westward ho! Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship. You're nothing, madam, to my lord by me? Stay. I prithee tell me what thou thinkest of me. That you do think you are not what you are. If I think so, I think the same of you. Then you think right. I am not what I am. I would you were as I would have you be. Would it be better, madam, than I am? I wish it might, for now I am your fool. Oh, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip! A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon than love that would seem hid.

Love's night is noon. Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidenhood, honor, truth, and everything, I love thee so that maugre all thy pride, nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reason from this clause, for that I woo. Thou therefore hast no cause, but rather reason thus with reason fetter. Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. By innocence, I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, and that no woman has, nor ever none shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so a dear good madam. Nevermore will I my master's tears to you deplore. Yet come again, for thou perhaps mayst move that heart which now abhors to like his love. Exeunt.

Scene Two. Olivia's house. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. No, Faith, I'll not stay a jot longer. "'Thy reason, dear Venom, give thy reason.' "'You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.' "'Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count's serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me. I saw to the orchard.' "'Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that.' "'As plain as I see you now.' "'This was a great argument of love in her toward you.' "'Slight. Will you make an ass of me?' I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. And they have been grand journeymen since before Noah and the sailor. She did show favor to the youth in your sight, only to exasperate you, to awake your Dormal's valor, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.

You should then have accosted her, and with some excellent jests, fire new from lament, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked. The double guilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion, where you will hang like an icicle on the Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt at either valour or policy. Anyway, it must be with valour, for policy I hate. I could just leave me a brownist as a politician. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valor. Challenge me with a country's youth to fight with him. Hurt him in eleven places. My niece shall take note of it, and assure thyself.

There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with women than report of valor. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him? Go, write it in a martial hand. Be cursed and brief. It is no matter how witty. So it be eloquent and full of invention. Taunt him with the license of ink. If thou thouest him some thrice, it shall not be amiss, and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper. Although the sheet were big enough for the bed of ware in England. Set him down. Go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen no matter about it. Where shall I find you? We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go!

Exit, Sir Andrew. This is a dear mannequin of you, Sir Toby. I have been dear to him, lad. Some two thousand strong or so. We shall have a rare letter of him, but you'll not deliver it? Never trust me, then, and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hail them together. For, Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of the anatomy. And his opposite, the youth? Bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. Look where the youngest wren of the nine comes. Enter Maria. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Marvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado, for there is no Christian that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness.

He's in yellow stockings. And cross-gartered? Most villainously, like a pedant that keeps a school of the church. I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him. If she do, he'll smile and take it for a great favor. Come. Bring us, bring us where he is. Exeunt.

End of scene two.

Scene three. A street. Enter Sebastian and Antonio. I would not by my will have troubled you, but since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you. I could not stay behind you. My desire more sharp than filed steel did spur me forth, and not all love to see you, though so much as might have drawn one to a longer voyage, but jealousy what might befall your travel. Being skillless in these parts which, to a stranger unguided and unbefriended, often prove rough and unhospitable. My willing love, the rather by these arguments of fear, set forth in your pursuit. My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever. Oft good returns are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay, but were my worth, as is my conscience firm, you should find better dealing.

What's to do? Shall we go see the relics of this town? Tomorrow, sir. Best first go see your lodging. I am not weary, and it is long to-night. I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes with the memorials of the things of fame that do renown this city. Would you pardon me? I do not without danger walk these streets. Once, in a sea-fight, against the Count, his galleys I did some service, of such note indeed, that, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered. Belike you slew a great number of his people. The offence is not of such a bloody nature. Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel might well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answered in repaying what we took from them, which, for traffic's sake, most of our city did, only myself stood out, for which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall pay dear.

Ah, do not then walk too open. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir. Here's my purse. In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, is the best to lodge. I will bespeak your diet, whilst you beguile the time and feed your knowledge with viewing of the town. There shall you have me. Why I your purse? Haply your eye shall light upon some toy you have desire to purchase. And your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir. I'll be your purse-bearer and leave you for an hour. To the elephant. I do remember. Exeunt.

