Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords,with Musicians playing.
Enter Viola, a Captain, and Sailors.
Enter Sir Toby and Maria.
Enter Valentine, and Viola in man’s attire as Cesario.
Enter Orsino, Curio, and Attendants.
, to Curio and Attendants
Enter Maria and Feste, the Fool.
Enter Lady Olivia with Malvolio and Attendants.
Maria and Attendants exit.
Enter Antonio and Sebastian.
Enter Viola and Malvolio, at several doors.
Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.
, giving money to the Fool
, giving money to the Fool
Enter Orsino, Viola, Curio, and others.
Enter Curio and Feste, the Fool.
All but Orsino and Viola exit.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Enter Viola and Feste, the Fool, playing a tabor.
Enter Sir Toby and Andrew.
Enter Olivia, and Maria, her Gentlewoman.
Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria exit.
They exit in different directions.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Enter Sebastian and Antonio.
They exit in different directions.
Enter Maria with Malvolio.
Olivia and Maria exit in different directions.
Enter Toby, Fabian, and Maria.
Toby, Fabian, and Maria exit.
Toby crosses to meet them.
Antonio and Officers exit.
Toby, Fabian, and Andrew move aside.
Enter Sebastian and Feste, the Fool.
Enter Andrew, Toby, and Fabian.
He pulls free and draws his sword.
Toby, Andrew, and Fabian exit.
Enter Maria and Feste, the Fool.
He puts on gown and beard.
In the voice of Sir Topas.
Enter Olivia, and a Priest.
Enter Feste, the Fool and Fabian.
Enter Orsino, Viola, Curio, and Lords.
Enter Antonio and Officers.
Enter Olivia and Attendants.
Enter Toby and Feste, the Fool.
Toby, Andrew, Fool, and Fabian exit.
Enter Feste, the Fool with a letter, and Fabian.
, giving letter to Fabian
Enter Malvolio and Fabian.
a lady of Messaline shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria (later disguised as Cesario)
What country, friends, is this?
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drowned.—What think you,
O, my poor brother! And so perchance may he be.
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?
Orsino. I have heard my father name him.
He was a bachelor then.
O, that I served that lady,
And might not be delivered to the world
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.
There is a fair behavior 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 thy silence to my wit.
I thank thee. Lead me on.
You either fear his humor or my negligence, that
you call in question the continuance of his love. Is
he inconstant, sir, in his favors?
I thank you.
Here comes the Count.
On your attendance, my lord, here.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandoned to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
I’ll do my best
To woo your lady. Yet a barful strife!
Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.
The honorable lady of the house, which is she?
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 penned, 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.
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.
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?
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.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis
No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little
longer.—Some mollification for your giant, sweet
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.
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I
learned from my entertainment. What I am and
what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your
ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation.
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
Good madam, let me see your face.
Excellently done, if God did all.
’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy.
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 recompensed though you were
The nonpareil of beauty.
With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
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.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate
And call upon my soul within the house,
Write loyal cantons of contemnèd love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night,
Hallow your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth
But you should pity me.
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well.
I am a gentleman.
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 fervor, like my master’s, be
Placed in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty.
Even now, sir. On a moderate pace I have since
arrived but hither.
She took the ring of me. I’ll none of it.
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 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 t’ untie.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is throned.
About your years, my lord.
I think it well, my lord.
And so they are. Alas, that they are so,
To die even when they to perfection grow!
But if she cannot love you, sir—
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?
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.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ 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.
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?
Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live
by thy tabor?
So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar if a
beggar dwell near him, or the church stands by thy
tabor if thy tabor stand by the church.
Nay, that’s certain. They that dally nicely with
words may quickly make them wanton.
I warrant thou art a merry fellow and car’st for
Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s Fool?
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.
Nay, an thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with
thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee.
By my troth I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for
one, though I would not have it grow on my
chin.—Is thy lady within?
Yes, being kept together and put to use.
I understand you, sir. ’Tis well begged.
This fellow is wise enough to play the Fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit.
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labor as a wise man’s art:
For folly that he wisely shows is fit;
But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.
Et vous aussi. Votre serviteur!
I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the
list of my voyage.
My legs do better understand me, sir, than I
understand what you mean by bidding me taste my
I will answer you with gait and entrance—but
we are prevented.
Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain
odors on you!
My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own
most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.
My duty, madam, and most humble service.
Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.
And he is yours, and his must needs be yours.
Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.
Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf.
No, not a grize, for ’tis a vulgar proof
That very oft we pity enemies.
Then westward ho!
Grace and good disposition attend your Ladyship.
You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
That you do think you are not what you are.
Then think you right. I am not what I am.
Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has, nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam. Nevermore
Will I my master’s tears to you deplore.
With the same ’havior that your passion bears
Goes on my master’s griefs.
Nothing but this: your true love for my master.
You mistake, sir. I am sure no man hath any
quarrel to me. My remembrance is very free and
clear from any image of offense done to any man.
I pray you, sir, what is he?
I will return again into the house and desire
some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have
heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely
on others to taste their valor. Belike this is a
man of that quirk.
This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do
me this courteous office, as to know of the knight
what my offense to him is. It is something of my
negligence, nothing of my purpose.
Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
I shall be much bound to you for ’t. I am one
that had rather go with Sir Priest than Sir Knight, I
care not who knows so much of my mettle.
Pray God defend me! A little thing
would make me tell them how much I lack of a
I do assure you ’tis against my will.
Pray, sir, put your sword up, if
What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have showed me here,
And part being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I’ll lend you something. My having is not much.
I’ll make division of my present with you.
Hold, there’s half my coffer.
I know of none,
Nor know I you by voice or any feature.
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood—
Methinks his words do from such passion fly
That he believes himself; so do not I.
Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you!
