If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like

to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you

are no stranger.

You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question

the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

No, believe me.

I thank you. Here comes the Count.

Who saw Cesario, ho?

On your attendance, my lord, here.

Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario,

Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d

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 fixed foot shall grow

Till thou have audience.

Sure, my noble lord,

If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow

As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,

Rather than make unprofited return.

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

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.

I think not so, my lord.

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 woman’s 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.

I’ll do my best

To woo your lady. [_Aside._] Yet, a barful strife!

Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,

That old and antique song we heard last night;

Methought it did relieve my passion much,

More than light airs and recollected terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.

Come, but one verse.

He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

Who was it?

Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took

much delight in. He is about the house.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,

In the sweet pangs of it remember me:

For such as I am, all true lovers are,

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,

Save in the constant image of the creature

That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune?

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where love is throned.

Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves.

Hath it not, boy?

A little, by your favour.

What kind of woman is’t?

Of your complexion.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?

About your years, my lord.

Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take

An elder than herself; so wears she to him,

So sways she level in her husband’s heart.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,

Than women’s are.

I think it well, my lord.

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:

For women are as roses, whose fair flower

Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.

And so they are: alas, that they are so;

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.

Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love

Like the old age.

Are you ready, sir?

Ay; prithee, sing.

_ Come away, come away, death.

And in sad cypress let me be laid.

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O, prepare it!

My part of death no one so true

Did share it._

_ Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown:

Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:

A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there._

There’s for thy pains.

No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

I’ll pay thy pleasure, then.

Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of

changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of

such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and

their intent everywhere, for that’s it that always makes a good voyage

of nothing. Farewell.

Let all the rest give place.

Once more, Cesario,

Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty.

Tell her my love, more noble than the world,

Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;

The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her,

Tell her I hold as giddily as fortune;

But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems

That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

I cannot be so answer’d.

Sooth, but you must.

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,

Hath for your love as great a pang of heart

As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d?

There is no woman’s sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion

As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart

So big, to hold so much; they lack retention.

Alas, their love may be called appetite,

No motion of the liver, but the palate,

That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much. Make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me

And that I owe Olivia.

Ay, but I know—

What dost thou know?

Too well what love women to men may owe.

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

My father had a daughter loved a man,

As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,

I should your lordship.

And what’s her history?

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i’ 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.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

I am all the daughters of my father’s house,

And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.

Sir, shall I to this lady?

Ay, that’s the theme.

To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say

My love can give no place, bide no denay.

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 begg’d or borrow’d.

I speak too loud.—

Where’s Malvolio?—He is sad and civil,

And suits well for a servant with my fortunes;

Where is Malvolio?

He’s coming, madam:

But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam.

Why, what’s the matter? Does he rave?

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.

Go call him hither. I’m as mad as he,

If sad and merry madness equal be.

How now, Malvolio?

Sweet lady, ho, ho!

Smil’st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

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 and please

all.’

Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?

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 hand.

Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come to thee.

God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft?

How do you, Malvolio?

At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws!

Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

‘Be not afraid of greatness.’ ’Twas well writ.

What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio?

‘Some are born great’—

Ha?

‘Some achieve greatness’—

What say’st thou?

‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’

Heaven restore thee!

‘Remember who commended thy yellow stockings’—

Thy yellow stockings?

‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’

Cross-gartered?

‘Go to: thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so:’—

Am I made?

‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’

Why, this is very midsummer madness.

Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned; I could

hardly entreat him back. He attends your ladyship’s pleasure.

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 dowry.

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 with servants, 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 be looked 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.

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.

Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? How is’t with you, man?

Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off.

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.

Ah, ha! does she so?

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.

Do you know what you say?

La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray

God he be not bewitched.

Carry his water to th’ wise woman.

Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning, if I live. My lady would

not lose him for more than I’ll say.

How now, mistress!

O Lord!

