Twelfth Night

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Original text
Act II, Scene I
Enter Antonio & Sebastian.

Ant.
Will you stay no longer: nor will you not that
I go with you.

Seb.
By your patience, no: my starres shine darkely
ouer me; the malignancie of my fate, might perhaps
distemper yours; therefore I shall craue of you your
leaue, that I may beare my euils alone. It were a bad
recompence for your loue, to lay any of them on you.

An.
Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.

Seb.
No sooth sir: my determinate voyage is meere
extrauagancie. But I perceiue in you so excellent a touch
of modestie, that you will not extort from me, what I am
willing to keepe in: therefore it charges me in manners,
the rather to expresse my selfe: you must know of mee
then Antonio, my name is Sebastian (which I call'd
Rodorigo) my father was that Sebastian of Messaline,
whom I know you haue heard of. He left behinde him,
my selfe, and a sister, both borne in an houre: if the
Heanens had beene pleas'd, would we had so ended. But
you sir, alter'd that, for some houre before you tooke me
from the breach of the sea, was my sister drown'd.

Ant.
Alas the day.

Seb.
A Lady sir, though it was said shee much resembled
me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but
thogh I could not with such estimable wonder ouer-farre
beleeue that, yet thus farre I will boldly publish her, shee
bore a minde that enuy could not but call faire: Shee is
drown'd already sir with salt water, though I seeme to
drowne her remembrance againe with more.

Ant.
Pardon me sir, your bad entertainment.

Seb.
O good Antonio, forgiue me your trouble.

Ant.
If you will not murther me for my loue, let mee
be your seruant.

Seb.
If you will not vndo what you haue done,
that is kill him, whom you haue recouer'd, desire it not.
Fare ye well at once, my bosome is full of kindnesse, and I
am yet so neere the manners of my mother, that vpon the
least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me: I am
bound to the Count Orsino's Court, farewell.
Exit

Ant.
The gentlenesse of all the gods go with thee:
I haue many enemies in Orsino's Court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But come what may, I do adore thee so,
That danger shall seeme sport, and I will go.
Exit.
Original text
Act II, Scene II
Enter Viola and Maluolio, at seuerall doores.

Mal.
Were not you eu'n now, with the Countesse
Oliuia?

Vio.
Euen now sir, on a moderate pace, I haue since
ariu'd but hither.

Mal.
She returnes this Ring to you (sir) you might
haue saued mee my paines, to haue taken it away your selfe.
She adds moreouer, that you should put your Lord into
a desperate assurance, she will none of him. And one
thing more, that you be neuer so hardie to come againe in
his affaires, vnlesse it bee to report your Lords taking of
this: receiue it so.

Vio.
She tooke the Ring of me, Ile none of it.

Mal.
Come sir, you peeuishly threw it to her: and
her will is, it should be so return'd: If it bee worth stooping
for, there it lies, in your eye: if not, bee it his that findes
it.
Exit.

Vio.
I left no Ring with her: what meanes this Lady?
Fortune forbid my out-side haue not charm'd her:
She made good view of me, indeed so much,
That me thought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speake in starts distractedly.
She loues me sure, the cunning of her passion
Inuites me in this churlish messenger:
None of my Lords Ring? Why he sent her none;
I am the man, if it be so, as tis,
Poore Lady, she were better loue a dreame:
Disguise, I see thou art a wickednesse,
Wherein the pregnant enemie does much.
How easie is it, for the proper false
In womens waxen hearts to set their formes:
Alas, O frailtie is the cause, not wee,
For such as we are made, if such we bee:
How will this fadge? My master loues her deerely,
And I (poore monster) fond asmuch on him:
And she (mistaken) seemes to dote on me:
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my maisters loue:
As I am woman (now alas the day)
What thriftlesse sighes shall poore Oliuia breath?
O time, thou must vntangle this, not I,
It is too hard a knot for me t'vnty.

Original text
Act II, Scene III
Enter Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew.

To.
Approach Sir Andrew: not to bee a bedde after
midnight, is to be vp betimes, and Deliculo surgere,
thou know'st.

And.
Nay by my troth I know not: but I know,
to be vp late, is to be vp late.

To.
A false conclusion: I hate it as an vnfill'd Canne.
To be vp after midnight, and to go to bed then is early:
so that to go to bed after midnight, is to goe to bed betimes.
Does not our liues consist of the foure Elements?

And.
Faith so they say, but I thinke it rather consists
of eating and drinking.

To.
Th'art a scholler; let vs therefore eate and
drinke. Marian I say, a stoope of wine.
Enter Clowne.

And.
Heere comes the foole yfaith.

Clo.
How now my harts: Did you neuer see the Picture
of we three?

To.
Welcome asse, now let's haue a catch.

