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William Shakespeare. All works - - Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will

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William Shakespeare. Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will

ORSINO, Duke of Illyria SEBASTIAN, brother of Viola ANTONIO, a sea captain, friend of Sebastian A SEA CAPTAIN, friend of Viola VALENTINE, gentleman attending on the Duke CURIO, gentleman attending on the Duke SIR TOBY BELCH, uncle of Olivia SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK MALVOLIO, steward to Olivia FABIAN, servant to Olivia FESTE, a clown, servant to Olivia
OLIVIA, a rich countess VIOLA, sister of Sebastian MARIA, Olivia's waiting woman
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and Attendants
SCENE: A city in Illyria; and the sea-coast near it
ACT I. SCENE I. The DUKE'S palace
Enter ORSINO, Duke of Illyria, CURIO, and other LORDS; MUSICIANS attending
DUKE. 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 odour! 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, nought 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. CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord? DUKE. What, Curio? CURIO. The hart. DUKE. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.

     O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

     Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence!

     That instant was I turn'd into a hart,

     And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

     E'er since pursue me.

     Enter VALENTINE

     How now! what news from her? VALENTINE. 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 veiled walk,

     And 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. DUKE. 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 kill'd the flock of all affections else

     That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,

     These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'd,

     Her sweet perfections, with one self king!

     Away before me to sweet beds of flow'rs:

     Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs.

SCENE II. The sea-coast
VIOLA. What country, friends, is this? CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady. VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria?

     My brother he is in Elysium.

     Perchance he is not drown'd- what think you, sailors? CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were saved. VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be. CAPTAIN. 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 liv'd upon the sea;

     Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,

     I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves

     So long as I could see. VIOLA. For saying so, there's gold.

     Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,

     Whereto thy speech serves for authority,

     The like of him. Know'st thou this country? CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born

     Not three hours' travel from this very place. VIOLA. Who governs here? CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name. VIOLA. What is his name? CAPTAIN. Orsino. VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him.

     He was a bachelor then. CAPTAIN. 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. VIOLA. What's she? CAPTAIN. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count

     That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her

     In the protection of his son, her brother,

     Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,

     They say, she hath abjur'd the company

     And sight of men. VIOLA. O that I serv'd that lady,

     And might not be delivered to the world,

     Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,

     What my estate is! CAPTAIN. That were hard to compass,

     Because she will admit no kind of suit-

     No, not the Duke's. VIOLA. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain;

     And though that nature with a beauteous wall

     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 may hap to time I will commit;

     Only shape thou silence to my wit. CAPTAIN. Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;

     When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. VIOLA. I thank thee. Lead me on. Exeunt
SIR TOBY. What a plague means my niece to take the death of her

     brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life. MARIA. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;

     your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. SIR TOBY. Why, let her except before excepted. MARIA. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits

     of order. SIR TOBY. Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These

     clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too;

     an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. MARIA. 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 night here to be her wooer. SIR TOBY. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek? MARIA. Ay, he. SIR TOBY. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria. MARIA. What's that to th' purpose? SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. MARIA. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a

     very fool and a prodigal. SIR TOBY. Fie that you'll say so! He plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys,

     and speaks three or four languages word for word without book,

     and hath all the good gifts of nature. MARIA. He hath indeed, almost 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. SIR TOBY. By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that

     say so of him. Who are they? MARIA. They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company. SIR TOBY. With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her as

     long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria.

     He's a coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece

     till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!

     Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch! SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew! AGUECHEEK. Bless you, fair shrew. MARIA. And you too, sir. SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. AGUECHEEK. What's that? SIR TOBY. My niece's chambermaid. AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. MARIA. My name is Mary, sir. AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Mary Accost- SIR Toby. You mistake, knight. 'Accost' is front her, board her,

     woo her, assail her. AGUECHEEK. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.

     Is that the meaning of 'accost'? MARIA. Fare you well, gentlemen. SIR TOBY. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never

     draw sword again! AGUECHEEK. An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw

     sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? MARIA. Sir, I have not you by th' hand. AGUECHEEK. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to

     th' buttry-bar and let it drink. AGUECHEEK. Wherefore, sweetheart? What's your metaphor? MARIA. It's dry, sir. AGUECHEEK. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my

     hand dry. But what's your jest? MARIA. A dry jest, sir. AGUECHEEK. Are you full of them? MARIA. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends; marry, now I let

     go your hand, I am barren. Exit MARIA SIR TOBY. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary! When did I see

     thee so put down? AGUECHEEK. 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 great eater of beef, and I

     believe that does harm to my wit. SIR TOBY. No question. AGUECHEEK. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home

     to-morrow, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. Pourquoi, my dear knight? AGUECHEEK. What is 'pourquoi'- do or not do? I would I had bestowed