SCENE IV. OLIVIA'S GARDEN. Enter Olivia and Maria. I have sent after him. He says he'll come. How shall I feast him? What bestow of him? For youth is bought more oft than begged or borrowed. I speak too loud. Where is Malvolio? He is sad and civil, and suits well for a servant with my fortunes. Where is Malvolio? He is coming, madam, but in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam. Why, what's the matter? Does he rave? No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your ladyship were better have some guard about you if he come, for sure the man's tainted in his wits. Go call him hither. Exit Maria. I am as mad as he, if sad and merry madness equal be. Re-enter Maria with Malvolio. How now, Malvolio?

Sweet lady. Ho, ho. Smilest thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. Sad lady. I could be sad. This does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. Oh, but what of that? If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is. Please one, and please all. Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman hand. LARSON Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I'll come to thee. LARSON God comfort thee. Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? How do you, Malvolio? At your request? Yes, Nightingale's answer doors.

Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? Be not afraid of greatness. T'was well writ. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio? Some are born great.

Some achieve greatness. What sayest thou? And some have greatness thrust upon them. Heaven restore thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings? Thy yellow stockings? And wished to see thee cross-gartered? Cross-gartered? Go to. Thou art made, if thou desirest to be so. Am I maid? If not, let me see thee a servant still. Why, this is very midsummer madness. Enter servant. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Torcino's is returned. I could hardly entreat him back. He attends your ladyship's pleasure. I'll come to him. Exit servant. Good maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him. I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry.

Exeunt Olivia and Maria.

Oh! Do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me. This concurs directly with a letter. She sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him. For she incites me to that in the letter. Cast thy humble slow, she says. Be opposite with kinsmen, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang with arguments of state. Put thyself into the trick of singularity, and consequently sets down the matter how, as a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her. But it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful. And when she went away, now? Let this fellow be looked to. Fellow? Not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow.

Why, every thing adheres together. There's no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance. What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. Renter Maria with Sir Toby and Fabian. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, the legion himself possessed him. Yet I'll speak to him. Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir? How is't with you, man? Go off. I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off. Lo! how hollow the fiend speaks within him! Did I not tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.

Ah! Does she so! Go to, go to! Peace, peace! We must deal gently with him. Let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? How is it with you? What, man? Defy the devil? Consider he's an enemy to mankind. Do you know what you say? La, you, and you speak ill of the devil how he takes it at heart. Pray God he be not bewitched. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say. How now, mistress? O Lord! Prithee, hold thy peace. This is not the way. Do you not see you move him? Let me alone with him. No way but gentleness. Gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. Why, how now, my boarcock! How dost thou, Chuck? Sir! Ah, bid he come with me, Waterman! Tis not for gravity to play at Cherry Pit with Satan.

Hang him, foul collier! Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby. Get him to pray. My prayers, Minx! No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness. Go hang yourselves all. You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter. Exit. Is it possible? If this were played upon a stage now, I would condemn it as an improbable fiction. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. The house will be the quieter. Come, we'll have him in the dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he's mad. We may carry it thus, for our pleasures and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us.

As to have mercy with him, at which time he will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of the madmen. But see, but see! Enter Sir Andrew. More matter for a May morning. Here's the challenge. Read it. I warrant there's vinegar and pepper in't. Is't so saucy? Aye, is't. I warrant him. Do but read. Give me. Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow. Good and valiant.

Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for it. A good note. That keeps you from the blow of the law. Read. Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly. But thou livest in thy throat. That is not the matter I challenge thee for. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense. Less. Read. I will waylay thee going home, where, if it be thy chance, to kill me. Good. Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain. Still you keep o'th windy sight of the law. Good. Fare thee well, and God have mercy upon one of our souls. He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is... Better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, Andrew Aguecheek.