And.
By my troth the foole has an excellent breast.
I had rather then forty shillings I had such a legge, and so
sweet a breath to sing, as the foole has. Insooth thou
wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou
spok'st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the
Equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good yfaith: I sent
thee sixe pence for thy Lemon, hadst it?

Clo.
I did impeticos thy gratillity: for Maluolios nose
is no Whip-stocke. My Lady has a white hand, and the
Mermidons are no bottle-ale houses.

An.
Excellent: Why this is the best fooling,
when all is done. Now a song.

To.
Come on, there is sixe pence for you. Let's haue a
song.

An.
There's a testrill of me too: if one knight
giue a

Clo.
Would you haue a loue-song, or a song of good life?

To.
A loue song, a loue song.

An.
I, I. I care not for good life.
Clowne sings.
O Mistris mine where are you roming:
O stay and heare, your true loues coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further prettie sweeting.
Iourneys end in louers meeting,
Euery wise mans sonne doth know.

An.
Excellent good, ifaith.

To.
Good, good.

Clo.
What is loue, tis not heereafter,
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What's to come, is still vnsure.
In delay there lies no plentie,
Then come kisse me sweet and twentie:
Youths a stuffe will not endure.

An.
A mellifluous voyce, as I am true knight.

To.
A contagious breath.

An.
Very sweet, and contagious ifaith.

To.
To heare by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the Welkin dance indeed? Shall wee
rowze the night-Owle in a Catch, that will drawe three soules
out of one Weauer? Shall we do that?

And.
And you loue me, let's doo't: I am dogge at a
Catch.

Clo.
Byrlady sir, and some dogs will catch well.

An.
Most certaine: Let our Catch be, Thou
Knaue.

Clo.
Hold thy peace, thou Knaue knight. I shall be
constrain'd in't, to call thee knaue, Knight.

An.
'Tis not the first time I haue constrained
one to call me knaue. Begin foole: it begins,
Hold thy peace.

Clo.
I shall neuer begin if I hold my peace.

An.
Good ifaith: Come begin.
Catch sung / Enter Maria.
What a catterwalling doe you keepe heere? If my Ladie
haue not call'd vp her Steward Maluolio, and bid him
turne you out of doores, neuer trust me.

To,
My Lady's a Catayan, we are politicians,
Maluolios a Peg-a-ramsie, and
Three merry men be wee.
Am not I consanguinious? Am I not of her blood:
tilly vally. Ladie,
There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady.

Clo.
Beshrew me, the knights in admirable fooling.

An.
I, he do's well enough if he be dispos'd,
and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do
it more naturall.

To.
O the twelfe day of December.

Mar.
For the loue o'God peace.
Enter Maluolio.

Mal.
My masters are you mad? Or what are you?
Haue you no wit, manners, nor honestie, but to gabble
like Tinkers at this time of night? Do yee make an Alehouse
of my Ladies house, that ye squeak out your
Coziers Catches without any mitigation or remorse of
voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in
you?

To.
We did keepe time sir in our Catches. Snecke vp.

Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My Lady
bad me tell you, that though she harbors you as her
kinsman, she's nothing ally'd to your disorders. If you
can separate your selfe and your misdemeanors, you are
welcome to the house: if not, and it would please you to
take leaue of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

To.
Farewell deere heart, since I must needs be gone.

Mar.
Nay good Sir Toby.

Clo.
His eyes do shew his dayes are almost done.

Mal.
Is't euen so?

To.
But I will neuer dye.

Clo.
Sir Toby there you lye.

Mal.
This is much credit to you.

To.
Shall I bid him go.

Clo.
What and if you do?

To.
Shall I bid him go, and spare not?

Clo.
O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

To.
Out o'tune sir, ye lye: Art any
more then a Steward? Dost thou thinke because thou art
vertuous, there shall be no more Cakes and Ale?

Clo.
Yes by S. Anne, and Ginger shall bee hotte y'th
mouth too.

To.
Th'art i'th right. Goe sir, rub
your Chaine with crums. A stope of Wine Maria.

Mal.
Mistris Mary, if you priz'd my Ladies fauour
at any thing more then contempt, you would not giue
meanes for this vnciuill rule; she shall know of it by this
hand.
Exit

Mar.
Go shake your eares.

An.
'Twere as good a deede as to drink when a
mans a hungrie, to challenge him the field, and then to
breake promise with him, and make a foole of him.

To.
Doo't knight, Ile write thee a Challenge: or Ile
deliuer thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

Mar.
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 Monsieur Maluolio, let me alone
with him: If I do not gull him into an ayword, and make
him a common recreation, do not thinke I haue witte
enough to lye straight in my bed: I know I can do it.

To.
Possesse vs, possesse vs, tell vs something of him.

Mar.
Marrie sir, sometimes he is a kinde of Puritane.