     that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and

     bear-baiting. Oh, had I but followed the arts! SIR TOBY. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. AGUECHEEK. Why, would that have mended my hair? SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature. AGUECHEEK. But it becomes me well enough, does't not? SIR TOBY. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff, and I hope to

     see a huswife take thee between her legs and spin it off. AGUECHEEK. Faith, I'll home to-morrow, 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. SIR TOBY. She'll none o' th' Count; she'll not match above her

     degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her

     swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man. AGUECHEEK. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' th' strangest

     mind i' th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes

     altogether. SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight? AGUECHEEK. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the

     degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man. SIR TOBY. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? AGUECHEEK. Faith, I can cut a caper. SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to't. AGUECHEEK. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as

     any man in Illyria. SIR TOBY. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these

     gifts a curtain before 'em? Are they like to take dust, like

     Mistress Mall's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a

     galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a

     jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What

     dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by

     the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the

     star of a galliard. AGUECHEEK. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in

     flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels? SIR TOBY. What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus? AGUECHEEK. Taurus? That's sides and heart. SIR TOBY. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper. Ha,

     higher! Ha, ha, excellent! Exeunt
SCENE IV. The DUKE'S palace
Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire
VALENTINE. If the Duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,

     you are like to be much advanc'd; he hath known you but three

     days, and already you are no stranger. VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call

     in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,

     in his favours? VALENTINE. No, believe me.

VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count. DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho? VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord, here. DUKE. Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario,

     Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd

     To thee the book even of my secret soul.

     Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;

     Be not denied access, stand at her doors,

     And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow

     Till thou have audience. VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord,

     If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow

     As it is spoke, she never will admit me. DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,

     Rather than make unprofited return. VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then? DUKE. O, then unfold the passion of my love,

     Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith!

     It shall become thee well to act my woes:

     She will attend it better in thy youth

     Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect. VIOLA. I think not so, my lord. DUKE. 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. VIOLA. I'll do my best

     To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!

     Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
MARIA. 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. CLOWN. Let her hang me. He that is well hang'd in this world needs

     to fear no colours. MARIA. Make that good. CLOWN. He shall see none to fear. MARIA. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was

     born, of 'I fear no colours.' CLOWN. Where, good Mistress Mary? MARIA. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your

     foolery. CLOWN. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are

     fools, let them use their talents. MARIA. Yet you will be hang'd for being so long absent; or to be

     turn'd away- is not that as good as a hanging to you? CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning

     away, let summer bear it out. MARIA. You are resolute, then? CLOWN. Not so, neither; but I am resolv'd on two points. MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break,

     your gaskins fall. CLOWN. 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. MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady. Make

     your excuse wisely, you were best. Exit

     Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO
CLOWN. Wit, an't 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

     Quinapalus? 'Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.' God bless

     thee, lady! OLIVIA. Take the fool away. CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. OLIVIA. Go to, y'are a dry fool; I'll no more of you. Besides, you

     grow dishonest. CLOWN. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend;

     for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry. Bid the

     dishonest man mend himself: if he mend, he is no longer

     dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything

     that's mended is but patch'd; virtue that transgresses is but

     patch'd with sin, and sin that amends is but patch'd with virtue.

     If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,

     what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so

     beauty's a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I

     say again, take her away. OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you. CLOWN. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, 'Cucullus non facit

     monachum'; that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my

     brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. OLIVIA. Can you do it? CLOWN. Dexteriously, good madonna. OLIVIA. Make your proof. CLOWN. I must catechize you for it, madonna.

     Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. OLIVIA. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your

     proof. CLOWN. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou? OLIVIA. Good fool, for my brother's death. CLOWN. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. OLIVIA. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. CLOWN. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul

     being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. OLIVIA. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? Doth he not mend? MALVOLIO. Yes, and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.

     Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. CLOWN. 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. OLIVIA. How say you to that, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren

     rascal; I saw him 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 is gagg'd. I protest I take these wise men that crow so at

     these set kind of fools no better than the fools' zanies. OLIVIA. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a

     distemper'd 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 allow'd fool, though he

     do nothing but rail; nor no railing in known discreet man, though

     he do nothing but reprove. CLOWN. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well

     of fools!

     Re-enter MARIA
MARIA. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires

     to speak with you. OLIVIA. From the Count Orsino, is it? MARIA. I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended. OLIVIA. Who of my people hold him in delay? MARIA. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. OLIVIA. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman.

     Fie on him! [Exit MARIA] 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. CLOWN. 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-

     one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.