If this letter move him not, his legs cannot, I'll give it him. You may have very fit occasion for it. He is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. Go. Sir Andrew, scout me for him at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-belly, so soon as ever thou seest him draw. And as thou drawest, swear horrible, for it comes to pass off that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever good proof itself would have earned him. Away! Mr. Brown. Nay, let me alone for swearing.

Now wilt not I deliver this letter, for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding. His employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less. Therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth. He will find it comes from a clog-pole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth. Set upon Aguecheek a notable report of valor, and drive the gentleman, as I know his youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. Re-enter Olivia with Viola. Here he comes with your niece.

Give him way until he take leave. Then presently after him. I will mediate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maria. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, and laid mine honour too unchary out. There's something in me that reproves my fault, but such a headstrong, potent fault it is, that it but mocks reproof. With the same haviour that your passion bears goes on my master's grief. Here, wear this jewel for me. Tis my picture. Refuse it not. It hath no tongue to vex you. And I beseech you, come again to-morrow. What shall you ask of me that I'll deny, that honour saved may upon asking give? Nothing but this. Your true love for my master. How, with mine honour, may I give him that which I have given to you?

I will acquit you. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well. A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. Exit. Re-enter Sir Toby and Fabian. Gentlemen, God save thee. And you, sir. That defence thou hast. Betake thee to it. Of what nature the wrongs are that thou hast done him, I know not. But thy interceptor, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dismount thy tuck, be ye'er in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly. You mistake, sir. I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me. My remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. You'll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore, if you hold your life in any price, betake you to your guard.

For your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath can furnish man withal. I pray you, sir, what is he? He is a knight, dubbed with an unhatched rapier and on carpet consideration. But he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and his incensement at the moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob-nob is his word. Give it or take it. I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valor, belike this is a man of that quirk. Sir, no. His indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury.

Therefore get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not be to the house, unless you undertake that with me, which, with as much safety as you might answer him. Therefore on, or strip your sword stark naked. For metal you must. That's certain. Or, forswear to wear iron about you. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is. It is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. Exit. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrament. But nothing of the circumstance more.

I beseech you, what manner of man is he? Nothing of that wonderful promise to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him, if I can. I shall be much bound to you for it. I am one that had rather go with Sir Priest than Sir Knight. I care not who knows so much of my mettle. Exeunt.

Re-enter Sir Toby, with Sir Andrew. Why, man, he's a very devil! I have not seen such a firago. I had pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all. And he gives me the stuck-in with such a mortal notion that it is inevitable, and on the answer he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say that he has been fencer to the sophy. Poxant, I'll not meddle with him. Aye, but he will not now be pacified. Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. Plague, gaunt, and I thought he'd been valiant and so cunning in fence. I'd have seemed to doubt dare I'd have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my horse, Grey Capulet. I'll— Make the motion. Stand here. A good show of it.

This shall end without the perdition of souls. Mary, I'll ride your horse as well as I can ride you.

I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth's a devil. He is as horribly conceited of him. And pants, and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. Vio. There's no remedy, sir. He will fight with you for an oath's sake. Mary, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of. Therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow. He protests he will not hurt you. Aside. Vio. Pray, God, defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. Give ground if you see him furious. Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy. This gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you. He cannot by the duello avoid it, but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you.

Come on, to it. Pray God he keeps his oath. I do assure you, "'tis against my will." They draw. Enter Antonio. Put up your sword. If this young gentleman have done offence, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I, for him, defy you. You, sir, why, what are you? One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more than you have heard him brag to you he will. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. They draw. Enter officers. Oh, good sir, Toby, hold. Here come the officers. I'll be with you anon. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. Merry will I, sir, and for that I promised you I'll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily, and reigns well. This is the man. Do thy office. Antonio.

