8
ACT III.
SCENE I. Olivia’s garden.
Enter Viola and Clown with a tabor.
VIOLA.
Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?
CLOWN.
No, sir, I live by the church.
VIOLA.
Art thou a churchman?
CLOWN.
No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I do live at my house, and my
house doth stand by the church.
VIOLA.
So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or the
church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church.
CLOWN.
You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a chev’ril glove to a
good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!
VIOLA.
Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them
wanton.
CLOWN.
I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.
VIOLA.
Why, man?
CLOWN.
Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister
wanton. But indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them.
VIOLA.
Thy reason, man?
CLOWN.
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I
am loath to prove reason with them.
VIOLA.
I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car’st for nothing.
CLOWN.
Not so, sir, I do care for something. But in my conscience, sir, I do not care
for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you
invisible.
VIOLA.
Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool?
CLOWN.
No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till
she be married, and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings,
the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
VIOLA.
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.
CLOWN.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I
would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my
mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there.
VIOLA.
Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for
thee.
CLOWN.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
VIOLA.
By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have
it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?
CLOWN.
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
VIOLA.
Yes, being kept together, and put to use.
CLOWN.
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this
Troilus.
VIOLA.
I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged.
CLOWN.
The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a
beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you
are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say “element”, but the
word is overworn.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man’s art:
For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.
Enter Sir Toby and Sir
Andrew.
SIR TOBY.
Save you, gentleman.
VIOLA.
And you, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
VIOLA.
Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
SIR ANDREW.
I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours.
SIR TOBY.
Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if your
trade be to her.
VIOLA.
I am bound to your niece, sir, I mean, she is the list of my voyage.
SIR TOBY.
Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.
VIOLA.
My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by
bidding me taste my legs.
SIR TOBY.
I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
VIOLA.
I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.
Enter Olivia and Maria.
Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
SIR ANDREW.
That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well.
VIOLA.
My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed
ear.
SIR ANDREW.
‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready.
OLIVIA.
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.
[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Maria.]
Give me your hand, sir.
VIOLA.
My duty, madam, and most humble service.
OLIVIA.
What is your name?
VIOLA.
Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.
OLIVIA.
My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment:
Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
VIOLA.
And he is yours, and his must needs be yours.
Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.
OLIVIA.
For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me!
VIOLA.
Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf.
OLIVIA.
O, by your leave, I pray you.
I bade you never speak again of him.
But would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.
VIOLA.
Dear lady—
OLIVIA.
Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
Under your hard construction must I sit;
To force that on you in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours. What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.
VIOLA.
I pity you.
OLIVIA.
That’s a degree to love.
VIOLA.
No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof
That very oft we pity enemies.
OLIVIA.
Why then methinks ’tis time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes.]
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you.
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due west.
VIOLA.
Then westward ho!
Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!
You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
OLIVIA.
Stay:
I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me.
VIOLA.
That you do think you are not what you are.
OLIVIA.
If I think so, I think the same of you.
VIOLA.
Then think you right; I am not what I am.
OLIVIA.
I would you were as I would have you be.
VIOLA.
Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
OLIVIA.
O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,
I love thee so, that maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
VIOLA.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master’s tears to you deplore.
OLIVIA.
Yet come again: for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.
SIR ANDREW.
No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.
SIR TOBY.
Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
FABIAN.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
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.
SIR TOBY.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that.
SIR ANDREW.
As plain as I see you now.
FABIAN.
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
SIR ANDREW.
’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me?
FABIAN.
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.
SIR TOBY.
And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.
FABIAN.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
And’t be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I hate; I had as lief be a
Brownist as a politician.
SIR TOBY.
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.
FABIAN.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
SIR ANDREW.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
SIR TOBY.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
Where shall I find you?
SIR TOBY.
We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
[Exit Sir Andrew.]
FABIAN.
This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY.
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.
FABIAN.
We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it.
SIR TOBY.
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.
FABIAN.