     Enter SIR TOBY
OLIVIA. By mine honour, half drunk! What is he at the gate, cousin? SIR TOBY. A gentleman. OLIVIA. A gentleman! What gentleman? SIR TOBY. 'Tis a gentleman here. [Hiccups] A plague o' these

     pickle-herring! How now, sot! CLOWN. Good Sir Toby! OLIVIA. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this

     lethargy? SIR TOBY. Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate. OLIVIA. Ay, marry; what is he? SIR TOBY. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not; give me

     faith, say I. Well, it's all one. Exit OLIVIA. What's a drunken man like, fool? CLOWN. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above

     heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns

     him. OLIVIA. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz;

     for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd; go look

     after him. CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna, and the fool shall look to the

     madman. Exit

     Re-enter MALVOLIO
MALVOLIO. Madam, yond 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. OLIVIA. Tell him he shall not speak with me. MALVOLIO. 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. OLIVIA. What kind o' man is he? MALVOLIO. Why, of mankind. OLIVIA. What manner of man? MALVOLIO. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no. OLIVIA. Of what personage and years is he? MALVOLIO. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy;

     as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis

     almost an apple; 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and

     man. He is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one

     would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him. OLIVIA. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. MALVOLIO. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. Exit

     Re-enter MARIA
OLIVIA. Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;

     We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

     Enter VIOLA
VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will? VIOLA. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty- I pray you

     tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I

     would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is

     excellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good

     beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to

     the least sinister usage. OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir? VIOLA. I can say little more than I have studied, and that

     question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest

     assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in

     my speech. OLIVIA. Are you a comedian? VIOLA. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice

     I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house? OLIVIA. If I do not usurp myself, I am. VIOLA. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for

     what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from

     my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then

     show you the heart of my message. OLIVIA. Come to what is important in't. I forgive you the praise. VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical. OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I

     heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow'd 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 dialogue. MARIA. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way. VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer.

     Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. OLIVIA. Tell me your mind. VIOLA. I am a messenger. OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the

     courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office. VIOLA. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no

     taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as

     full of peace as matter. OLIVIA. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you? VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appear'd in me have I learn'd from my

     entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as

     maidenhead- to your cars, divinity; to any other's, profanation. OLIVIA. Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.

     [Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS] Now, sir, what is your text? VIOLA. Most sweet lady- OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.

     Where lies your text? VIOLA. In Orsino's bosom. OLIVIA. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom? VIOLA. To answer by the method: in the first of his heart. OLIVIA. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say? VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face. OLIVIA. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my

     face? You are now out of your text; but we will draw the curtain

     and show you the picture. [Unveiling] Look you, sir, such a one I

     was this present. Is't not well done? VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all. OLIVIA. 'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather. VIOLA. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white

     Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.

     Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,

     If you will lead these graces to the grave,

     And leave the world no copy. OLIVIA. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out

     divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, and every

     particle and utensil labell'd to my will: as- item, two lips

     indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one

     neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? VIOLA. I see you what you are: you are too proud;

     But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

     My lord and master loves you- O, such love

     Could be but recompens'd though you were crown'd

     The nonpareil of beauty! OLIVIA. How does he love me? VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears,

     With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. OLIVIA. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him.

     Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

     Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;

     In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd, and valiant,

     And in dimension and the shape of nature

     A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him.

     He might have took his answer long ago. VIOLA. If I did love you in my master's flame,

     With such a suff'ring, such a deadly life,

     In your denial I would find no sense;

     I would not understand it. OLIVIA. Why, what would you? VIOLA. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,

     And call upon my soul within the house;

     Write loyal cantons of contemned love

     And sing them loud even in the dead of night;

     Halloo your name to the reverberate hals,

     And make the babbling gossip of the air

     Cry out 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest

     Between the elements of air and earth

     But you should pity me! OLIVIA. You might do much.

     What is your parentage? VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

     I am a gentleman. OLIVIA. Get you to your lord.

     I cannot love him; let him send no more-

     Unless perchance you come to me again

     To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well.

     I thank you for your pains; spend this for me. VIOLA. I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;

     My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

     Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;

     And let your fervour, like my master's, be

     Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. Exit OLIVIA. 'What is your parentage?'

     'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

     I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;

     Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,

     Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast! Soft, soft!

     Unless the master were the man. How now!

     Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

     Methinks I feel this youth's perfections

     With an invisible and subtle stealth

     To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.

     What ho, Malvolio!

     Re-enter MALVOLIO
MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service. OLIVIA. Run after that same peevish messenger,

     The County's man. He left this ring behind him,

     Would I or not. Tell him I'll none of it.

     Desire him not to flatter with his lord,

     Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him.

     If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,

     I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Madam, I will. Exit OLIVIA. I do I know not what, and fear to find

     Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.

     Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;

     What is decreed must be; and be this so! Exit
ACT II. SCENE I. The sea-coast
ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with

     you? SEBASTIAN. By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me; the

     malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I

     shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It

     were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you. ANTONIO. Let me know of you whither you are bound. SEBASTIAN. No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere

     extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of

     modesty that you will not extort from me what I am willing to

     keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express

     myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,

     which I call'd Roderigo; my father was that Sebastian of


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