I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino. You do mistake me, sir. No, sir, no jot. I know your favor well, though now you have no sea-cap on your head. Take him away. He knows I know him well. I must obey. To Viola. This comes with seeking you. But there's no remedy. I shall answer it. What will you do? Now, my necessity makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you than what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort. Come, sir, away. I must entreat of you some of that money. What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have showed me here, and part being prompted by your present trouble, out of my lean and low ability I'll lend you something.

My having is not much. I'll make division of my present with you. Hold! There's half my coffer. Will you deny me now? It's possible that my deserts to you can lack persuasion. Do not tempt my misery, lest that it make me so unsound a man as to upbraid you with those kindnesses that I have done for you. I know of none, nor know I you by voice or any feature. I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood. Mr. O heavens themselves! LADY Come, sir, I pray you, go. Mr. Brown. Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here I snatched one-half out of the jaws of death, relieved him with such sanctity of love, and to his image Which, methought, did promise most venerable worth, did I devotion.

What's that to us? The time goes by, away. But, oh, how vile an idol proves this God! Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature's shame. In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind. Virtue is beauty but the unkind. The beauteous evil are empty trunks, ever flourished by the devil. The man grows mad. Away with him. Come, come, sir. Lead me on. Exit with officers. Methinks his words do from such passion fly that he believes himself. So do not I. Prove true imagination, O prove true, that I, dear brother, be now taken for you. Come hither, knight, come hither. Fabian will whisper o'er it a couplet or two of most sage saws. He named Sebastian. I, my brother, know yet living in my glass.

Even such and so in favour was my brother, and he went still in this fashion, colour, ornament, for him I imitate. Oh, if it prove tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love. A very dishonest, paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity and denying him, and for his coward-ship, ask Fabian. A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. Slit, I laughed at him again and beat him. Do, cut him soundly, but never draw thy sword. And I do not. Exit. Come, let's see the event. I dare lay any money. It will be nothing yet.

Exeunt. End of scene four. End of act three.

4 Act 4 12:57

Enter Sebastian and Clown. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you? Go to, go to. Thou art a foolish fellow. Let me be clear of thee. Well held out in faith. No, I do not know you, nor I am not sent to you by my lady to bid you come speak with her. Nor your name is not Master Cesario, nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so. I pray thee, vent thy folly somewhere else. Thou knowest not me. Vent my folly! Has he heard that word of some great man, and now applies to a fool? Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber the world will prove a cockney. I pry thee now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming?

I pray thee, foolish Greek, depart from me. There is money for thee. If you tarry longer, I shall give worse payment. By my troth thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian. Now, sir, have I met you again? There's for you. LADY. Why, there's for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad? Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house. LADY. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for topence. LADY. Come on, sir, hold. LADY. Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with him. I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Lyria.

I struck him first. It is no matter for that. Let go thy hand. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron. You are well fleshed. Come on. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou darest take me further, draw thy sword. What? What? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this Malpert blood from you. Enter Olivia. Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee hold. Madam! Will it ever be thus? Ungracious wretch, fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves where manners ne'er were preached! Out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario. Rudesby, begone! Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian. I prithee, gentle friend, let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway in this uncivil and unjust extent against thy peace.

Go with me to my house, and hear thou there how many fruitless pranks this ruffian hath botched up, and that thou thereby mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go. Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me. He started one poor heart of mine in thee. What relish is this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. Let fancy still my sense in leith's deep. If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep. Nay, come I prithee. Would thou be ruled by me? Madame, I will. Oh, say so. And so be, exeunt.

Scene Two. Olivia's house. Enter Maria and Clown. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard. Make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate. Do it quickly. I'll call Sir Toby the wiles. Exit. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't. And I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student. But to be said an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. Jove bless thee, Master Parson. Bonnus dies, Sir Toby, for, as the old hermit of Prague that never saw pen and ink very witily said to the niece of King Gorboduck, That, that is, is.