An.
O, if I thought that, Ide beate him like a dogge.

To.
What for being a Puritan, thy exquisite reason,
deere knight.

An.
I haue no exquisite reason for't, but I haue
reason good enough.

Mar.
The diu'll a Puritane that hee is, or any thing constantly
but a time-pleaser, an affection'd Asse, that cons
State without booke, and vtters it by great swarths. The
best perswaded of himselfe: so cram'd (as he thinkes)
with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith, that all
that looke on him, loue him: and on that vice in him, will
my reuenge finde notable cause to worke.

To.
What wilt thou do?

Mar.
I will drop in his way some obscure Epistles of
loue, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of
his legge, the manner of his gate, the expressure of his eye,
forehead, and complection, he shall finde himselfe most
feelingly personated. I can write very like my Ladie your
Neece, on a forgotten matter wee can hardly make
distinction of our hands.

To.
Excellent, I smell a deuice.

An.
I hau't in my nose too.

To.
He shall thinke by the Letters that thou wilt
drop that they come from my Neece, and that shee's in
loue with him.

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

An.
And your horse now would make him an
Asse.

Mar.
Asse, I doubt not.

An.
O twill be admirable.

Mar.
Sport royall I warrant you: I know my Physicke will
worke with him, I will plant you two, and let the Foole
make a third, where he shall finde the Letter: obserue his
construction of it: For this night to bed, and dreame on
the euent: Farewell.
Exit

To.
Good night Penthisilea.

An.
Before me she's a good wench.

To.
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores
me: what o'that?

An.
I was ador'd once too.

To.
Let's to bed knight: Thou hadst neede send for
more money.

An.
If I cannot recouer your Neece, I am a foule
way out.

To.
Send for money knight, if thou hast her not
i'th end, call me Cut.

An.
If I do not, neuer trust me, take it how you
will.

To.
Come, come, Ile go burne some Sacke, tis too
late to go to bed now: Come knight, come knight.
Exeunt
Original text
Act II, Scene IV
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

Du.
Giue me some Musick; Now good morow frends.
Now good Cesario , but that peece of song,
That old and Anticke song we heard last night;
Me thought it did releeue my passion much,
More then light ayres, and recollected termes
Of these most briske and giddy-paced times.
Come, but one verse.

Cur.
He is not heere (so please your Lordshippe) that should
sing it?

Du.
Who was it?

Cur.
Feste the Iester my Lord, a foole that the Ladie
Oliuiaes Father tooke much delight in. He is about the
house.

Du.
Seeke him out, and play the tune the while.
Musicke playes.
Come hither Boy, if euer thou shalt loue
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:
For such as I am, all true Louers are,
Vnstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Saue in the constant image of the creature
That is belou'd. How dost thou like this tune?

Vio.
It giues a verie eccho to the seate
Where loue is thron'd.

Du.
Thou dost speake masterly,
My life vpon't, yong though thou art, thine eye
Hath staid vpon some fauour that it loues:
Hath it not boy?

Vio.
A little, by your fauour.

Du.
What kinde of woman ist?

Vio.
Of your complection.

Du.
She is not worth thee then. What yeares ifaith?

Vio.
About your yeeres my Lord.

Du.
Too old by heauen: Let still the woman take
An elder then her selfe, so weares she to him;
So swayes she leuell in her husbands heart:
For boy, howeuer we do praise our selues,
Our fancies are more giddie and vnfirme,
More longing, wauering, sooner lost and worne,
Then womens are.

Vio.
I thinke it well my Lord.

Du.
Then let thy Loue be yonger then thy selfe,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as Roses, whose faire flowre
Being once displaid, doth fall that verie howre.

Vio.
And so they are: alas, that they are so:
To die, euen when they to perfection grow.
Enter Curio & Clowne.

Du.
O fellow come, the song we had last night:
Marke it Cesario, it is old and plaine;
The Spinsters and the Knitters in the Sun,
And the free maides that weaue their thred with bones,
Do vse to chaunt it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of loue,
Like the old age.

Clo.
Are you ready Sir?

Duke.
I prethee sing.
Musicke.
The Song.
Come away, come away death,
And in sad cypresse let me be laide.
Fye away, fie away breath,
I am slaine by a faire cruell maide:
My shrowd of white, stuck all with Ew,
O prepare it.
My part of death no one so true
did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweete
On my blacke coffin, let there be strewne:
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poore corpes, where my bones shall be throwne:
A thousand thousand sighes to saue,
lay me ô where
Sad true louer neuer find my graue,
to weepe there.

Du.
There's for thy paines.

Clo.
No paines sir, I take pleasure in singing sir.

Du.
Ile pay thy pleasure then.

Clo.
Truely sir, and pleasure will be paide one time, or
another.