Prithee hold thy peace, this is not the way. Do you not see you move

him? Let me alone with him.

No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not

be roughly used.

Why, how now, my bawcock? How dost thou, chuck?

Sir!

Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man, ’tis not for gravity to play at

cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!

Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

My prayers, minx?

No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your

element. You shall know more hereafter.

Is’t possible?

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an

improbable fiction.

His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.

Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

The house will be the quieter.

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!

More matter for a May morning.

Here’s the challenge, read it. I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper

in’t.

Is’t so saucy?

Ay, is’t, I warrant him. Do but read.

Give me. [_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy

fellow._

Good, and valiant.

_Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I

will show thee no reason for’t._

A good note, that keeps you from the blow of the law.

_Thou comest 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._

Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less.

Good.

Still you keep o’ th’ windy side of the law. Good.

_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.

You may have very fit occasion for’t. He is now in some commerce with

my lady, and will by and by depart.

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.

Nay, let me alone for swearing.

Now will not I deliver his letter, for the behaviour 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 clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver

his challenge by word of mouth, set upon Aguecheek notable report of

valour, 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.

Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave, and

presently after him.

I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.

I have said too much unto a heart of stone,

And laid mine honour 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.

With the same ’haviour that your passion bears

Goes on my master’s griefs.

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 honour sav’d, may upon asking give?

Nothing but this, your true love for my master.

How with mine honour may I give him that

Which I have given to you?

I will acquit you.

Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well;

A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.

Gentleman, God save thee.

And you, sir.

That defence 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, skilful,

and deadly.

You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me. My

remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to

any man.

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.

I pray you, sir, what is he?

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

sepulchre. Hob, nob is his word; give’t or take’t.

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 valour: belike this is a man of that

quirk.

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

you.

This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous

office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is. It is

something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.

I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my

return.

Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal

arbitrement, but nothing of the circumstance more.

I beseech you, what manner of man is he?

Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are

like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, sir, the

most skilful, 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 can.

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.

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.

Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him.

Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.

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, grey Capilet.

I’ll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on’t. This shall end

without the perdition of souls. [_Aside._] Marry, I’ll ride your horse

as well as I ride you.

[_To Fabian._] I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have

persuaded him the youth’s a devil.

He is as horribly conceited of him, and pants and looks pale, as if a

bear were at his heels.

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 hurt you.

[_Aside._] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them

how much I lack of a man.

Give ground if you see him furious.

Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy, the gentleman will for his

honour’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.

[_Draws._] Pray God he keep his oath!

[_Draws._] I do assure you ’tis against my will.

Put up your sword. If this young gentleman

Have done offence, I take the fault on me.

If you offend him, I for him defy you.

You, sir? Why, what are you?

[_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more

Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

[_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.

O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers.

[_To Antonio._] I’ll be with you anon.

[_To Sir Andrew._] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.

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.

This is the man; do thy office.

Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit

Of Count Orsino.

You do mistake me, sir.

No, sir, no jot. I know your favour well,

Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.—

Take him away, he knows I know him well.

I must obey. This comes with seeking you;

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 amaz’d,

But be of comfort.

Come, sir, away.

I must entreat of you some of that money.

What money, sir?

For the fair kindness you have show’d 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.

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.

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.

O heavens themselves!

Come, sir, I pray you go.

Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here

I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death,

Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love;

And to his image, which methought did promise

Most venerable worth, did I devotion.

What’s that to us? The time goes by. Away!

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 call’d deform’d but the unkind.

Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil

Are empty trunks, o’erflourished by the devil.

The man grows mad, away with him. Come, come, sir.

Lead me on.

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!

Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. We’ll whisper o’er a couplet

or two of most sage saws.

He nam’d Sebastian. I my brother know

Yet living in my glass; even such and so

In favour was my brother, and he went

Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,

For him I imitate. O if it prove,

Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!

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.

A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.

’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him.

Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.

And I do not—

Come, let’s see the event.

I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.