So I, being master parson, am master parson, for what is that but that and is but is? To him, Sir Topaz. What, oh, I say, peace in this prison? The knave counterfeits well. A good knave. Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio, the lunatic. Sir Topas? Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. Out, hyperbolical fiend! How vexest thou this man, talkest thou nothing but of ladies. Well said, master parson. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness. Fie, thou dishonest Satan, I call thee by the most modest terms, for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Sayest thou that the house is dark?

As hell, Sir Topas. Why, it hath by windows transparent as barricades. And the clerestries towards the south-north are lustrous as ebony, and yet complainest thou of obstruction? Mr. Brown. I am not mad, sir Topas. I say to you, this house is dark. Mr. Brown. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. Mr. Brown. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell, and I say— There was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are. Make the trial of it in any constant question. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning Wild Fowl? That the soul of our grandam might happily inhabit a bird.

What thinkest thou of his opinion? I think nobly of the soul, and in no way approve his opinion. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess thy soul of the grandom. Fare thee well. Sir Topas! Sir Topas! Sir Topas! Sir Topas! Sir Topas! My most exquisite Sir Topas! Nay, I am for all waters. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee not. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou findest him. I would that we were well rid of this knavery, if he may be so conveniently delivered. I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot.

Come by and by to my chamber. Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, tell me how thy lady does. Fool? My lady is unkind purdy. Fool! Alas, why is she so? Fool, I say. She loves another who calls ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha As ever thou wilt deserve well, at my hand help me to a candle, a pen, ink, and paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't. Master Malvolio? Aye, good fool. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused.

I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. But as well. Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. They have here propertied me. Keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits. Advise you what you say. The minister is here. Melvolia, Melvolia, thy wits the heavens restore. Endeavor thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble. Sir Topas? Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who I, sir? Not I, sir. God be with you, good Sir Topaz. Marry. Amen. I will, sir, I will. Fool! Fool! Fool! I say! Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you. Good fool! Help me to some light and paper. I tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.

Well-a-day that you were, sir. Mr. Brown. By this hand I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. Mr. Brown. I will help you to't. But tell me true. Are you not mad indeed, or do you but counterfeit? Mr. Brown. Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true. Mr. Brown. Nay, I'll never believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light and paper and ink. Fool! I'll requite it in the highest degree. I pray thee, be gone. Singing. I am gone, sir, and anon, sir, I'll be with you again. In a trice like to the old vice, your need to sustain, Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath, Cries a-ha to the devil.

Like a mad lad, pair thy nails dead, Adieu, good man, devil. Exit.

End of Scene Two.

Scene Three. Olivia's Garden. Enter Sebastian. This is the air, that is the glorious sun. This pearl she gave me, I do feel it and see it. And note his wonder that unwraps me thus. It is not madness. Where is Antonio, then? I could not find him at the elephant. Yet there he was, and there I found this credit, that he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service, for though my soul disputes well with my sense, that this may be some error, but no madness. Yet doth this accident and flood of fortunes, or exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes and wrangle with my reason that persuades me to any other trust but that I am mad, or else the lady is mad.

Yet if it were so, she could not sway her house, command her followers, take and give back affairs in their dispatch with such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing as I perceive she does. There is something in it that is deceivable. But here the lady comes. Enter Olivia and Priest. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, now go with me and this holy man into the Chantry by. There before him, and underneath that consecrated roof, plight me the full assurance of your faith, that my most jealous and too doubtful soul may live at peace. He shall conceal it. Whilst you are willing, it shall come to note what time we will our celebration keep according to my birth. What do you say?" Or follow this good man, and go with you, and, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Then lead the way, good father, and heaven so shine that they may fairly note this act of mine. Exeunt.

End of scene three.

End of act four.

