If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken and so die.

That strain again, it had a dying fall;

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets,

Stealing and giving odour. Enough; no more;

’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.

O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,

That notwithstanding thy capacity

Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,

Of what validity and pitch soever,

But falls into abatement and low price

Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy,

That it alone is high fantastical.

Will you go hunt, my lord?

What, Curio?

The hart.

Why so I do, the noblest that I have.

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,

Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence;

That instant was I turn’d into a hart,

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,

E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her?

So please my lord, I might not be admitted,

But from her handmaid do return this answer:

The element itself, till seven years’ heat,

Shall not behold her face at ample view;

But like a cloistress she will veiled walk,

And water once a day her chamber round

With eye-offending brine: all this to season

A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh

And lasting in her sad remembrance.

O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame

To pay this debt of love but to a brother,

How will she love, when the rich golden shaft

Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else

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

These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d

Her sweet perfections with one self king!

Away before me to sweet beds of flowers,

Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

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

By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of

my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you

your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for

your love, to lay any of them on you.

Let me know of you whither you are bound.

No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I

perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not

extort from me what I am willing to keep in. Therefore it charges me in

manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then,

Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called 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.

Alas the day!

A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many

accounted beautiful. But though I could not with such estimable wonder

overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore

a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir,

with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with

more.

Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

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

If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you

have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom is full

of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon

the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to

the Count Orsino’s court: farewell.

The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!

I have many 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.

Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

No, sir, I live by the church.

Art thou a churchman?

No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I do live at my

house, and my house doth stand by the church.

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.

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!

Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make

them wanton.

I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

Why, man?

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 them.

Thy reason, man?

Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so

false, I am loath to prove reason with them.

I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car’st for nothing.

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 invisible.

Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool?

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 pilchards

are to herrings, the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool,

but her corrupter of words.

I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.

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.

Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s

expenses for thee.

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

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?

Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

Yes, being kept together, and put to use.

I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this

Troilus.

I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged.

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.

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 labour as a wise man’s art:

For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;

But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.

Save you, gentleman.

And you, sir.

I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours.

Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if

your trade be to her.

I am bound to your niece, sir, I mean, she is the list of my voyage.

Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.

My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean

by bidding me taste my legs.

I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well.

My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and

vouchsafed ear.

‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready.

Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

Give me your hand, sir.

My duty, madam, and most humble service.

What is your name?

Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.

My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world,

Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment:

Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

And he is yours, and his must needs be yours.

Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.

For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,

Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me!

Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts

On his behalf.

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.

Dear lady—

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 think?

Have you not set mine honour at the stake,

And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving

Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom,

Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.

I pity you.

That’s a degree to love.

No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof

That very oft we pity enemies.

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! [_Clock strikes._]

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.

Then westward ho!

Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!

You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Stay:

I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me.

That you do think you are not what you are.

If I think so, I think the same of you.

Then think you right; I am not what I am.

I would you were as I would have you be.

Would it be better, madam, than I am?

I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

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 noon.

Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

By maidhood, honour, 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.

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; never more

Will I my master’s tears to you deplore.

Yet come again: for thou perhaps mayst move

That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?

Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow.

Let me be clear of thee.

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.

I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else,

Thou know’st not me.

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?

I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me.

There’s money for thee; if you tarry longer

I shall give worse payment.

By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools

money get themselves a good report—after fourteen years’ purchase.

Now sir, have I met you again? There’s for you.

Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there.

Are all the people mad?

Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.

This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats

for twopence.

Come on, sir, hold!

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.

Let go thy hand!

Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your

iron: you are well fleshed. Come on.

I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?

If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

What, what? Nay, then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert

blood from you.

Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee hold!

Madam.

Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,

Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,

Where manners ne’er were preach’d! Out of my sight!

Be not offended, dear Cesario.

Rudesby, be gone!

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 botch’d 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.

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!

Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be ruled by me!

Madam, I will.

O, say so, and so be!

Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter.

Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

Anything.

Do not desire to see this letter.

This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again.

Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.

I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?

Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends.

Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

No, sir, the worse.

How can that be?

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.

Why, this is excellent.

By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold.

But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it

another.

O, you give me ill counsel.

Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh

and blood obey it.

Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s

another.

_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.

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.

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.

Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

That face of his I do remember well.

Yet when I saw it last it was besmear’d

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 scathful grapple did he make

With the most noble bottom of our fleet,

That very envy and the tongue of loss

Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?