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.
Enter Maria.
SIR TOBY.
Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.
MARIA.
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.
SIR TOBY.
And cross-gartered?
MARIA.
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.
SIR TOBY.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. A street.
Enter Sebastian and Antonio.
SEBASTIAN.
I would not by my will have troubled you,
But since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
ANTONIO.
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.
SEBASTIAN.
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?
ANTONIO.
Tomorrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.
SEBASTIAN.
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.
ANTONIO.
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.
SEBASTIAN.
Belike you slew great number of his people.
ANTONIO.
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.
SEBASTIAN.
Do not then walk too open.
ANTONIO.
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.
SEBASTIAN.
Why I your purse?
ANTONIO.
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
SEBASTIAN.
I’ll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour.
ANTONIO.
To th’ Elephant.
SEBASTIAN.
I do remember.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Olivia’s garden.
Enter Olivia and Maria.
OLIVIA.
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?
MARIA.
He’s coming, madam:
But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam.
OLIVIA.
Why, what’s the matter? Does he rave?
MARIA.
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.
OLIVIA.
Go call him hither. I’m as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.
Enter Malvolio.
How now, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
Sweet lady, ho, ho!
OLIVIA.
Smil’st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
MALVOLIO.
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.’
OLIVIA.
Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
MALVOLIO.
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.
OLIVIA.
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come to thee.
OLIVIA.
God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft?
MARIA.
How do you, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws!
MARIA.
Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
MALVOLIO.
‘Be not afraid of greatness.’ ’Twas well writ.
OLIVIA.
What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
‘Some are born great’—
OLIVIA.
Ha?
MALVOLIO.
‘Some achieve greatness’—
OLIVIA.
What say’st thou?
MALVOLIO.
‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’
OLIVIA.
Heaven restore thee!
MALVOLIO.
‘Remember who commended thy yellow stockings’—
OLIVIA.
Thy yellow stockings?
MALVOLIO.
‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’
OLIVIA.
Cross-gartered?
MALVOLIO.
‘Go to: thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so:’—
OLIVIA.
Am I made?
MALVOLIO.
‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’
OLIVIA.
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
Enter Servant.
SERVANT.
Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned; I could hardly
entreat him back. He attends your ladyship’s pleasure.
OLIVIA.
I’ll come to him.
[Exit Servant.]
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.
[Exeunt Olivia and Maria.]
MALVOLIO.
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.
Enter Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria.
SIR TOBY.
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.
FABIAN.
Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? How is’t with you, man?
MALVOLIO.
Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off.
MARIA.
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.
MALVOLIO.
Ah, ha! does she so?
SIR TOBY.
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.
MALVOLIO.
Do you know what you say?
MARIA.
La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be
not bewitched.
FABIAN.
Carry his water to th’ wise woman.
MARIA.
Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose
him for more than I’ll say.
MALVOLIO.
How now, mistress!
MARIA.
O Lord!
SIR TOBY.
Prithee hold thy peace, this is not the way. Do you not see you move him? Let
me alone with him.
FABIAN.
No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not be
roughly used.
SIR TOBY.
Why, how now, my bawcock? How dost thou, chuck?
MALVOLIO.
Sir!
SIR TOBY.
Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man, ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit
with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!
MARIA.
Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.
MALVOLIO.
My prayers, minx?
MARIA.
No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.
MALVOLIO.
Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your
element. You shall know more hereafter.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
Is’t possible?
FABIAN.
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable
fiction.
SIR TOBY.
His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.
MARIA.
Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.
FABIAN.
Why, we shall make him mad indeed.
MARIA.
The house will be the quieter.
SIR TOBY.
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!
Enter Sir Andrew.
FABIAN.
More matter for a May morning.
SIR ANDREW.
Here’s the challenge, read it. I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t.
FABIAN.
Is’t so saucy?
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, is’t, I warrant him. Do but read.
SIR TOBY.
Give me. [Reads.] Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy
fellow.