Du.
Giue me now leaue, to leaue thee.

Clo.
Now the melancholly God protect thee, and the
Tailor make thy doublet of changeable Taffata, for thy
minde is a very Opall. I would haue men of such constancie
put to Sea, that their businesse might be euery thing,
and their intent euerie where, for that's it, that
alwayes makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
Exit

Du.
Let all the rest giue place:
Once more Cesario,
Get thee to yond same soueraigne crueltie:
Tell her my loue, more noble then the world
Prizes not quantitie of dirtie lands,
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd vpon her:
Tell her I hold as giddily as Fortune:
But 'tis that miracle, and Queene of Iems
That nature prankes her in, attracts my soule.

Vio.
But if she cannot loue you sir.

Du.
It cannot be so answer'd.

Vio.
Sooth but you must.
Say that some Lady, as perhappes there is,
Hath for your loue as great a pang of heart
As you haue for Oliuia: you cannot loue her:
You tel her so: Must she not then be answer'd?

Du.
There is no womans sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion,
As loue doth giue my heart: no womans heart
So bigge, to hold so much, they lacke retention.
Alas, their loue may be call'd appetite,
No motion of the Liuer, but the Pallat,
That suffer surfet, cloyment, and reuolt,
But mine is all as hungry as the Sea,
And can digest as much, make no compare
Betweene that loue a woman can beare me,
And that I owe Oliuia.

Vio.
I but I know.

Du.
What dost thou knowe?

Vio.
Too well what loue women to men may owe:
In faith they are as true of heart, as we.
My Father had a daughter lou'd a man
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman
I should your Lordship.

Du.
And what's her history?

Vio.
A blanke my Lord: she neuer told her loue,
But let concealment like a worme i'th budde
Feede on her damaske cheeke: she pin'd in thought,
And with a greene and yellow melancholly,
She sate like Patience on a Monument,
Smiling at greefe. Was not this loue indeede?
We men may say more, sweare more, but indeed
Our shewes are more then will: for still we proue
Much in our vowes, but little in our loue.

Du.
But di'de thy sister of her loue my Boy?

Vio.
I am all the daughters of my Fathers house,
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.
Sir, shall I to this Lady?

Du.
I that's the Theame,
To her in haste: giue her this Iewell: say,
My loue can giue no place, bide no denay.
exeunt
Original text
Act II, Scene V
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.

To.
Come thy wayes Signior Fabian.

Fab.
Nay Ile come: if I loose a scruple of this sport,
let me be boyl'd to death with Melancholly.

To.
Wouldst thou not be glad to haue the niggardly
Rascally sheepe-biter, come by some notable
shame?

Fa.
I would exult man: you know he brought me
out o'fauour with my Lady, about a Beare-baiting heere.

To.
To anger him wee'l haue the Beare againe, and
we will foole him blacke and blew, shall we not sir
Andrew?

An.
And we do not, it is pittie of our liues.
Enter Maria.

To.
Heere comes the little villaine: How now my
Mettle of India?

Mar.
Get ye all three into the box tree: Maluolio's
comming downe this walke, he has beene yonder i'the Sunne
practising behauiour to his own shadow this halfe houre:
obserue him for the loue of Mockerie: for I know this
Letter wil make a contemplatiue Ideot of him. Close in
the name of ieasting,
lye thou there: for heere comes the Trowt, that must be
caught with tickling.
Exit
Enter Maluolio.

Mal.
'Tis but Fortune, all is fortune. Maria once
told me she did affect me, and I haue heard her self
come thus neere, that should shee fancie, it should bee one
of my complection. Besides she vses me with a more
exalted respect, then any one else that followes her. What
should I thinke on't?

To.
Heere's an ouer-weening rogue.

Fa.
Oh peace: Contemplation makes a rare Turkey Cocke
of him, how he iets vnder his aduanc'd plumes.

And.
Slight I could so beate the Rogue.

To.
Peace I say.

Mal.
To be Count Maluolio.

To.
Ah Rogue.

An.
Pistoll him, pistoll him.

To.
Peace, peace.

Mal.
There is example for't: The Lady of the
Strachy, married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

An.
Fie on him Iezabel.

Fa.
O peace, now he's deepely in: looke how
imagination blowes him.

Mal.
Hauing beene three moneths married to her,
sitting in my state.

To.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye.

Mal.
Calling my Officers about me, in my branch'd
Veluet gowne: hauing come from a day bedde, where I haue
left Oliuia sleeping.

To.
Fire and Brimstone.

Fa.
O peace, peace.

Mal.
And then to haue the humor of state: and
after a demure trauaile of regard: telling them I knowe my
place, as I would they should doe theirs: to aske for my
kinsman Toby.

To.
Boltes and shackles.

Fa.
Oh peace, peace, peace, now, now.