5 Act 5 21:50

Before Olivia's house. Enter Clown and Fabian. Now, as thou lov'st me, Let me see this letter. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request. Anything. Do not desire to see this letter. This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and Lords. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends? Aye, sir, we are some of her trappings. I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow? Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends. Just the contrary, the better for thy friends. No, sir, the worse. How can that be? Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me. Now, my foes, tell me plainly that I am an ass, so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused, so that conclusions to be as kisses.

If your four negatives make you two affirmatives, why, then the worse for my friends and the better for my foes. Why, this is excellent. By my troth, sir, no, though it please you to be one of my friends. Thou shalt not be the worse for me. There's gold. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another. Mr. Brown. Oh, you give me ill counsel. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. Mr. Brown. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer. There's another. Primo secundo tercio is a good play, and the old saying is, the third pays for all. The triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure. Or the bells of St. Bennet, sir, may put in your mind one, two, three.

You can fool no more money out of me at this throw. If you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty. Till I come again I go, sir. But I would not have you think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness. But, as you say, let your bounty take a nap. I will awake it anon. Exit. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. Enter Antonio and officers. That face of his I do remember well. Yet when I saw it last, it was besmeared as black as Vulcan in the smoke of war. A bubbling vessel was he kept enough, for shallow draft and bulk unprizeable. With which such scathful grapple did he make, with the most noble bottom of our fleet, that very envy and the tongue of loss cried fame and honor on him.

What's the matter? Orsino, this is that Antonio that took the phoenix and her frot from candy. And this is he that did the tiger board when your young nephew Titus lost his leg. Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, in private brabble did we apprehend him. He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side. But in conclusion put strange speech upon me. I know not what was but distraction. Notable pirate, thou saltwater thief! What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, whom thou in terms so bloody and so dear hast made thine enemies? Orsino, noble sir, be pleased that I shake off these names you give me. Antonio never yet was thief or pirate. Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, Orsenio's enemy, a witchcraft drew me hither, that most ingrateful boy there by your side.

From the rude seas, enraged, and foamy mouth did I redeem. A wreck past hope he was. His life I gave him, and did thereto add my love, without retention nor restraint. All this in dedication, for his sake did I expose myself, pure for his love, into the danger of this adverse town, drew to defend him when he was beset, where, being apprehended, his false cunning, not meaning to partake with me in danger, taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, and grew a twenty years removed thing, while one would wink. Denied me mine own purse, which I have recommended to his use not a half hour before. How can this be? When came he to this town? Today, my lord. And for three months before, no interim, not a minute's vacancy.

Both day and night did we keep company. Enter Olivia and Attendance. Here comes the Countess. Now heaven walks on earth. But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months this youth hath tended upon me, but more of that anon. Take him aside. What would, my lord, but that he may not have wherein Olivia may seem serviceable? Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. Madam! Gracious Olivia! What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord. My lord would speak. My duty hushes me. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, it is as fat and fulsome to mine ear as howling after music. Still so cruel? Still so constant, lord. What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady, to whose ingrate and unauspicious altars my soul the faithfulest offerings hath breathed out that ere devotion tendered.

What shall I do? Even what it please my lord that shall become him. Why should I not? Had I the heart to do it? Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, kill what I love, a savage jealousy that sometimes savors nobly. But hear me this. Since you to nonregardance cast my faith, and that I partly know the instrument that screws me for my true place in your favor, live, you the marble-breasted tyrant still. But this your minion, whom I know you love, And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly. Him will I tear out of that cruel eye, where he sits crowned in his master's spite. Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe in mischief. I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love to spite a raven's heart within a dove.

And I, most jocund apt and willingly, to do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. Where goes Cesario? After him I love more than I love these eyes, more than my life, more by all mores than e'er I shall love wife. If I do fain, you witnesses above punish my life for tainting of my love. Ay, me, detested. How am I beguiled? Who does beguile you? Who does you wrong? Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long? Call forth the Holy Father. Come, away. Whither, my lord? Cesario? Husband, stay. Husband? Ay, husband. Can he that deny? Her husband, sirrah. No, my lord, not I. Alas! It is the baseness of thy fear that makes thee strangle thy propriety. Fear not, Cesario. Take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art as great as that thou fearest.