He named Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass. Even such and so
In favor was my brother, and he went
Still in this fashion, color, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side,
But in conclusion put strange speech upon me.
I know not what ’twas but distraction.
My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest a thousand deaths would die.
After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More by all mores than e’er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above,
Punish my life for tainting of my love.
Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?
Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you.
You drew your sword upon me without cause,
But I bespake you fair and hurt you not.
Of Messaline. Sebastian was my father.
Such a Sebastian was my brother too.
So went he suited to his watery tomb.
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.
My father had a mole upon his brow.
And died that day when Viola from her birth
Had numbered thirteen years.
If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurped attire,
Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola; which to confirm,
I’ll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserved to serve this noble count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
And all those sayings will I overswear,
And all those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbèd continent the fire
That severs day from night.
The Captain that did bring me first on shore
Hath my maid’s garments. He, upon some action,
Is now in durance at Malvolio’s suit,
A gentleman and follower of my lady’s.
an Illyrian countess
Go to, you’re a dry Fool. I’ll no more of you.
Besides, you grow dishonest.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll bide
Good Fool, for my brother’s death.
I know his soul is in heaven, Fool.
What think you of this Fool, Malvolio? Doth he
How say you to that, Malvolio?
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste
with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless,
and of free disposition is to take those things
for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There
is no slander in an allowed Fool, though he do
nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet
man, though he do nothing but reprove.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
Who of my people hold him in delay?
Fetch him off, I pray you. He speaks nothing
but madman. Fie on him! Go you,
Malvolio. If it be a suit from the Count, I am sick,
or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.
Now you see, sir, how your fooling
grows old, and people dislike it.
By mine honor, half drunk!—What is he at the
A gentleman? What gentleman?
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by
What’s a drunken man like, Fool?
Go thou and seek the crowner and let him sit o’
my coz, for he’s in the third degree of drink: he’s
drowned. Go look after him.
Tell him he shall not speak with me.
Of what personage and years is he?
Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.
Give me my veil. Come, throw it o’er my face.
We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.
Speak to me. I shall answer for her. Your will?
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Come to what is important in ’t. I forgive you
It is the more like to be feigned. I pray you,
keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and
allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than
to hear you. If you be not mad, begone; if you have
reason, be brief. ’Tis not that time of moon with me
to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Sure you have some hideous matter to deliver
when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your
Yet you began rudely. What are you? What
Give us the place alone. We will hear this
divinity. Now, sir, what
is your text?
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said
of it. Where lies your text?
In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more
Have you any commission from your lord to
negotiate with my face? You are now out of your
text. But we will draw the curtain and show you the
picture. Look you, sir, such a
one I was this present. Is ’t not well done?
’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and
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 labeled
to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item,
two gray eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one
chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise
Your lord does know my mind. I cannot love him.
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learned, and valiant,
And in dimension and the shape of nature
A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him.
He might have took his answer long ago.
You might do much.
What is your parentage?
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.
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 fivefold blazon. Not too fast! 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!
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 tomorrow,
I’ll give him reasons for ’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.
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.
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to
Give me your hand, sir.
My servant, sir? ’Twas never merry world
Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
You’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
For him, I think not on him. For his thoughts,
Would they were blanks rather than filled with me.
O, by your leave, I pray you.
I bade you never speak again of him.
But would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.
Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you in a shameful cunning
Which you knew none of yours. What might you
Have you not set mine honor at the stake,
And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your
Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.
Why then methinks ’tis time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you.
And yet when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due west.
Stay. I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me.
If I think so, I think the same of you.
I would you were as I would have you be.
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honor, truth, and everything,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Yet come again, for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
I have sent after him. He says he’ll come.
How shall I feast him? What bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begged or
I speak too loud.—
Where’s Malvolio? He is sad and civil
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.
Where is Malvolio?
Why, what’s the matter? Does he rave?
Go call him hither. I am as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.
How now, Malvolio?
Smil’st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad
Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and
kiss thy hand so oft?
What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio?
Why, this is very midsummer madness!
I’ll come to him. Good Maria, let
this fellow be looked to. Where’s my Cousin Toby?
Let some of my people have a special care of him. I
would not have him miscarry for the half of my
I have said too much unto a heart of stone
And laid mine honor too unchary on ’t.
There’s something in me that reproves my fault,
But such a headstrong potent fault it is
That it but mocks reproof.
Here, wear this jewel for me. ’Tis my picture.
Refuse it not. It hath no tongue to vex you.
And I beseech you come again tomorrow.
What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny,
That honor, saved, may upon asking give?
How with mine honor may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well.
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.
Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee, hold!
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne’er were preached! Out of my
Be not offended, dear Cesario.—
I prithee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botched up, that thou thereby
Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go.
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me!
He started one poor heart of mine, in thee.
Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou ’dst be ruled by
Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by. There, before him
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth. What do you say?
Then lead the way, good father, and heavens so
That they may fairly note this act of mine.
What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?—
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
What do you say, Cesario?—Good my lord—
If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.
Even what it please my lord that shall become him.
Ay me, detested! How am I beguiled!
Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?—
Call forth the holy father.
Whither, my lord?—Cesario, husband, stay.
Ay, husband. Can he that deny?
Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear
That makes thee strangle thy propriety.
Fear not, Cesario. Take thy fortunes up.
Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear’st.
O, welcome, father.
Father, I charge thee by thy reverence
Here to unfold (though lately we intended
To keep in darkness what occasion now
Reveals before ’tis ripe) what thou dost know
Hath newly passed between this youth and me.
O, do not swear.
Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.
Who has done this, Sir Andrew?
Away with him! Who hath made this havoc
Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to.
He shall enlarge him.
Fetch Malvolio hither.
And yet, alas, now I remember me,
They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banished his.
How does he, sirrah?