FABIAN.
Good, and valiant.
SIR TOBY.
Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will
show thee no reason for’t.
FABIAN.
A good note, that keeps you from the blow of the law.
SIR TOBY.
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.
FABIAN.
Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less.
SIR TOBY.
I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me—
FABIAN.
Good.
SIR TOBY.
Thou kill’st me like a rogue and a villain.
FABIAN.
Still you keep o’ th’ windy side of the law. Good.
SIR TOBY.
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.
MARIA.
You may have very fit occasion for’t. He is now in some commerce with my lady,
and will by and by depart.
SIR TOBY.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
Nay, let me alone for swearing.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
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.
Enter Olivia and Viola.
FABIAN.
Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave, and presently
after him.
SIR TOBY.
I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge.
[Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria.]
OLIVIA.
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.
VIOLA.
With the same ’haviour that your passion bears
Goes on my master’s griefs.
OLIVIA.
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?
VIOLA.
Nothing but this, your true love for my master.
OLIVIA.
How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
VIOLA.
I will acquit you.
OLIVIA.
Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well;
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.
[Exit.]
Enter Sir Toby and Fabian.
SIR TOBY.
Gentleman, God save thee.
VIOLA.
And you, sir.
SIR TOBY.
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.
VIOLA.
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.
SIR TOBY.
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.
VIOLA.
I pray you, sir, what is he?
SIR TOBY.
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.
VIOLA.
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 TOBY.
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.
VIOLA.
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.
SIR TOBY.
I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.
[Exit Sir Toby.]
VIOLA.
Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
FABIAN.
I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement, but
nothing of the circumstance more.
VIOLA.
I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
FABIAN.
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.
VIOLA.
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.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Sir Toby and Sir
Andrew.
SIR TOBY.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him.
SIR TOBY.
Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.
SIR ANDREW.
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.
SIR TOBY.
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.
Enter Fabian and Viola.
[To Fabian.] I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have persuaded
him the youth’s a devil.
FABIAN.
He is as horribly conceited of him, and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were
at his heels.
SIR TOBY.
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.
VIOLA.
[Aside.] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how
much I lack of a man.
FABIAN.
Give ground if you see him furious.
SIR TOBY.
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.
SIR ANDREW.
[Draws.] Pray God he keep his oath!
Enter Antonio.
VIOLA.
[Draws.] I do assure you ’tis against my will.
ANTONIO.
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.
SIR TOBY.
You, sir? Why, what are you?
ANTONIO.
[Draws.] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
SIR TOBY.
[Draws.] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
Enter Officers.
FABIAN.
O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers.
SIR TOBY.
[To Antonio.] I’ll be with you anon.
VIOLA.
[To Sir Andrew.] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.
SIR ANDREW.
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.
FIRST OFFICER.
This is the man; do thy office.
SECOND OFFICER.
Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino.
ANTONIO.
You do mistake me, sir.
FIRST OFFICER.
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.
ANTONIO.
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.
SECOND OFFICER.
Come, sir, away.
ANTONIO.
I must entreat of you some of that money.
VIOLA.
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.
ANTONIO.
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.
VIOLA.
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.
ANTONIO.
O heavens themselves!
SECOND OFFICER.
Come, sir, I pray you go.
ANTONIO.
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.
FIRST OFFICER.
What’s that to us? The time goes by. Away!
ANTONIO.
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.
FIRST OFFICER.
The man grows mad, away with him. Come, come, sir.
ANTONIO.
Lead me on.
[Exeunt Officers with Antonio.]
VIOLA.
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!
SIR TOBY.
Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. We’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two
of most sage saws.
VIOLA.
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!
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
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.
FABIAN.
A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
SIR ANDREW.
’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him.
SIR TOBY.
Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.
SIR ANDREW.
And I do not—
[Exit.]
FABIAN.
Come, let’s see the event.
SIR TOBY.
I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.
[Exeunt.]