Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench. Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; What o' that? Sir And. I was adored once too. Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.-Thou hadst need send for more money. Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut.1 Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt. SCENE IV-A room in the Duke's palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. Duke. Give me some music: Now, good morrow, friends: Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. Duke. Who was it? Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is about the house. Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. Exit Curio.-Music. 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; (1) Horse. Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save, in the constant image of the creature Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour1 that it loves; Hath it not, boy? Vio. Duke. What kind of woman is't? Vio. A little, by your favour. Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i'faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, Vio. I think it well, my lord. Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses; whose fair flower, Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! Re-enter Curio, and Clown. Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night : Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain : The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, bones,2 (1) Countenance. (2) Lace makers. Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,1 And dallies with the innocence of love, Clo. Are you ready, sir? Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing. SONG. [Music. Clo. Come away, come away, death, My part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, thrown; A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover ne'er find my grave, Duke. There's for thy pains. Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then. Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal3-I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.-Farewell. [Exit Clown. (1) Simple truth. (2) Times of simplicity. A precious stone of all colours. Duke. Let all the rest give place. [Exeunt Curio and attendants. Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty: The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. Can 'bide the beating of so strong a passion Vio. Ay, but I know,— Duke. What dost thou know? Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. Duke. And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love, (1) Decks. But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? Duke. Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay.1 [Exeunt. SCENE V-Olivia's Garden. Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, and Fabian. Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here. Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue :Shall we not, sir Andrew? Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. Enter Maria. Sir To. Here comes the little villain:-How now, my nettle of India. Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yon (1) Denial. |