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.

He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side,

But in conclusion, put strange speech upon me.

I know not what ’twas, but distraction.

Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief,

What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,

Hast made thine enemies?

Orsino, noble sir,

Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me:

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 wreck 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

Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,

And grew a twenty years’ removed thing

While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,

Which I had recommended to his use

Not half an hour before.

How can this be?

When came he to this town?

Today, my lord; and for three months before,

No int’rim, not a minute’s vacancy,

Both day and night did we keep company.

Here comes the Countess, now heaven walks on earth.

But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness.

Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

But more of that anon. Take him aside.

What would my lord, but that he may not have,

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?

Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

Madam?

Gracious Olivia—

What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord—

My lord would speak, my duty hushes me.

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,

It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear

As howling after music.

Still so cruel?

Still so constant, lord.

What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady,

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

My soul the faithfull’st off’rings hath breathed out

That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

Even what it please my lord that shall become him.

Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,

Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,

Kill what I love?—a savage jealousy

That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this:

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,

And that I partly know the instrument

That screws me from my true place in your favour,

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 crowned in his master’s spite.—

Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:

I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,

To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.

And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,

To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.

Where goes Cesario?

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.

Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d!

Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?

Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?

Call forth the holy father.

[_To Viola._] Come, away!

Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

Husband?

Ay, husband. Can he that deny?

Her husband, sirrah?

No, my lord, not I.

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.

A contract of eternal bond of love,

Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands,

Attested by the holy close of lips,

Strengthen’d 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 grave,

I have travelled but two hours.

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.

My lord, I do protest—

O, do not swear.

Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.

For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.

What’s the matter?

’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

home.

Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he’s

the very devil incardinate.

My gentleman, Cesario?

’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.

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.

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.

How now, gentleman? How is’t with you?

That’s all one; ’has hurt me, and there’s th’ end on’t. Sot, didst see

Dick Surgeon, sot?

O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i’

th’ morning.

Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue.

Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?

I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together.

Will you help? An ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave, a thin-faced

knave, a gull?

Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to.

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.

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!

A natural perspective, that is, and is not!

Antonio, O my dear Antonio!

How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me

Since I have lost thee.

Sebastian are you?

Fear’st thou that, Antonio?

How have you made division of yourself?

An apple cleft in two is not more twin

Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Most wonderful!

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?

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.

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, drowned Viola.’

My father had a mole upon his brow.

And so had mine.

And died that day when Viola from her birth

Had numbered thirteen years.

O, that record is lively in my soul!

He finished indeed his mortal act

That day that made my sister thirteen years.

If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp’d 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 preserv’d to serve this noble count.

All the occurrence of my fortune since

Hath been between this lady and this lord.

[_To Olivia._] 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 betroth’d both to a maid and man.

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 wreck.

[_To Viola._] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times

Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

And all those sayings will I over-swear,

And all those swearings keep as true in soul

As doth that orbed continent the fire

That severs day from night.

Give me thy hand,

And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.

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.

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?

Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub 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 it

you today morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it

skills not much when they are delivered.

Open ’t, and read it.

Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman. _By

the Lord, madam,—_

How now, art thou mad?

No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it

ought to be, you must allow _vox_.

Prithee, read i’ thy right wits.

So I do, madonna. But to read his right wits is to read thus; therefore

perpend, my princess, and give ear.

[_To Fabian._] Read it you, sirrah.

[_Reads._] _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._

Did he write this?

Ay, madam.

This savours not much of distraction.

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 you,

Here at my house, and at my proper cost.

Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer.

[_To Viola._] 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 call’d me master for so long,

Here is my hand; you shall from this time be

Your master’s mistress.

A sister? You are she.

Is this the madman?

Ay, my lord, this same.

How now, Malvolio?

Madam, you have done me wrong,

Notorious wrong.

Have I, Malvolio? No.

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 honour,

Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d 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 suffer’d me to be imprison’d,

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?

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 presuppos’d

Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content.

This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d 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.

Good madam, hear me speak,

And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come,

Taint the condition of this present hour,

Which I have wonder’d 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 conceiv’d 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 follow’d

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d

That have on both sides passed.

Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

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 not mad.’ But

do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? And you

smile not, he’s gagged’? And thus the whirligig of time brings in his

revenges.

I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you.

He hath been most notoriously abus’d.

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.

_ 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 toss-pots 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._