What country, friends, is this?

This is Illyria, lady.

And what should I do in Illyria?

My brother he is in Elysium.

Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, sailors?

It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d.

O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

True, madam; and to comfort you with chance,

Assure yourself, after our ship did split,

When you, and those poor number sav’d with you,

Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,

Most provident in peril, bind himself,

To a strong mast that liv’d 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.

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?

Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born

Not three hours’ travel from this very place.

Who governs here?

A noble duke, in nature as in name.

What is his name?

Orsino.

Orsino! I have heard my father name him.

He was a bachelor then.

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.

What’s she?

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 abjur’d the company

And sight of men.

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.

That were hard to compass,

Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the Duke’s.

There is a fair behaviour 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 pray thee, 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.

Be you his eunuch and your mute I’ll be;

When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

I thank thee. Lead me on.

Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

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

She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to

have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put

your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one

thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs,

unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so.

She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it.

Come sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be

so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if

not, be it his that finds it.

I left no ring with her; what means this lady?

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!

She made good view of me, indeed, so much,

That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,

For she did speak in starts distractedly.

She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion

Invites me in this churlish messenger.

None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none.

I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis,

Poor lady, she were better love a dream.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.

How easy is it for the proper false

In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!

Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,

For such as we are made of, such we be.

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him,

And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.

What will become of this? As I am man,

My state is desperate for my master’s love;

As I am woman (now alas the day!)

What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!

O time, thou must untangle this, not I,

It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!

No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.

Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count’s servingman than

ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ th’ orchard.

Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that.

As plain as I see you now.

This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me?

I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.

And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.

She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you,

to awake your dormouse valour, 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 Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by

some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy.

And’t be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I hate; I had as

lief be a Brownist as a politician.

Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. 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 valour.

There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

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

licence of ink. If thou ‘thou’st’ 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.

Where shall I find you?

We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.

I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it.

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’ anatomy.

And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of

cruelty.

Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.

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.

And cross-gartered?

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 favour.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

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.

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

Jove bless thee, Master Parson.

_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’?

To him, Sir Topas.

What ho, I say! Peace in this prison!

The knave counterfeits well. A good knave.

Malvolio within.

Who calls there?

Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.

Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? Talkest thou nothing

but of ladies?

Well said, Master Parson.

Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I

am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness.

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. Say’st thou that house is dark?

As hell, Sir Topas.

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?

I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark.

Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which

thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.

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 constant question.

What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl?

That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.

What think’st thou of his opinion?

I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.

Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness. Thou shalt hold the

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 well.

Sir Topas, Sir Topas!

My most exquisite Sir Topas!

Nay, I am for all waters.

Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee

not.

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 offence with my

niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot.

Come by and by to my chamber.

_Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,

Tell me how thy lady does._

Fool!

Fool!

Fool, I say!

_She loves another_—

Who calls, ha?

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.

Master Malvolio?

Ay, good fool.

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my

wits, fool, as thou art.

But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits

than a fool.

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.

Advise you what you say: the minister is here. [_As Sir Topas_]

Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore. Endeavour thyself to

sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.

Sir Topas!

[_As Sir Topas_] Maintain no words with him, good fellow. [_As

himself_] Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas. [_As

Sir Topas_] Marry, amen. [_As himself_] I will sir, I will.

Fool, fool, fool, I say!

Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to

you.

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.

Well-a-day that you were, sir!

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.

I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do

you but counterfeit?

Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true.

Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch

you light, and paper, and ink.

Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee be gone.

I’ll be with you again,

Your need to sustain;

Cries ‘ah, ha!’ to the devil:

Adieu, goodman devil.’_