MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go?

CLOWN. [Sings] What an if you do?

SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go, and spare not?

CLOWN. [Sings] O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.

SIR TOBY. [Rising] 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?

CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' th' mouth too.

SIR TOBY. Th' art i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs.

A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd 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.

Exit MARIA. Go shake your ears.

AGUECHEEK. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's ahungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.

SIR TOBY. Do't, knight. I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the Count's was to-day 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.

SIR TOBY. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

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

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

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

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

MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser; an affection'd a.s.s that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so cramm'd, 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.

SIR TOBY. What wilt thou do?

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

SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device.

AGUECHEEK. I have't in my nose too.

SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.

MARIA. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

AGUECHEEK. And your horse now would make him an a.s.s.

MARIA. a.s.s, I doubt not.

AGUECHEEK. O, 'twill be admirable!

MARIA. 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.

Exit SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea.

AGUECHEEK. Before me, she's a good wench.

SIR TOBY. She's a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me.

What o' that?

AGUECHEEK. I was ador'd once too.

SIR TOBY. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

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

SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end, call me Cut.

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

SIR TOBY. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.

Exeunt

SCENE IV.

The DUKE'S palace

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and OTHERS

DUKE. 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 pa.s.sion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.

Come, but one verse.

CURIO. He is not here, so please your lords.h.i.+p, that should sing it.

DUKE. Who was it?

CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.

DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

Exit CURIO. [Music plays]

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?

VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is thron'd.

DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA. A little, by your favour.

DUKE. What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA. Of your complexion.

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

VIOLA. About your years, my lord.

DUKE. 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 won, Than women's are.

VIOLA. I think it well, my lord.

DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent; For women are as roses, whose fair flow'r Being once display'd doth fall that very hour.

VIOLA. And so they are; alas, that they are so!

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN

DUKE. 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.

CLOWN. Are you ready, sir?

DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music]

FESTE'S SONG

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 to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!

DUKE. There's for thy pains.

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

DUKE. I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

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

DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN. Now the melancholy G.o.d 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.

Exit CLOWN DUKE. Let all the rest give place.

Exeunt CURIO and ATTENDANTS Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty.

Tell her my love, more n.o.ble than the world, Prizes not quant.i.ty 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.

VIOLA. But if she cannot love you, sir?