Mal.
Seauen of my people with an obedient start,
make out for him: I frowne the while, and perchance
winde vp my watch, or play with my
some rich Iewell: Toby
approaches; curtsies there to me.

To.
Shall this fellow liue?

Fa.
Though our silence be drawne from vs with cars,
yet peace.

Mal.
I extend my hand to him thus: quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of controll.

To.
And do's not Toby take you a blow o'the lippes,
then?

Mal.
Saying, Cosine Toby, my Fortunes hauing
cast me on your Neece, giue me this prerogatiue of
speech.

To.
What, what?

Mal.
You must amend your drunkennesse.

To.
Out scab.

Fab.
Nay patience, or we breake the sinewes of our plot?

Mal.
Besides you waste the treasure of your time,
with a foolish knight.

And.
That's mee I warrant you.

Mal.
One sir Andrew.

And.
I knew 'twas I, for many do call mee foole.

Mal.

What employment haue
we heere?

Fa.
Now is the Woodcocke neere the gin.

To.
Oh peace, and the spirit of humors intimate
reading aloud to him.

Mal.
By my life this is my Ladies hand: these bee
her very C's, her V's, and her T's, and thus makes shee
her great P's. It is in contempt of question her hand.

An.
Her C's, her V's, and her T's: why that?

Mal.
To the vnknowne belou'd, this, and my good Wishes:
Her very Phrases: By your leaue wax. Soft, and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she vses to seale:
tis my Lady: To whom should this be?

Fab.
This winnes him, Liuer and all.

Mal.
Ioue knowes I loue,
but who,
Lips do not mooue,
no man must know.
No man must know. What followes? The numbers
alter'd: No man must know, If this should be thee
Maluolio?

To.
Marrie hang thee brocke.

Mal.
I may command where I adore,
but silence like a Lucresse knife:
With bloodlesse stroke my heart doth gore,
M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.

Fa.
A fustian riddle.

To.
Excellent Wench, say I.

Mal.
M.O.A.I. doth sway my life. Nay but first
let me see, let me see, let me see.

Fab.
What dish a poyson has she drest him?

To.
And with what wing the stallion checkes at it?

Mal.
I may command, where I adore: Why shee
may command me: I serue her, she is my Ladie. Why
this is euident to any formall capacitie. There is no
obstruction in this, and the end: What should that Alphabeticall
position portend, if I could make that resemble
something in me? Softly, M.O.A.I.

To.
O I, make vp that, he is now at a cold sent.

Fab.
Sowter will cry vpon't for all this, though it bee as
ranke as a Fox.

Mal.
M. Maluolio, M. why that begins my
name.

Fab.
Did not I say he would worke it out, the Curre is
excellent at faults.

Mal.
M. But then there is no consonancy in the
sequell that suffers vnder probation: A. should follow,
but O. does.

Fa.
And O shall end, I hope.

To.
I, or Ile cudgell him, and make him cry O.

Mal.
And then I. comes behind.

Fa.
I, and you had any eye behinde you, you might
see more detraction at your heeles, then Fortunes before
you.

Mal.
M,O,A,I. This simulation is not as the
former: and yet to crush this a little, it would bow to
mee, for euery one of these Letters are in my name. Soft,
here followes prose:

If this fall into thy hand, reuolue. In my stars I am aboue
thee, but be not affraid of greatnesse: Some are become great,
some atcheeues greatnesse, and some haue greatnesse thrust
vppon em. Thy fates open theyr hands, let thy blood and
spirit embrace them, and to invre thy selfe to what thou art
like to be: cast thy humble slough, and appeare fresh. Be
opposite with a kinsman, surly with seruants: Let thy
tongue tang arguments of state; put thy selfe into the tricke of
singularitie. Shee thus aduises thee, that sighes for thee.
Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wish'd
to see thee euer crosse garter'd: I say remember, goe too, thou
art made if thou desir'st to be so: If not, let me see thee a
steward still, the fellow of seruants, and not woorthie to
touch Fortunes fingers Farewell, Shee that would alter
seruices with thee, tht fortunate vnhappy
daylight and champian discouers not more: This is
open, I will bee proud, I will reade politicke Authours, I will
baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off grosse acquaintance, I
will be point deuise, the very man. I do not now foole
my selfe, to let imagination iade mee; for euery reason
excites to this, that my Lady loues me. She did commend
my yellow stockings of late, shee did praise my legge being
crosse-garter'd, and in this she manifests her selfe to my
loue, & with a kinde of iniunction driues mee to these
habites of her liking. I thanke my starres, I am happy: I
will bee strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and crosse Garter'd,
euen with the swiftnesse of putting on. Ioue, and
my starres be praised. Heere is yet a postscript.
Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainst
my loue, let it appeare in thy smiling, thy smiles
become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, deero
my sweete, I prethee.
Ioue I thanke thee, I will smile, I wil do euery thing that
thou wilt haue me.
Exit

Fab.
I will not giue my part of this sport for a pension
of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

To.
I could marry this wench for this deuice.