Prithee, read i’ thy right wits.
See him delivered, Fabian. Bring him hither.
My lord, so please you, these things
further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown th’ alliance on ’t, so please
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
Ay, my lord, this same.—
How now, Malvolio?
Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,
Though I confess much like the character.
But out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand.
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presupposed
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content.
This practice hath most shrewdly passed upon thee.
But when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.
Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!
He hath been most notoriously abused.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier
o’ nights. Your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions
to your ill hours.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the
modest limits of order.
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
What’s that to th’ purpose?
Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats.
He’s a very fool and a prodigal.
He hath indeed, almost natural, for, besides
that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreler, and, but that
he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath
in quarreling, ’tis thought among the prudent he
would quickly have the gift of a grave.
They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in
Fare you well, gentlemen.
Sir, I have not you by th’ hand.
Now sir, thought is free. I
pray you, bring your hand to th’ butt’ry bar and let
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends. Marry,
now I let go your hand, I am barren.
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
A good Lenten answer. I can tell thee where
that saying was born, of I fear no colors.
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in
Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent.
Or to be turned away, is not that as good as a
hanging to you?
That if one break, the other will hold, or, if both
break, your gaskins fall.
Peace, you rogue. No more o’ that. Here comes
my lady. Make your excuse wisely, you were best.
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman
much desires to speak with you.
I know not, madam. ’Tis a fair young man, and
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.
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.
For the love o’ God, peace!
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 nayword
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.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
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
swaths; 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
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of
love, wherein by the color of his beard, the shape of
his leg, the manner of his gait, the 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.
My purpose is indeed a horse of that color.
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.
Get you all three into the boxtree. Malvolio’s
coming down this walk. He has been yonder i’ the
sun practicing behavior to his own shadow this half
hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery, for I
know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of
him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie
thou there for here comes
the trout that must be caught with tickling.
Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?
If you will then see the fruits of the sport,
mark his first approach before my lady. He will
come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a color
she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;
and he will smile upon her, which will now
be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted
to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot
but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will
see it, follow me.
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves
into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is
turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no
Christian that means to be saved by believing rightly
can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness.
He’s in yellow stockings.
Most villainously, like a pedant that keeps a
school i’ th’ church. I have dogged him like his
murderer. He does obey every point of the letter
that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face
into more lines than is in the new map with the
augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such
a thing as ’tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at
him. I know my lady will strike him. If she do, he’ll
smile and take ’t for a great favor.
He’s coming, madam, but in very strange manner.
He is sure possessed, madam.
No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your
Ladyship were best to have some guard about you if
he come, for sure the man is tainted in ’s wits.
Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness
before my lady?
Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks
within him! Did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady
prays you to have a care of him.
La you, an you speak ill of the devil,
how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be not
Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning
if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than
Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby; get
him to pray.
No, I warrant you, he will not hear of
Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air
The house will be the quieter.
You may have very fit occasion for ’t. He is now
in some commerce with my lady, and will by and
Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard;
make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate. Do
it quickly. I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst.
Thou mightst have done this without thy beard
and gown. He sees thee not.
Sir Toby Belch
What a plague means my niece to take the death
of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to
Why, let her except before excepted!
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!
Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
He’s as tall a man as any ’s in Illyria.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year!
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
By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors
that say so of him. Who are they?
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 coistrel 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.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost!
You mistake, knight. Accost is front her, board
her, woo her, assail her.
An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou
mightst never draw sword again.
O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary! When did
I see thee so put down?
Pourquoi, my dear knight?
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
Past question, for thou seest it will not curl by
Excellent! It hangs like flax on a distaff, and I
hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs
and spin it off.
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.
Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
And I can cut the mutton to ’t.
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 formed under the star of a galliard.
What shall we do else? Were we not born under
No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee
caper. Ha, higher! Ha, ha,
’Tis a gentleman here.—a plague o’ these pickle
herring!—How now, sot?
Lechery? I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate.
Let him be the devil an he will, I care not. Give
me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one.
Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be abed after
midnight is to be up betimes, and diluculo surgere,
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
Thou ’rt a scholar. Let us therefore eat and
drink. Marian, I say, a stoup of wine!
Welcome, ass! Now let’s have a catch.
Come on, there is
sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.
A love song, a love song.
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?
My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s
a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men bewe. Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her
blood? Tillyvally! Lady! There dwelt a manin Babylon, lady, lady.
O’ the twelfth day of December—
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Out o’ tune, sir? You lie. Art any more than a
steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Thou ’rt i’ th’ right.—Go, sir, rub your chain
with crumbs.—A stoup of wine, Maria!
Do ’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge. Or I’ll
deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.
What, for being a puritan? Thy exquisite reason,
Excellent! I smell a device.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop,
that they come from my niece, and that she’s in
love with him.
She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores
me. What o’ that?
Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for
Send for money, knight. If thou hast her not i’
th’ end, call me Cut.
Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack. ’Tis too
late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly
rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
To anger him, we’ll have the bear again, and we
will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir
Here comes the little villain.—How now, my
metal of India?
Here’s an overweening rogue.
O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the
O, peace, and the spirit of humors intimate
reading aloud to him.
And with what wing the staniel checks
O, ay, make up that.—He is now at a cold
Ay, or I’ll cudgel him and make him cry
I could marry this wench for this device.
And ask no other dowry with her but such
Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip and become
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream that
when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.
Like aqua vitae with a midwife.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil
Will you encounter the house? My niece is
desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me
And they have been grand-jurymen since before
Noah was a sailor.
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis
of valor. Challenge me the Count’s youth to fight
with him. Hurt him in eleven places. My niece shall
take note of it, and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s
commendation with woman than report of valor.