Enter Priest. O welcome, father. Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence, here to unfold, though lately we intended to keep in darkness, what occasion now reveals before tis ripe. What thou dost know hath newly passed between this youth and me. A contract of eternal bond of love, confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands, attested by the holy close of lips. Strengthened by the interchangement of your rings, and all the ceremony of this compact sealed in my function by my testimony. Since when my watch hath told me toward my grace, I have traveled but two hours. O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be when time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case? Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow that thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?

Farewell, and taker! But direct thy feet, where thou and I henceforth may never meet. My lord, I do protest. Oh, do not swear. Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. Enter Sir Andrew. For the love of God, a surgeon. Send one presently to Sir Toby. What's the matter? Has broken my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help. I had rather than forty pounds over at home. Who has done this, Sir Andrew? The Count's gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he's the very devil incarnate. My gentleman, Cesario? Odd's life-lings, here he is. You broke my head for nothing, and that that I did I was set on to do it by Sir Toby. Why do you speak to me?

I never hurt you. You drew your sword upon me without cause, but I bespeak you fair and hurt you not. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me. I think you said nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Enter Sir Toby and Clown. Here comes Sir Toby halting. You shall hear more. But if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you other gaits than he did. How now, gentlemen? How is it with you? That's all one. Has hurt me, and there's the end of it. Sot! Did we see Dick's surgeon, Sot? Mr. Brown. He's drunk. Sir Toby, an hour are gone. His eyes were set at eight in the morning. Mr. Brown. Then he's a rogue, and a passy measures pavan. I hate the drunken rogue. Mr. Brown. Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?

Mr. Brown. I'll help you, Sir Toby, because we'll be dressed together. Mr. Brown. Will you help? An ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave. A thin-faced knave. A gull. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to. Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew. Enter Sebastian. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman, but had it been the brother of my blood, I must have done no less with wit and safety. You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that I do perceive it hath offended you. Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows we made each other but so late ago. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons. A natural perspective that is and is not. Antonio! Oh, my dear Antonio, how have the hours racked and tortured me since I have lost thee?

Sebastian are you. Fearest thou that, Antonio? How have you made division of yourself? An apple cleft in two is not more twin than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian. Most wonderful. Do I stand there? I never had a brother, nor can there be that deity in my nature here and everywhere. I had a sister, whom the blind waves and surges have devoured. Of charity, what kin are you to me? What countryman, what name, what parentage? Of Messaline. Sebastian was my father. Such a Sebastian was my brother, too. So went he suited to his watery tomb. If spirits can assume both form and suit, you come to fright us. A spirit I am indeed, but am in that dimension grossly clad, which from the womb I did participate.

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, I would let my tears fall upon your cheek and say, Thrice welcome drowned Viola. My father had a mole upon his brow. And so had mine. And died that day when Viola, from her birth, had numbered thirteen years. Oh, that record is lively in my soul. He finished, indeed, his mortal act that day that made my sister thirteen years. If nothing lets to make us happy both but this, my masculine usurped attire, do not embrace me till each circumstance of place, time, fortune do go here and jump that I am Viola, which, to confirm, I'll bring you to a captain of this town. Where lie my maiden weeds, by whose gentle help I was preserved to serve this noble count? All the occurrence of my fortune's sins hath been between this lady and this lord.

To Olivia. So it comes, lady. You have been mistook, but nature to her bias drew in that. You would have been contracted to a maid. Nor are you therein by my life deceived. Your betrothed were to a maid and man. Be not amazed. Right noble is his blood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have share in this most happy wreck. To Viola. Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times, thou never shouldst love woman like to me. And all those sayings will I over-swear, and all those swearings keep as true in soul as doth that orbed continent the fire that severs day from night. Give me thy hand, and let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. The captain that did bring me first on shore hath my maid's garments.