An.
So could I too.

To.
And aske no other dowry with her, but such another
iest.

An.
Nor I neither.
Enter Maria.

Fab.
Heere comes my noble gull catcher.

To.
Wilt thou set thy foote o'my necke.

An.
Or o'mine either?

To.
Shall I play my freedome at tray-trip, and becom
thy bondslaue?

An.
Ifaith, or I either?

Tob.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dreame, that
when the image of it leaues him, he must run mad.

Ma.
Nay but say true, do's it worke vpon him?

To.
Like Aqua vite with a Midwife.

Mar.
If you will then see the fruites of the sport, mark
his first approach before my Lady: hee will come to her in
yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhorres, and crosse garter'd,
a fashion shee detests: and hee will smile vpon
her, which will now be so vnsuteable to her disposition,
being addicted to a melancholly, as shee is, that it cannot
but turn him into a notable contempt: if you wil see it
follow me.

To.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent
diuell of wit.

And.
Ile make one too.
Exeunt.
Modern text
Act II, Scene I
Enter Antonio and Sebastian

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

SEBASTIAN
By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly
over me. The malignancy of my fate might perhaps
distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your
leave, that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad
recompense for your love to lay any of them on you.

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

SEBASTIAN
No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch
of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am
willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners
the rather to express myself. You must know of me
then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian which I called
Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline
whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him
myself and a sister, both born in an hour – if the
heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! But
you, sir, altered that, for some hour before you took me
from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.

ANTONIO
Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled
me, was yet of many accounted beautiful. But
though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar
believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her: she
bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is
drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to
drown her remembrance again with more.

ANTONIO
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

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

SEBASTIAN
If you will not undo what you have done –
that is, kill him whom you have recovered – desire it not.
Fare ye well at once; my bosom is full of kindness, and I
am yet so near the manners of my mother that, upon the
least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am
bound to the Count Orsino's court. Farewell.
Exit

ANTONIO
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there –
But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go!
Exit
Modern text
Act II, Scene II
Enter Viola and Malvolio at several doors

MALVOLIO
Were not you even now with the Countess
Olivia?

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

MALVOLIO
She returns this ring to you, sir. You might
have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself.
She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into
a desperate assurance she will none of him; and one
thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in
his affairs – unless it be to report your lord's taking of
this. Receive it so.

VIOLA
She took the ring of me, I'll none of it.

MALVOLIO
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her, and
her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping
for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds
it.
Exit

VIOLA
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not 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 false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms.
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made, if such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love.
As I am woman – now, alas the day,
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I!
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie.
Exit
Modern text
Act II, Scene III
Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew

SIR TOBY
Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be abed after
midnight, is to be up betimes, and diluculo surgere,
thou knowest –

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

SIR TOBY
A false conclusion! I hate it as an unfilled can.
To be up after midnight and to go to bed then is early;
so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes.
Does not our lives consist of the four elements?

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

SIR TOBY
Thou'rt a scholar. Let us therefore eat and
drink. Marian, I say! A stoup of wine!
Enter Feste

SIR ANDREW
Here comes the fool, i'faith.

FESTE
How now, my hearts! Did you never see the picture
of We Three?

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

SIR ANDREW
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast.
I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so
sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou
wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou
spok'st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the
equinoctial of Queubus. 'Twas very good, i'faith. I sent
thee sixpence for thy leman, hadst it?

FESTE
I did impetticoat thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose
is no whipstock, my lady has a white hand, and the
Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

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

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

SIR ANDREW
There's a testril of me, too. If one knight
give a –

FESTE
Would you have a love song, or a song of good life?

SIR TOBY
A love song! A love song!

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

FESTE
(sings)
O mistress mine! Where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear: your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

SIR ANDREW
Excellent good, i'faith.

SIR TOBY
Good, good.

FESTE
(sings)
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter,
What's to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty –
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

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

SIR TOBY
A contagious breath.

SIR ANDREW
Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.

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

SIR ANDREW
An you love me, let's do't. I am dog at a
catch.

FESTE
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW
Most certain. Let our catch be ‘ Thou
knave.’

FESTE
‘ Hold thy peace, thou knave,’ knight? I shall be
constrained in't to call thee knave, knight.

SIR ANDREW
'Tis not the first time I have constrained
one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins (he sings)
‘ Hold thy peace – ’

FESTE
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW
Good, i'faith. Come, begin!
Catch sung. Enter Maria

MARIA
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady
have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him
turn you out of doors, never trust me.