Go, write it in a martial hand. Be curst and
brief. It is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent
and full of invention. Taunt him with the license of
ink. If thou thou-est him some thrice, it shall not
be amiss, and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of
paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set ’em down. Go, about it.
Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou
write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it.
We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand
strong, or so.
Never trust me, then. And by all means stir on
the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes
cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were
opened and you find so much blood in his liver as
will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of th’
Look where the youngest wren of mine comes.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all
the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion
himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him.
Go to, go to! Peace, peace.
We must deal gently with him. Let me alone.—How
do you, Malvolio? How is ’t with you? What, man,
defy the devil! Consider, he’s an enemy to mankind.
Prithee, hold thy peace. This is not the way. Do
you not see you move him? Let me alone with
Why, how now, my bawcock? How
dost thou, chuck?
Ay, biddy, come with me.—What, man, ’tis not
for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang
him, foul collier!
His very genius hath taken the infection of the
Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and
bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s
mad. We may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his
penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath,
prompt us to have mercy on him, at which time we
will bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a
finder of madmen. But see, but see!
Give me. Youth, whatsoever thou art,
thou art but a scurvy fellow.
Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind,
why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason
Thou com’st to the Lady Olivia, and in my
sight she uses thee kindly. But thou liest in thy throat;
that is not the matter I challenge thee for.
I will waylay thee going home, where if it be
thy chance to kill me—
Thou kill’st me like a rogue and a villain.
Fare thee well, and God have mercy upon
one of our souls. He may have mercy upon mine, but
my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as
thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,Andrew Aguecheek.If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. I’ll
give ’t him.
Go, Sir Andrew. Scout me for him at the corner
of the orchard like a bum-baily. So soon as ever
thou seest him, draw, and as thou draw’st, swear
horrible, for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath,
with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives
manhood more approbation than ever proof itself
would have earned him. Away!
Now will not I deliver his letter, for the behavior
of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good
capacity and breeding; his employment between
his lord and my niece confirms no less. Therefore,
this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed
no terror in the youth. He will find it comes from a
clodpoll. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by
word of mouth, set upon Aguecheek a notable
report of valor, and drive the gentleman (as I know
his youth will aptly receive it) into a most hideous
opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This
will so fright them both that they will kill one
another by the look, like cockatrices.
I will meditate the while upon some horrid
message for a challenge.
Gentleman, God save thee.
That defense thou hast, betake thee to ’t. Of what
nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know
not, but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as
the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dismount
thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy
assailant is quick, skillful, and deadly.
You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore,
if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your
guard, for your opposite hath in him what youth,
strength, skill, and wrath can furnish man withal.
He is knight dubbed with unhatched rapier and
on carpet consideration, but he is a devil in private
brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and
his incensement at this moment is so implacable
that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death
and sepulcher. Hob, nob is his word; give ’t ortake ’t.
Sir, no. His indignation derives itself out of a very
competent injury. Therefore get you on and give
him his desire. Back you shall not to the house,
unless you undertake that with me which with as
much safety you might answer him. Therefore on,
or strip your sword stark naked, for meddle you
must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about
I will do so.—Signior Fabian, stay you by this
gentleman till my return.
Why, man, he’s a very devil. I have not seen such
a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard,
and all, and he gives me the stuck-in with such
a mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the
answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hits the
ground they step on. They say he has been fencer
to the Sophy.
Ay, but he will not now be pacified. Fabian can
scarce hold him yonder.
I’ll make the motion. Stand here, make a good
show on ’t. This shall end without the perdition of
souls. Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I
I have his horse to take up the
quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil.
There’s no remedy, sir; he will fight
with you for ’s oath sake. Marry, he hath better
bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now
scarce to be worth talking of. Therefore, draw for
the supportance of his vow. He protests he will not
Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy. The
gentleman will, for his honor’s sake, have one bout
with you. He cannot by the duello avoid it. But he
has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier,
he will not hurt you. Come on, to ’t.
You, sir? Why, what are you?
Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. We’ll
whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws.
A very dishonest, paltry boy, and more a coward
than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his
friend here in necessity and denying him; and for
his cowardship, ask Fabian.
Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy
I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.
Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young
soldier, put up your iron. You are well fleshed.
What, what? Nay, then, I must have an ounce or
two of this malapert blood from you.
Jove bless thee, Master Parson.
The knave counterfeits well. A good knave.
Well said, Master Parson.
My most exquisite Sir Topas!
To him in thine own voice, and bring me word
how thou find’st him. I would we were well rid
of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered,
I would he were, for I am now so far in
offense with my niece that I cannot pursue with
any safety this sport the upshot. Come by and by
to my chamber.
That’s all one. Has hurt me, and there’s th’ end
on ’t. Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot?
Then he’s a rogue and a passy-measures pavin. I
hate a drunken rogue.
Will you help?—an ass-head, and a coxcomb,
and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull?
Sir Andrew Aguecheek
Sir Toby’s companion
Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch?
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better
Good Mistress Mary Accost—
By my troth, I would not undertake her in
this company. Is that the meaning of accost?
An you part so, mistress, I would I might
never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you
have fools in hand?
Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my
Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your
Why, I think so. I am not such an ass but I
can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest?
Never in your life, I think, unless you see
canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have
no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man
has. But I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that
does harm to my wit.
An I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride
home tomorrow, Sir Toby.
What is pourquoi? Do, or not do? I would I
had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in
fencing, dancing, and bearbaiting. O, had I but
followed the arts!
Why, would that have mended my hair?
But it becomes me well enough, does ’t not?
Faith, I’ll home tomorrow, Sir Toby. Your
niece will not be seen, or if she be, it’s four to one
she’ll none of me. The Count himself here hard by
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.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be,
under the degree of my betters, and yet I will not
compare with an old man.
