6
ACT I.
SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.
Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending.
DUKE.
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.
CURIO.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
DUKE.
What, Curio?
CURIO.
The hart.
DUKE.
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?
Enter Valentine.
VALENTINE.
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.
DUKE.
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.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. The sea-coast.
Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors.
VIOLA.
What country, friends, is this?
CAPTAIN.
This is Illyria, lady.
VIOLA.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, sailors?
CAPTAIN.
It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d.
VIOLA.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.
CAPTAIN.
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,
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
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.
VIOLA.
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?
CAPTAIN.
Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born
Not three hours’ travel from this very place.
VIOLA.
Who governs here?
CAPTAIN.
A noble duke, in nature as in name.
VIOLA.
What is his name?
CAPTAIN.
Orsino.
VIOLA.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
He was a bachelor then.
CAPTAIN.
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.
VIOLA.
What’s she?
CAPTAIN.
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.
VIOLA.
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.
CAPTAIN.
That were hard to compass,
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the Duke’s.
VIOLA.
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.
CAPTAIN.
Be you his eunuch and your mute I’ll be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
VIOLA.
I thank thee. Lead me on.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House.
Enter Sir Toby and Maria.
SIR TOBY.
What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure
care’s an enemy to life.
MARIA.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights; your cousin, my
lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
SIR TOBY.
Why, let her except, before excepted.
MARIA.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.
SIR TOBY.
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.
MARIA.
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.
SIR TOBY.
Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
MARIA.
Ay, he.
SIR TOBY.
He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.
MARIA.
What’s that to th’ purpose?
SIR TOBY.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
MARIA.
Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats. He’s a very fool, and a
prodigal.
SIR TOBY.
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.
MARIA.
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.
SIR TOBY.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are
they?
MARIA.
They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company.
SIR TOBY.
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.
Enter Sir Andrew.
AGUECHEEK.
Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch?
SIR TOBY.
Sweet Sir Andrew!
SIR ANDREW.
Bless you, fair shrew.
MARIA.
And you too, sir.
SIR TOBY.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
SIR ANDREW.
What’s that?
SIR TOBY.
My niece’s chamber-maid.
SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
MARIA.
My name is Mary, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Mary Accost,—
SIR TOBY.
You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her.
SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of
accost?
MARIA.
Fare you well, gentlemen.
SIR TOBY.
And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again.
SIR ANDREW.
And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady,
do you think you have fools in hand?
MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by the hand.
SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand.
MARIA.
Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery bar and
let it drink.
SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor?
MARIA.
It’s dry, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s
your jest?
MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?
MARIA.
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am
barren.
[Exit Maria.]
SIR TOBY.
O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down?
SIR ANDREW.
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.
SIR TOBY.
No question.
SIR ANDREW.
And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY.
Pourquoy, my dear knight?
SIR ANDREW.
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!
SIR TOBY.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
SIR ANDREW.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
SIR TOBY.
Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.
SIR ANDREW.
But it becomes me well enough, does’t not?
SIR TOBY.
Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take
thee between her legs, and spin it off.
SIR ANDREW.
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.
SIR TOBY.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
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.
SIR TOBY.
Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight?
SIR ANDREW.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and
yet I will not compare with an old man.
SIR TOBY.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I can cut a caper.
SIR TOBY.
And I can cut the mutton to’t.
SIR ANDREW.
And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria.
SIR TOBY.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dam’d-colour’d stock. Shall
we set about some revels?
SIR TOBY.
What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus?
SIR ANDREW.
Taurus? That’s sides and heart.
SIR TOBY.
No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher: ha, ha,
excellent!
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.
Enter Valentine and Viola in man’s attire.
VALENTINE.
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.
VIOLA.
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?
VALENTINE.
No, believe me.
Enter Duke, Curio and Attendants.
VIOLA.
I thank you. Here comes the Count.
DUKE.
Who saw Cesario, ho?
VIOLA.
On your attendance, my lord, here.
DUKE.
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.
VIOLA.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
DUKE.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
VIOLA.
Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
DUKE.
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.
VIOLA.
I think not so, my lord.
DUKE.
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.
VIOLA.
I’ll do my best
To woo your lady. [Aside.] Yet, a barful strife!
Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. A Room in Olivia’s House.
Enter Maria and Clown.
MARIA.
Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as
a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy
absence.
CLOWN.
Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.
MARIA.
Make that good.
CLOWN.
He shall see none to fear.
MARIA.
A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born, of I fear no
colours.
CLOWN.
Where, good Mistress Mary?
MARIA.
In the wars, and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
CLOWN.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use
their talents.
MARIA.
Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or to be turned away; is not
that as good as a hanging to you?
CLOWN.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer
bear it out.
MARIA.
You are resolute then?
CLOWN.
Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points.
MARIA.
That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break, your gaskins fall.
CLOWN.
Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave
drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria.
MARIA.
Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely,
you were best.
[Exit.]
Enter Olivia with Malvolio.
CLOWN.
Wit, and’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they
have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee, may pass
for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish
wit. God bless thee, lady!
OLIVIA.
Take the fool away.
CLOWN.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
OLIVIA.
Go to, y’are a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest.
CLOWN.
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry
fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he
mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him.
Anything that’s mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched
with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple
syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true
cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool,
therefore, I say again, take her away.
OLIVIA.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
CLOWN.
Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum:
that’s as much to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me
leave to prove you a fool.
OLIVIA.
Can you do it?
CLOWN.
Dexteriously, good madonna.
OLIVIA.
Make your proof.
CLOWN.
I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
OLIVIA.
Well sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll ’bide your proof.
CLOWN.
Good madonna, why mourn’st thou?
OLIVIA.
Good fool, for my brother’s death.
CLOWN.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
OLIVIA.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
CLOWN.
The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven.
Take away the fool, gentlemen.
OLIVIA.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
MALVOLIO.
Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity, that decays
the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
CLOWN.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly!
Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for
twopence that you are no fool.
OLIVIA.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put
down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone.
Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister
occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men, that crow so at
these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies.
OLIVIA.
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite.
To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for
bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed
fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man,
though he do nothing but reprove.
CLOWN.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak’st well of fools!
Enter Maria.
MARIA.
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.
OLIVIA.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
MARIA.
I know not, madam; ’tis a fair young man, and well attended.
OLIVIA.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
MARIA.
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
OLIVIA.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him!
[Exit Maria.]
Go you, Malvolio. If it be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home.
What you will, to dismiss it.
[Exit Malvolio.]
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.
CLOWN.
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose
skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes, one of thy kin has a most weak
pia mater.
Enter Sir Toby.
OLIVIA.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?
SIR TOBY.
A gentleman.
OLIVIA.
A gentleman? What gentleman?
SIR TOBY.
’Tis a gentleman here. A plague o’ these pickle-herrings! How now, sot?
CLOWN.
Good Sir Toby.
OLIVIA.
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
SIR TOBY.
Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate.
OLIVIA.
Ay, marry, what is he?
SIR TOBY.
Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s
all one.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
What’s a drunken man like, fool?
CLOWN.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a
fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him.
OLIVIA.
Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third
degree of drink; he’s drowned. Go, look after him.
CLOWN.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman.
[Exit Clown.]
Enter Malvolio.
MALVOLIO.
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were
sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with
you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too,
and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? He’s
fortified against any denial.
OLIVIA.
Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
MALVOLIO.
Has been told so; and he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post,
and be the supporter of a bench, but he’ll speak with you.
OLIVIA.
What kind o’ man is he?
MALVOLIO.
Why, of mankind.
OLIVIA.
What manner of man?
MALVOLIO.
Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no.
OLIVIA.
Of what personage and years is he?
MALVOLIO.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before
’tis a peascod, or a codling, when ’tis almost an apple. ’Tis with him in
standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks
very shrewishly. One would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.
OLIVIA.
Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.
MALVOLIO.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
[Exit.]
Enter Maria.
OLIVIA.
Give me my veil; come, throw it o’er my face.
We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.
Enter Viola.
VIOLA.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
OLIVIA.
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
VIOLA.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be
the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would be loath to cast away my
speech; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great
pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible,
even to the least sinister usage.
OLIVIA.
Whence came you, sir?
VIOLA.
I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part.
Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house,
that I may proceed in my speech.
OLIVIA.
Are you a comedian?
VIOLA.
No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not
that I play. Are you the lady of the house?
OLIVIA.
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
VIOLA.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to
bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with
my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.
OLIVIA.
Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise.
VIOLA.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical.
OLIVIA.
It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were
saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to
hear you. If you be mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that
time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
MARIA.
Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.
VIOLA.
No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for
your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind. I am a messenger.
OLIVIA.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so
fearful. Speak your office.
VIOLA.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage;
I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.
OLIVIA.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you?
VIOLA.
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment.
What I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity;
to any other’s, profanation.
OLIVIA.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
[Exit Maria.]
Now, sir, what is your text?
VIOLA.
Most sweet lady—
OLIVIA.
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?
VIOLA.
In Orsino’s bosom.
OLIVIA.
In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?
VIOLA.
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
OLIVIA.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
VIOLA.
Good madam, let me see your face.
OLIVIA.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now
out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
[Unveiling.] Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is’t not well
done?
VIOLA.
Excellently done, if God did all.
OLIVIA.
’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather.
VIOLA.
’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.
OLIVIA.
O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my
beauty. It shall be inventoried and every particle and utensil labelled to my
will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to
them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise
me?
VIOLA.
I see you what you are, you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you. O, such love
Could be but recompens’d though you were crown’d
The nonpareil of beauty!
OLIVIA.
How does he love me?
VIOLA.
With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
OLIVIA.
Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant,
And in dimension and the shape of nature,
A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him.
He might have took his answer long ago.
VIOLA.
If I did love you in my master’s flame,
With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
OLIVIA.
Why, what would you?
VIOLA.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Hallow your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
OLIVIA.
You might do much.
What is your parentage?
VIOLA.
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
OLIVIA.
Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more,
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.
VIOLA.
I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,
And let your fervour like my master’s be
Plac’d in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
What is your parentage?
‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft, soft!
Unless the master were the man. How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.
What ho, Malvolio!
Enter Malvolio.
MALVOLIO.
Here, madam, at your service.
OLIVIA.
Run after that same peevish messenger
The County’s man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I or not; tell him, I’ll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him.
If that the youth will come this way tomorrow,
I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.
MALVOLIO.
Madam, I will.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
I do I know not what, and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force, ourselves we do not owe.
What is decreed must be; and be this so!
[Exit.]