SIR TOBY
My lady's a – Cataian; we are – politicians;
Malvolio's a – Peg-a-Ramsey; and (he sings)
Three merry men be we!
Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood?
Tilly-vally! ‘ Lady ’! (He sings)
There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady –

FESTE
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

SIR ANDREW
Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed,
and so do I too. He does it with a better grace, but I do
it more natural.

SIR TOBY
(sings)
O' the twelfth day of December –

MARIA
For the love o' God, peace!
Enter Malvolio

MALVOLIO
My masters, are you mad? Or what are you?
Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble
like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse
of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your
coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of
voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in
you?

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

MALVOLIO
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady
bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her
kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you
can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are
welcome to the house. If not, an it would please you to
take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

SIR TOBY
(sings)
Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone –

MARIA
Nay, good Sir Toby!

FESTE
(sings)
His eyes do show his days are almost done –

MALVOLIO
Is't even so!

SIR TOBY
(sings)
But I will never die –

FESTE
(sings)
Sir Toby, there you lie –

MALVOLIO
This is much credit to you!

SIR TOBY
(sings)
Shall I bid him go?

FESTE
(sings)
What an if you do?

SIR TOBY
(sings)
Shall I bid him go and spare not?

FESTE
(sings)
O no, no, no, no, you dare not!

SIR TOBY
Out o' tune, sir, ye lie. (To Malvolio) Art any
more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

FESTE
Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i'the
mouth, too.

SIR TOBY
Th' art i'the right. (To Malvolio) Go, sir, rub
your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!

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

MARIA
Go, shake your ears.

SIR ANDREW
'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a
man's a-hungry, to challenge him the field and then to
break promise with him and make a fool of him.

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

MARIA
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the
youth of the Count's was today with my lady, she is
much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone
with him. If I do not gull him into a nay-word, and make
him a common recreation, do not think I have wit
enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it.

SIR TOBY
Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.

MARIA
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan –

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

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

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

MARIA
The devil a puritan that he is, or anything, constantly,
but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons
state without book and utters it by great swathes; the
best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks,
with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all
that look on him love him – and on that vice in him will
my revenge find notable cause to work.

SIR TOBY
What wilt thou do?

MARIA
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of
love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of
his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye,
forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most
feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady, your
niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make
distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY
Excellent! I smell a device.

SIR ANDREW
I have't in my nose too.

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

MARIA
My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.

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

MARIA
Ass, I doubt not.

SIR ANDREW
O, 'twill be admirable!

MARIA
Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will
work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool
make a third, where he shall find the letter. Observe his
construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on
the event. Farewell.
Exit

SIR TOBY
Good night, Penthesilea.

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

SIR TOBY
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores
me – what o' that?

SIR ANDREW
I was adored once, too.

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

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

SIR TOBY
Send for money, knight. If thou hast her not
i'the end, call me cut.

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

SIR TOBY
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too
late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act II, Scene IV
Enter Orsino, Viola, Curio, and others

ORSINO
Give me some music! Now, good morrow, friends!
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night.
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.
Come, but one verse.

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

ORSINO
Who was it?

CURIO
Feste the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady
Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the
house.

ORSINO
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
Exit Curio
Music plays
Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me.
For such as I am, all true lovers are:
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

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

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

VIOLA
A little, by your favour.

ORSINO
What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA
Of your complexion.

ORSINO
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i'faith?

VIOLA
About your years, my lord.

ORSINO
Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him;
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are.

VIOLA
I think it well, my lord.

ORSINO
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent.
For women are as roses whose fair flower,
Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

VIOLA
And so they are. Alas, that they are so,
To die, even when they to perfection grow.
Enter Curio and Feste

ORSINO
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.

FESTE
Are you ready, sir?

ORSINO
Ay, prithee sing.
Music plays

FESTE
(sings)
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fie away, fie away, breath!
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strewn.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there.

ORSINO
There's for thy pains.
He gives Feste money

FESTE
No pains, sir. I take pleasure in singing, sir.

ORSINO
I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

FESTE
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or
another.

ORSINO
Give me now leave, to leave thee.

FESTE
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 Feste

ORSINO
Let all the rest give place.
Curio and attendants withdraw
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond 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.

VIOLA
But if she cannot love you, sir?

ORSINO
It cannot be so answered.

VIOLA
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?

ORSINO
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 suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt.
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA
Ay, but I know –

ORSINO
What dost thou know?

VIOLA
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 a woman,
I should your lordship.

ORSINO
And what's her history?

VIOLA
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i'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.

ORSINO
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA
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?

ORSINO
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
Exeunt
Modern text
Act II, Scene V
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian

SIR TOBY
Come thy ways, Signor Fabian.

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

SIR TOBY
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly,
rascally sheep-biter come by some notable
shame?