Faith, I can cut a caper.
And I think I have the back-trick simply as
strong as any man in Illyria.
Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
dun-colored stock. Shall we set about some
Taurus? That’s sides and heart.
Nay, by my troth, I know not. But I know to
be up late is to be up late.
Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists
of eating and drinking.
Here comes the Fool, i’ faith.
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.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling when
all is done. Now, a song!
There’s a testril of
me, too. If one knight give a—
Ay, ay, I care not for good life.
Excellent good, i’ faith!
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.
An you love me, let’s do ’t. I am dog at a
Most certain. Let our catch be ThouKnave.
’Tis not the first time I have constrained one
to call me knave. Begin, Fool. It begins Holdthy peace.
Good, i’ faith. Come, begin.
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.
’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
O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog!
I have no exquisite reason for ’t, but I have
reason good enough.
I have ’t in my nose, too.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
Before me, she’s a good wench.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way
If I do not, never trust me, take it how you
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
That’s me, I warrant you.
I knew ’twas I, for many do call me
Her c’s, her u’s, and her t’s. Why that?
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours.
That youth’s a rare courtier. Rainodors, well.
Odors, pregnant, and vouchsafed.
I’ll get ’em all three all ready.
No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.
Marry, I saw your niece do more favors to the
Count’s servingman than ever she bestowed upon
me. I saw ’t i’ th’ orchard.
As plain as I see you now.
’Slight, will you make an ass o’ me?
An ’t be any way, it must be with valor, for
policy I hate. I had as lief be a Brownist as a
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
Here’s the challenge.
Read it. I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in ’t.
Ay, is ’t. I warrant him. Do but read.
Nay, let me alone for swearing.
Pox on ’t! I’ll not meddle with him.
Plague on ’t! An I thought he had been
valiant, and so cunning in fence, I’d have seen him
damned ere I’d have challenged him. Let him let
the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, gray
Pray God he keep his
Marry, will I, sir. And for that I promised
you, I’ll be as good as my word. He will bear you
easily, and reins well.
’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him.
Now, sir, have I met you again?
There’s for you.
Nay, let him alone. I’ll go another way to
work with him. I’ll have an action of battery against
him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck
him first, yet it’s no matter for that.
For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one
presently to Sir Toby.
Has broke my head across, and has given Sir
Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God,
your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at
The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario. We took
him for a coward, but he’s the very devil
’Od’s lifelings, here he is!—You broke my
head for nothing, and that that I did, I was set on to
do ’t by Sir Toby.
If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt
me. I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb.
Here comes Sir Toby halting. You shall hear
more. But if he had not been in drink, he would
have tickled you othergates than he did.
I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be
steward in Olivia’s household
Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death
shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth
ever make the better Fool.
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 gagged. I protest I take these wise men
that crow so at these set kind of Fools no better than
the Fools’ zanies.
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
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.
Of very ill manner. He’ll speak with you,
will you or no.
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-favored, and he speaks very shrewishly.
One would think his mother’s milk were
scarce out of him.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Here, madam, at your service.
Were not you even now with the Countess
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.
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.
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 you
make an ale-house of my lady’s house, that you
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, I must be round with you. My lady
bade me tell you that, though she harbors you as her
kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If
you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors,
you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would
please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to
bid you farewell.
This is much credit to you.
Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favor
at anything more than contempt, you would not give
means for this uncivil rule. She shall know of it, by
’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?
There is example for ’t. The lady of the
Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my state—
Calling my officers about me, in my
branched velvet gown, having come from a daybed,
where I have left Olivia sleeping—
And then to have the humor of state; and
after a demure travel of regard, telling them I
know my place, as I would they should do theirs, to
ask for my kinsman Toby—
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—some
rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me—
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of
Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes, havingcast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of
You must amend your drunkenness.
Besides, you waste the treasure of yourtime with a foolish knight—
What employment have
By my life, this is my
lady’s hand! These be her very c’s, her u’s, and her
t’s, and thus she makes her great P’s. It is in
contempt of question her hand.
To the unknown beloved, this, and mygood 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?
Jove knows I love,
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
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.
M.O.A.I. doth sway my life. Nay, but first
let me see, let me see, let me see.
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.—
M—Malvolio. M—why, that begins
M. But then there is no consonancy in
the sequel that suffers under probation. A should
follow, but O does.
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 mystars 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 desir’st 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 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-devise 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 Iam. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy
smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my
presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.
Jove, I thank thee! I will smile. I will do everything
that thou wilt have me.
Sad, lady? I could be sad. This does make
some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering,
but what of that? If it please the eye of one, it is
with me as the very true sonnet is: Please one, andplease all.
Not black in my mind, though yellow in my
legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall
be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman
To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come tothee.
At your request? Yes, nightingales answer
Be not afraid of greatness. ’Twas well
And some have greatness thrust uponthem.
Remember who commended thy yellowstockings—
And wished to see thee cross-gartered.
Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to beso—
If not, let me see thee a servant still.
O ho, do you come near me now? No worse
man than Sir Toby to look to me. This concurs
directly with the letter. She sends him on purpose
that I may appear stubborn to him, for she incites
me to that in the letter: Cast thy humble slough,
says she. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly withservants; let thy tongue tang with arguments of
state; put thyself into the trick of singularity, and
consequently sets down the manner how: as, a sad
face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit
of some Sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her,
but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful!
And when she went away now, Let this fellow belooked to. Fellow! Not Malvolio, nor after my
degree, but fellow. Why, everything adheres together,
that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a
scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe
circumstance—what can be said? Nothing that can
be can come between me and the full prospect of
my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and
he is to be thanked.
Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my
private. Go off.
Do you know what you say?