She, upon some action, is now endurance at Malvolio's suit, a gentleman and follower of my ladies. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither. And yet—alas, now I remember me! They say, poor gentleman, he's much distract. Re-enter Clown with a letter, and Fabian. A most extracting frenzy of mine own from my remembrance clearly banished his. How does he, Sirah? Truly, madam, he holds Beelzebub at the stave's end as well as man in his case may do.

Has he a writ a letter to you? I should have given it to you to-day morning, but as a madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered. Open it and read it. Look, then, to be well edified when full delivers the madman. By the Lord, madam. How now? Art thou mad? No, madam, I do but read Madness, and your ladyship will have it as it ought to be. You must allow Vox. Prithee read in thy right wits. So I do, Madonna, but to read his right wits is to read thus. Therefore, perpend, my princess, and give ear. To Fabian. Read it to you, Sirah.

By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it. Though you have put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on, with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury." The madly used Malvalio. Did he write this? Aye, madam. This savours not much of distraction. FABIAN. See him delivered, Fabian. Bring him hither. EXID. FABIAN. My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, to think me as well a sister as a wife. One day shall crown the alliance on it.

So please you, here at my house, and at my proper cost. FABIAN. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer. TO VIOLA. Your master quits you. And for your service done him, so much against the metal of your sex, so far beneath your soft and tender breeding, and since you called me master for so long. Here is my hand. You shall from this time be your master's mistress. A sister! You are she. Re-enter Fabian with Malvolio. Is this the madman? Aye, my lord, the same. How now, Malvolio? Madam, you have done me wrong, notorious wrong. Have I, Malvolio? No. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that letter. You must now deny it is your hand. Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase, or say it is not your seal, not your invention.

You can say none of this. Well, grant it, then, and tell me. In the modesty of honor, why you have given me such clear lights of favor, bade me come smiling and cross-gartered to you, to put on yellow stockings and to frown upon Sir Toby and the lighter people, and acting this in an obedient hope, why have you suffered me to be imprisoned, kept in a dark house, visited by the priests, and made the most notorious geck and gull, that e'er Venture and blade upon. Tell me why. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, though I confess much like the character, but out of question is Maria's hand. And now I do bethink me, it was she first told me thou wast mad, then cam'st in smiling, and in such forms which here were presupposed upon thee in the letter.

Prithee be content. This practice hath most shrewdly passed upon thee. But when we know the grounds and authors of it, thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause. Good madam, hear me speak, and let no quarrel nor no brawl to come taint the condition of this present hour which I have wondered at. In hope it shall not, most freely, I confess, myself and Toby set this device against Malvalio here, upon some stubborn and uncourtious parts we had conceived against him. Mariah writ the letter at Sir Toby's great importance, and recompense whereof he hath married her. How with a sportful malice it was followed may rather pluck on laughter than revenge. If that the injuries be justly weighed, they have on both sides passed.

Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee? Why, some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them. I was one, sir, in this interlude. One, Sir Terpest, sir, but that's all one. By the Lord fool, I am not mad, but do you remember, madam? Why laugh you at such a barren rascal, and you smile not? He's gagged, and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you. Exit. He hath been most notoriously abused. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace. He hath not told us of the captain yet. When that is known, and golden time convents, a solemn combination shall be made of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister, we will not part from hence.

Cesario, come, for so you shall be while you are a man, but when in other habits you are seen, Orsino's mistress, and his fancies queen. Exeunt all but the clown. When that I was, and a little tiny boy, With hey-ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came to man's estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Gate knaves and thievesmen shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came unto my beds with hey-ho, the wind and the rain, with tosspots still had drunken heads, for the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun with hey-ho, the wind and the rain, but that's all one, our play is done, and we'll strive to please you every day. Exit.

The End End of scene one. End of act five. End of twelfth night by William Shakespeare.

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