FABIAN
I would exult, man. You know he brought me
out o' favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

SIR TOBY
To anger him, we'll have the bear again, and
we will fool him black and blue – shall we not, Sir
Andrew?

SIR ANDREW
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter Maria

SIR TOBY
Here comes the little villain. How now, my
metal of India?

MARIA
Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio's
coming down this walk, he has been yonder i'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!
The men hide. Maria throws down a letter
Lie thou there – for here comes the trout that must be
caught with tickling.
Exit
Enter Malvolio

MALVOLIO
'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once
told me she did affect me; and I have heard herself
come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one
of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more
exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What
should I think on't?

SIR TOBY
Here's an overweening rogue!

FABIAN
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock
of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!

SIR ANDREW
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

SIR TOBY
Peace, I say!

MALVOLIO
To be Count Malvolio . . .

SIR TOBY
Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW
Pistol him, pistol him!

SIR TOBY
Peace, peace!

MALVOLIO
There is example for't. The lady of the
Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

SIR ANDREW
Fie on him! Jezebel!

FABIAN
O, peace! Now he's deeply in. Look how
imagination blows him.

MALVOLIO
Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my state . . .

SIR TOBY
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO
Calling my officers about me, in my branched
velvet gown, having come from a day-bed, where I have
left Olivia sleeping . . .

SIR TOBY
Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN
O, peace, peace!

MALVOLIO
And then to have the humour 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.

SIR TOBY
Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now!

MALVOLIO
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 (fingering his
steward's chain of office) – some rich jewel. Toby
approaches, curtsies there to me . . .

SIR TOBY
Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars,
yet peace!

MALVOLIO
I extend my hand to him thus – quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of control . . .

SIR TOBY
And does not Toby take you a blow o'the lips
then?

MALVOLIO
Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes having
cast me on your niece give me this prerogative of
speech . . .

SIR TOBY
What, what!

MALVOLIO
You must amend your drunkenness.

SIR TOBY
Out, scab!

FABIAN
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO
Besides, you waste the treasure of your time
with a foolish knight . . .

SIR ANDREW
That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO
One Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW
I knew 'twas I, for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO
(picks up the letter)
What employment have
we here?

FABIAN
Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY
O, peace, and the spirit of humours intimate
reading aloud to him!

MALVOLIO
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.

SIR ANDREW
Her C's, her U's and her T's? Why that?

MALVOLIO
(reads)
To the unknown beloved this, and my good wishes.
Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal.
'Tis my lady! To whom should this be?

FABIAN
This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO
(reads)
Jove knows I love;
But who?
Lips, do not move;
No man must know.
‘ No man must know ’! What follows? The numbers
altered! ‘ No man must know ’! If this should be thee,
Malvolio!

SIR TOBY
Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO
(reads)
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.

FABIAN
A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY
Excellent wench, say I!

MALVOLIO
‘ M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’ Nay, but first
let me see, let me see, let me see. . . .

FABIAN
What dish o' poison has she dressed him!

SIR TOBY
And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

MALVOLIO
‘ I may command where I adore.’ Why, she
may command me. I serve her, she is my lady. Why,
this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no
obstruction in this. And the end: what should that alphabetical
position portend? If I could make that resemble
something in me. . . . Softly, ‘ M.O.A.I.’ . . .

SIR TOBY
O, ay, make up that. He is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as
rank as a fox.

MALVOLIO
M . . . Malvolio! M! Why, that begins my
name!

FABIAN
Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is
excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO
M! But then there is no consonancy in the
sequel that suffers under probation. A should follow,
but O does.

FABIAN
And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY
Ay, or I'll cudgel him and make him cry O.

MALVOLIO
And then I comes behind.

FABIAN
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might
see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before
you.

MALVOLIO
M.O.A.I. This 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.
He reads
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 'em. 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 slough 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-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou
art made if thou desirest to be so. If not, let me see thee a
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 champain 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 late, 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 is yet a postscript.
He reads
Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest
my love, let it appear in thy smiling, thy smiles
become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear
my sweet, I prithee.
Jove, I thank thee! I will smile. I will do everything that
thou wilt have me!
Exit

FABIAN
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension
of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY
I could marry this wench for this device.

SIR ANDREW
So could I too.

SIR TOBY
And ask no other dowry with her but such another
jest.

SIR ANDREW
Nor I neither.
Enter Maria

FABIAN
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW
Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip and become
thy bondslave?

SIR ANDREW
I'faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that
when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad.

MARIA
Nay, but say true: does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA
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 colour 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.

SIR TOBY
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent
devil of wit!

SIR ANDREW
I'll make one too.
Exeunt
SHAKESPEARE'S WORDS © 2020 DAVID CRYSTAL & BEN CRYSTAL