Go hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow
things. I am not of your element. You shall
know more hereafter.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to
Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged.
Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad. They have
laid me here in hideous darkness—
I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this
house is dark.
I say this house is as dark as ignorance,
though ignorance were as dark as hell. And I say
there was never man thus abused. I am no more
mad than you are. Make the trial of it in any
That the soul of our grandam might haply
inhabit a bird.
I think nobly of the soul, and no way
approve his opinion.
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at
my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and
paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful
to thee for ’t.
Fool, there was never man so notoriously
abused. I am as well in my wits, Fool, as thou art.
They have here propertied me, keep me in
darkness, send ministers to me—asses!—and do
all they can to face me out of my wits.
Good Fool, help me to some light and some
paper. I tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any
man in Illyria.
By this hand, I am. Good Fool, some ink,
paper, and light; and convey what I will set down to
my lady. It shall advantage thee more than ever the
bearing of letter did.
Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true.
Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree. I
Madam, you have done me
Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand.
Write from it if you can, in hand or phrase,
Or say ’tis not your seal, not your invention.
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,
And tell me, in the modesty of honor,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favor?
Bade me come smiling and cross-gartered to you,
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown
Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people?
And, acting this in an obedient hope,
Why have you suffered me to be imprisoned,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gull
That e’er invention played on? Tell me why.
I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you!
Olivia’s jester, named Feste
Let her hang me. He that is well hanged in this
world needs to fear no colors.
He shall see none to fear.
Where, good Mistress Mary?
Well, God give them wisdom that have it, and
those that are Fools, let them use their talents.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage,
and, for turning away, let summer bear it out.
Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points.
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.
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
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the Lady.
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 patched; virtue that transgresses is
but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but
patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism
will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is
no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower.
The Lady bade take away the Fool. Therefore, I say
again, take her away.
Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullusnon 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.
Dexteriously, good madonna.
I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my
mouse of virtue, answer me.
Good madonna, why mourn’st thou?
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your
brother’s soul, being in heaven. Take away the fool,
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.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou
speak’st well of Fools!
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.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman. One
draught above heat makes him a fool, the second
mads him, and a third drowns him.
He is but mad yet, madonna, and the Fool shall
look to the madman.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the
picture of We Three?
I did impeticos thy gratillity, for Malvolio’s nose
is no whipstock, my lady has a white hand, and the
Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.
Would you have a love song or a song of good
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear! Your truelove’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.
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.
By ’r Lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? I shall be
constrained in ’t to call thee knave, knight.
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.
Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.
His eyes do show his days are almost done.
O no, no, no, no, you dare not.
Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ th’
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.
No pains, sir. I take pleasure in singing, sir.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or
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.
No, sir, I live by the church.
No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I
do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the
You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is
but a chev’ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the
wrong side may be turned outward!
I would therefore my sister had had no name,
Why, sir, her name’s a word, and to dally with
that word might make my sister wanton. But,
indeed, words are very rascals since bonds disgraced
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words,
and words are grown so false I am loath to prove
reason with them.
Not so, sir. I do care for something. But in my
conscience, sir, I do not care for you. If that be to
care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you
No, indeed, sir. The Lady Olivia has no folly. She
will keep no Fool, sir, till she be married, and Fools
are as like husbands as pilchers are to herrings: the
husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her Fool but
her corrupter of words.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the
sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but
the Fool should be as oft with your master as with
my mistress. I think I saw your Wisdom there.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send
thee a beard!
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to
bring a Cressida to this Troilus.
The matter I hope is not great, sir, begging but a
beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir.
I will conster to them whence you come. Who you
are and what you would are out of my welkin—I
might say element, but the word is overworn.
Will you make me believe that I am not sent for
Well held out, i’ faith. No, I do not know you, nor
I am not sent to you by my lady to bid you come
speak with her, nor your name is not Master
Cesario, nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing
that is so is so.
Vent my folly? He has heard that word of some
great man and now applies it to a Fool. Vent my
folly? I am afraid this great lubber the world will
prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness
and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I
vent to her that thou art coming?
By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise
men that give Fools money get themselves a good
report—after fourteen years’ purchase.
This will I tell my lady straight. I would
not be in some of your coats for twopence.
Well, I’ll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in
’t, and I would I were the first that ever dissembled
in such a gown. I am
not tall enough to become the function well, nor
lean enough to be thought a good student, but to be
said an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as
fairly as to say a careful man and a great scholar.
The competitors enter.
Bonos dies, Sir Toby; for, as the old hermit of
Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said
to a niece of King Gorboduc That that is, is, so I,
being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is
that but that and is but is?
What ho, I say! Peace in this
Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio
Out, hyperbolical fiend! How vexest thou this
man! Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most
modest terms, for I am one of those gentle ones
that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Sayst
thou that house is dark?
Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes,
and the clerestories toward the south-north
are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest
thou of obstruction?
Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness
but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than
the Egyptians in their fog.
What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning
What thinkst thou of his opinion?
Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness.
Thou shalt hold th’ opinion of Pythagoras ere I will
allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock lest
thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee
Nay, I am for all waters.
Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.
My lady is unkind, perdy.
She loves another—Who calls, ha?
Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be
no better in your wits than a Fool.
Advise you what you say. The minister is here.
Malvolio, Malvolio, thy
wits the heavens restore. Endeavor thyself to sleep
and leave thy vain bibble-babble.
Maintain no words with him, good
fellow. Who, I, sir? Not I, sir! God buy
you, good Sir Topas. Marry, amen.
I will, sir, I will.
Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am
shent for speaking to you.
Welladay that you were, sir!
I will help you to ’t. But tell me true, are you not
mad indeed, or do you but counterfeit?
Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his
brains. I will fetch you light and paper and ink.
