SCENE I. The sea-coast.
[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]
Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?
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
Let me know of you whither 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 Rodorigo; 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 hours 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: but though I could not, with
such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will
boldly publish her,--she bore 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.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
O, 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 the Count Orsino's court: farewell.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many cnemies 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.
SCENE II. 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
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.
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.
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man; --if it be so,--as 'tis,--
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!
SCENE III. A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]
Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be a-bed after midnight is to
be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st.
Nay; by my troth, 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. Do not our lives
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 stoup of wine.
Here comes the fool, i' 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 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 spokest of Pigrogromitus,
of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very
good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.
Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.
There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
A love-song, a love-song.
Ay, 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 good, i' faith.
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, i' faith.
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
An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Most certain: let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'
'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd
in't 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, i' faith! Come, begin.
[They sing a catch.]
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 Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a
'Three merry men be we.'
Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley,
'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.'
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable 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.
[Singing] O, the twelfth day of December,--
For the love o' God, peace!
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no
wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this
time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house, that
ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or
remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor
time, in you?
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
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, 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.
[Singing] 'Shall I bid him go?'
'What an if you do?'
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'
'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'
Out o' tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou
think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth
Thou'art i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs:
A stoup 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.
Go shake your ears.
'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.
Do't, 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 count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet.
For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull
him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not
think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
O, 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't, 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 excellences, 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.
What wilt thou do?
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.
Excellent! I smell a device.
I have't in my nose too.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
Ass, I doubt not.
O 'twill be admirable!
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.
Good night, Penthesilea.
Before me, she's a good wench.
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?
I was adored once too.
Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more money.
If I cannot recover your niece I am a foul way out.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' 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.
SCENE IV. A Room in 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?
Feste, 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.]
Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are;
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd.--How dost thou like this tune?
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.
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?
A little, by your favour.
What kind of woman is't?
Of your complexion.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' 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 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 won,
Than women's are.
I think it well, my lord.
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.
And so they are: alas, 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; pr'ythee, sing. [Music]
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 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 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, O, where
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.
Let all the rest give place.--
[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]
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 bestow'd 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 be so answer'd.
'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 answer'd?
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.
Ay, but I know,--
What dost thou know?
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.
And what's her history?
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.
But died 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 denay.
SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]
Come thy ways, Signior 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?
I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour
with my lady about a bear-baiting here.
To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--shall we not, Sir Andrew?
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India?
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 themselves.]
Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout
that must be caught with tickling.
'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 any one else that
follows her. What should I think on't?
Here's an overweening rogue!
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;
how he jets under his advanced plumes!
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--
Peace, I say.
To be Count Malvolio;--
Pistol him, pistol him.
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married
the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--
O 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!
O, peace, peace.
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.
Bolts and shackles!
O, 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 some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies 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
austere regard of control:
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech':--
'You must amend your drunkenness.'
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a
That's me, I warrant you.
'One Sir Andrew':
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter.]
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
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?
[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?
This wins him, liver and all.
'Jove knows I love,
Lips, do not move,
No man must know.'
'No man must know.'--What follows? the numbers alter'd!--'No man
must know':--If this should be thee, Malvolio?
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 fustian 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 dressed him!
And with what wing the stannyel checks at it!
'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.--
O, ay, make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a
M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.
Did not I say he would work it out?
The cur is excellent at faults.
M,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.
And O shall end, I hope.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'
And then I comes behind.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.
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.--
'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 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
Daylight and champian 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. '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 pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
I could marry this wench for 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.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
Or o' mine either?
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?
I' faith, 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 upon him?
Like aqua-vitae 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 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.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!
I'll make one too.