What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I

am sure care’s an enemy to life.

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights; your cousin,

my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

Why, let her except, before excepted.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Confine? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good

enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they be not, let

them hang themselves in their own straps.

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 wooer.

Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Ay, he.

He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.

What’s that to th’ purpose?

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats. He’s a very fool,

and a prodigal.

Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks

three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the

good gifts of nature.

He hath indeed, almost natural: for, besides that he’s a fool, he’s a

great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay

the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he

would quickly have the gift of a grave.

By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him.

Who are they?

They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company.

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

coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the

toe like a parish top. What, wench! _Castiliano vulgo:_ for here comes

Sir Andrew Agueface.

Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch?

Sweet Sir Andrew!

Bless you, fair shrew.

And you too, sir.

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

What’s that?

My niece’s chamber-maid.

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

My name is Mary, sir.

Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail

her.

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the

meaning of accost?

Fare you well, gentlemen.

And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword

again.

And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair

lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand.

Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery

bar and let it drink.

Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor?

It’s dry, sir.

Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But

what’s your jest?

A dry jest, sir.

Are you full of them?

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your

hand, I am barren.

O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put

down?

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.

No question.

And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby.

_Pourquoy_, my dear knight?

What is _pourquoy?_ Do, or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in

the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O, had I

but followed the arts!

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

Why, would that have mended my hair?

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

But it becomes me well enough, does’t not?

Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a

huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.

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 woos her.

She’ll none o’ the 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.

I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the

world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight?

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my

betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Faith, I can cut a caper.

And I can cut the mutton to’t.

And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in

Illyria.

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.

Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dam’d-colour’d

stock. Shall we set about some revels?

What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus?

Taurus? That’s sides and heart.

No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher: ha,

ha, excellent!

Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up

betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know’st.

Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up

late.

A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after

midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after

midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the

four elements?

Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and

drinking.

Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.

Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.

Here comes the fool, i’ faith.

How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”?

Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.

By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty

shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool

has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou

spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of

Queubus; ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman.

Hadst it?

I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My

lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a

song.

Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.

There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a—

Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

A love-song, a love-song.

Ay, ay. I care not for good life.

CLOWN. [_sings._]

That can sing both high and low.

Every wise man’s son doth know._

Excellent good, i’ faith.

Good, good.

What’s to come is still unsure.

Youth’s a stuff will not endure._

A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

A contagious breath.

Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the

welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will

draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?

And you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch.

By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou knave.”

“Hold thy peace, thou knave” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to

call thee knave, knight.

’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin,

fool; it begins “Hold thy peace.”

I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

Good, i’ faith! Come, begin.

What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her

steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and

[_Sings._] _Three merry men be we._ Am not I consanguineous? Am I not

of her blood? Tilly-vally! “Lady”! _There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady,

Lady._

Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.

Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it

with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

[_Sings._] _O’ the twelfth day of December—_

For the love o’ God, peace!

My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor

honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make

an ale-house of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’

catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect

of place, persons, nor time, in you?

We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that,

though she harbours you as her kinsman she’s nothing allied to your

disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are

welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave of

her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

[_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone._

Nay, good Sir Toby.

[_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._

Is’t even so?

[_Sings._] _But I will never die._

[_Sings._] _Sir Toby, there you lie._

This is much credit to you.

[_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go?_

[_Sings._] _What and if you do?_

[_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go, and spare not?_

[_Sings._] _O, no, no, no, no, you dare not._

Out o’ tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think,

because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.

Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of

wine, Maria!

Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than

contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall

know of it, by this hand.

Go shake your ears.

’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge

him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of

him.

Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy

indignation to him by word of mouth.

Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for 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.

Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.

Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog.

What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.

The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a

time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and

utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed

(as he thinks) with 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 to work.

What wilt thou do?

I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the

colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the

expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself

most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on

a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Excellent! I smell a device.

I have’t in my nose too.

He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from

my niece, and that she is in love with him.

My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.

And your horse now would make him an ass.

Ass, I doubt not.

O ’twill be admirable!

Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will

plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the

letter. Observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and

dream on the event. Farewell.

Good night, Penthesilea.

Before me, she’s a good wench.

She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that?

I was adored once too.

Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut.

If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now.

Come, knight, come, knight.

I would not by my will have troubled you,

But since you make your pleasure of your pains,

I will no further chide you.

I could not stay behind you: my desire,

More sharp than filed 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 skilless 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.

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?

Tomorrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.

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.

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 answer’d.

Belike you slew great number of his people.

Th’ offence 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 lapsed in this place,

I shall pay dear.

Do not then walk too open.

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 knowledge

With viewing of the town. There shall you have me.

Why I your purse?

Haply your eye shall light upon some toy

You have desire to purchase; and your store,

I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

I’ll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.

To th’ Elephant.

I do remember.

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 followers,

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.

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?

I’ll follow this good man, and go with you,

And having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Then lead the way, good father, and heavens so shine,

That they may fairly note this act of mine!