I am gone, sir, and anon, sir,
I’ll be with you again,
In a trice, like to the old Vice,
Your need to sustain.
Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath,
Cries aha! to the devil;
Like a mad lad, Pare thy nails, dad!Adieu, goodman devil.
Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.
Do not desire to see this letter.
Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.
Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse
for my friends.
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me.
Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass; so that by
my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and
by my friends I am abused. So that, conclusions to
be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two
affirmatives, why then the worse for my friends and
the better for my foes.
By my troth, sir, no—though it please you to be
one of my friends.
But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would
you could make it another.
Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once,
and let your flesh and blood obey it.
Primo, secundo, tertio is a good play, and the old
saying is, the third pays for all. The triplex, sir, is a
good tripping measure, or the bells of Saint Bennet,
sir, may put you in mind—one, two, three.
Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come
again. I go, sir, but I would not have you to think
that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
But, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap. I
will awake it anon.
O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes
were set at eight i’ th’ morning.
Truly, madam, he holds Beelzebub at the stave’s
end as well as a man in his case may do. Has here
writ a letter to you. I should have given ’t you today
morning. But as a madman’s epistles are no gospels,
so it skills not much when they are delivered.
Look then to be well edified, when the Fool
delivers the madman. By the Lord,madam—
No, madam, I do but read madness. An your
Ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must
So I do, madonna. But to read his right wits is to
read thus. Therefore, perpend, my princess, and
Why, some are born great, some achieve greatness,and some have greatness thrown upon them.
I was one, sir, in this interlude, one Sir Topas, sir,
but that’s all one. By the Lord, Fool, I am notmad—but, do you remember Madam, why laughyou at such a barren rascal; an you smile not, he’s
gagged? And thus the whirligig of time brings in
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas, to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With tosspots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
a gentleman in Olivia’s household
Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport,
let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
I would exult, man. You know he brought me
out o’ favor with my lady about a bearbaiting here.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare
turkeycock of him. How he jets under his advanced
O, peace, now he’s deeply in. Look how
imagination blows him.
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.
Though our silence be drawn from us
with cars, yet peace!
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews
of our plot!
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
This wins him, liver and all.
What dish o’ poison has she dressed
Sowter will cry upon ’t for all this,
though it be as rank as a fox.
Did not I say he would work it out? The
cur is excellent at faults.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you
might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes
I will not give my part of this sport for a
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
This was a great argument of love in her toward
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of
judgment and reason.
She did show favor to the youth in your sight
only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse
valor, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in
your liver. You should then have accosted her, and
with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint,
you should have banged the youth into dumbness.
This was looked for at your hand, and this was
balked. The double gilt of this opportunity you let
time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north
of my lady’s opinion, where you will hang like an
icicle on a Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem
it by some laudable attempt either of valor or
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.
We shall have a rare letter from him. But you’ll
not deliver ’t?
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage
no great presage of cruelty.
Here he is, here he is.—How is ’t with you, sir?
How is ’t with you, man?
Carry his water to th’ wisewoman.
No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The
fiend is rough and will not be roughly used.
If this were played upon a stage now, I could
condemn it as an improbable fiction.
Why, we shall make him mad indeed.
More matter for a May morning.
A good note, that keeps you from the blow of
Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less.
Still you keep o’ th’ windy side of the law.
Here he comes with your niece. Give them
way till he take leave, and presently after him.
I know the knight is incensed against you even
to a mortal arbitrament, but nothing of the circumstance
Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read
him by his form, as you are like to find him in the
proof of his valor. He is indeed, sir, the most skillful,
bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly
have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk
towards him? I will make your peace with him if I
He is as horribly conceited of
him, and pants and looks pale as if a bear were at his
Give ground if you see him furious.
O, good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers.
A coward, a most devout coward, religious
Come, let’s see the event.
Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter.
This is to give a dog and in recompense desire
my dog again.
By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and
the world shall know it. Though you have put me into
darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over
me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your
Ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to
the semblance I put on, with the which I doubt not but
to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of
me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of
and speak out of my injury.The madly used Malvolio.
Good madam, hear me speak,
And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come
Taint the condition of this present hour,
Which I have wondered at. In hope it shall not,
Most freely I confess, myself and Toby
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceived against him. Maria writ
The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance,
In recompense whereof he hath married her.
How with a sportful malice it was followed
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,
If that the injuries be justly weighed
That have on both sides passed.
duke (or count) of Illyria
If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again! It had a dying fall.
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough; no more.
’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe’er,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purged the air of pestilence.
That instant was I turned into a hart,
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me.
How now, what news from her?
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath killed the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and filled
Her sweet perfections with one self king!
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers!
Love thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario,
Thou know’st no less but all. I have unclasped
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 fixèd foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds
Rather than make unprofited return.
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.
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 womans 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.
Give me some music. Now, good
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-pacèd times.
Come, but one verse.
Seek him out and play the tune the
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?
Thou dost speak masterly.
My life upon ’t, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favor that it loves.
Hath it not, boy?
What kind of woman is ’t?
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?
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.
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.
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
Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.
I’ll pay thy pleasure, then.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
Let all the rest give place.
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.
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.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Ay, that’s the theme.
To her in haste. Give her this jewel. Say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?
Just the contrary: the better for thy friends.
Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold.
O, you give me ill counsel.
Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a
double-dealer: there’s another.
You can fool no more money out of me at this
throw. If you will let your lady know I am here to
speak with her, and bring her along with you, it
may awake my bounty further.
That face of his I do remember well.
Yet when I saw it last, it was besmeared
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.
A baubling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable,
With which such scatheful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet
That very envy and the tongue of loss
Cried fame and honor on him.—What’s the matter?
Notable pirate, thou saltwater thief,
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies?
When came he to this town?
Here comes the Countess. Now heaven walks on
But for thee, fellow: fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months this youth hath tended upon me—
But more of that anon. Take him
What, to perverseness? You, uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithful’st off’rings have breathed out
That e’er devotion tendered—what shall I do?
Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
Like to th’ Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love?—a savage jealousy
That sometime savors nobly. But hear me this:
Since you to nonregardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favor,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still.
But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crownèd in his master’s spite.—
Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe in
I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.
O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be
When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?
Farewell, and take her, but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
How now, gentleman? How is ’t with you?
One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!
A natural perspective, that is and is not!
Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wrack.—
Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
Give me thy hand,
And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.
This savors not much of distraction.
Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer.
Your master quits you; and for your
service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you called me master for so long,
Here is my hand. You shall from this time be
Your master’s mistress.
Pursue him and entreat him to a peace.
He hath not told us of the Captain yet.
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come,
For so you shall be while you are a man.
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen.
|gentlemen serving Orsino
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 veilèd 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.
If the Duke continue these favors towards
you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced. He
hath known you but three days, and already you
are no stranger.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
He is not here, so please your lordship, that
should sing it.
Feste the jester, my lord, a Fool that the Lady
Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about
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.
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.
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
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
If you will not undo what you have done—
that is, kill him whom you have recovered—desire
it not. Fare you 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.
I would not by my will have troubled you,
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay.
But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,
You should find better dealing. What’s to do?
Shall we go see the relics of this town?
I am not weary, and ’tis long to night.
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.
Belike you slew great number of his people?
Do not then walk too open.
I’ll be your purse-bearer and leave you
For an hour.
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow. Let
me be clear of thee.
I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else.
Thou know’st not me.
I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me.
There’s money for thee. If you
tarry longer, I shall give worse payment.
Why, there’s for thee,
and there, and there.—Are all the people mad?
I will be free from thee.
What wouldst thou now?
If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.
What relish is in this? How runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
This is the air; that is the glorious sun.
This pearl she gave me, I do feel ’t and see ’t.
And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant.
Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service.
For though my soul disputes well with my sense
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
And wrangle with my reason that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad—
Or else the lady’s mad. Yet if ’twere so,
She could not sway her house, command her
Take and give back affairs and their dispatch
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing
As I perceive she does. There’s something in ’t
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.
I’ll follow this good man and go with you,
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman,
But, had it been the brother of my blood,
I must have done no less with wit and safety.
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you.
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
Antonio, O, my dear Antonio!
How have the hours racked and tortured me
Since I have lost thee!
Fear’st thou that, Antonio?
Do I stand there? I never had a brother,
Nor can there be that deity in my nature
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister,
Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured.
Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What countryman? What name? What parentage?
A spirit I am indeed,
But am in that dimension grossly clad
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek
And say Thrice welcome, drownèd Viola.
O, that record is lively in my soul!
He finishèd indeed his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years.
So comes it, lady, you have been mistook.
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid.
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived:
You are betrothed both to a maid and man.
friend to Sebastian
Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that
I go with you?
Let me yet know of you whither you are
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me
be your servant.
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.
I could not stay behind you. My desire,
More sharp than filèd steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you, though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skill-less in these parts, which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.
Tomorrow, sir. Best first go see your lodging.
Would you’d pardon me.
I do not without danger walk these streets.
Once in a sea fight ’gainst the Count his galleys
I did some service, of such note indeed
That were I ta’en here it would scarce be answered.
Th’ offense is not of such a bloody nature,
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answered in repaying
What we took from them, which, for traffic’s sake,
Most of our city did. Only myself stood out,
For which, if I be lapsèd in this place,
I shall pay dear.
It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here’s my purse.
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your
With viewing of the town. There shall you have me.
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase, and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
Put up your sword. If this young gentleman
Have done offense, I take the fault on me.
If you offend him, I for him defy you.
One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
I must obey. This comes with seeking
But there’s no remedy. I shall answer it.
What will you do, now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you
Than what befalls myself. You stand amazed,
But be of comfort.
I must entreat of you some of that money.
Will you deny me now?
Is ’t possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here
I snatched one half out of the jaws of death,
Relieved him with such sanctity of love,
And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
But O, how vile an idol proves this god!
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there’s no blemish but the mind;
None can be called deformed but the unkind.
Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil
Are empty trunks o’erflourished by the devil.
Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleased that I shake off these names you give
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither.
That most ingrateful boy there by your side
From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wrack past hope he was.
His life I gave him and did thereto add
My love, without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication. For his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him when he was beset;
Where, being apprehended, his false cunning
(Not meaning to partake with me in danger)
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance
And grew a twenty years’ removèd thing
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,
Which I had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.
Today, my lord; and for three months before,
No int’rim, not a minute’s vacancy,
Both day and night did we keep company.
How have you made division of yourself?
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?
It is perchance that you yourself were saved.
True, madam. And to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you and those poor number saved with you
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
To a strong mast that lived upon the sea,
Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.
Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born
Not three hours’ travel from this very place.
A noble duke, in nature as in name.
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.
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 abjured the sight
And company of men.
That were hard to compass
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the Duke’s.
Be you his eunuch, and your mute I’ll be.
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthened by interchangement of your rings,
And all the ceremony of this compact
Sealed in my function, by my testimony;
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my
I have traveled but two hours.
This is the man. Do thy office.
No, sir, no jot. I know your favor well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.—
Take him away. He knows I know him well.
What’s that to us? The time goes by. Away!
The man grows mad. Away with him.—Come,
Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy,
And this is he that did the Tiger board
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.
Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of
Come, sir, I pray you go.
|Lords, Sailors, Musicians, and other Attendants
Madam, the young gentleman of the Count
Orsino’s is returned. I could hardly entreat him
back. He attends your Ladyship’s pleasure.