10
ACT V.
SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House.
Enter Clown and Fabian.
FABIAN.
Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter.
CLOWN.
Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.
FABIAN.
Anything.
CLOWN.
Do not desire to see this letter.
FABIAN.
This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and Lords.
DUKE.
Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
CLOWN.
Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.
DUKE.
I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?
CLOWN.
Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends.
DUKE.
Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.
CLOWN.
No, sir, the worse.
DUKE.
How can that be?
CLOWN.
Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly
I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and
by my friends I am abused. So that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four
negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and
the better for my foes.
DUKE.
Why, this is excellent.
CLOWN.
By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.
DUKE.
Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold.
CLOWN.
But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another.
DUKE.
O, you give me ill counsel.
CLOWN.
Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood
obey it.
DUKE.
Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s another.
CLOWN.
Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play, and the old saying is, the third
pays for all; the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of
Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind—one, two, three.
DUKE.
You can fool no more money out of me at this throw. If you will let your lady
know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my
bounty further.
CLOWN.
Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir, but I would
not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but
as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon.
[Exit Clown.]
Enter Antonio and Officers.
VIOLA.
Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
DUKE.
That face of his I do remember well.
Yet when I saw it last it was besmear’d
As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war.
A baubling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable,
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet,
That very envy and the tongue of loss
Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?
FIRST OFFICER.
Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy,
And this is he that did the Tiger board
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.
VIOLA.
He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side,
But in conclusion, put strange speech upon me.
I know not what ’twas, but distraction.
DUKE.
Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief,
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies?
ANTONIO.
Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me:
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there by your side
From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was.
His life I gave him, and did thereto add
My love, without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication. For his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him when he was beset;
Where being apprehended, his false cunning
(Not meaning to partake with me in danger)
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
And grew a twenty years’ removed thing
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,
Which I had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.
VIOLA.
How can this be?
DUKE.
When came he to this town?
ANTONIO.
Today, my lord; and for three months before,
No int’rim, not a minute’s vacancy,
Both day and night did we keep company.
Enter Olivia and Attendants.
DUKE.
Here comes the Countess, now heaven walks on earth.
But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months this youth hath tended upon me;
But more of that anon. Take him aside.
OLIVIA.
What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
VIOLA.
Madam?
DUKE.
Gracious Olivia—
OLIVIA.
What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord—
VIOLA.
My lord would speak, my duty hushes me.
OLIVIA.
If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.
DUKE.
Still so cruel?
OLIVIA.
Still so constant, lord.
DUKE.
What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull’st off’rings hath breathed out
That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?
OLIVIA.
Even what it please my lord that shall become him.
DUKE.
Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love?—a savage jealousy
That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this:
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still.
But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.—
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:
I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.
VIOLA.
And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
OLIVIA.
Where goes Cesario?
VIOLA.
After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above
Punish my life for tainting of my love.
OLIVIA.
Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d!
VIOLA.
Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?
OLIVIA.
Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?
Call forth the holy father.
[Exit an Attendant.]
DUKE.
[To Viola.] Come, away!
OLIVIA.
Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.
DUKE.
Husband?
OLIVIA.
Ay, husband. Can he that deny?
DUKE.
Her husband, sirrah?
VIOLA.
No, my lord, not I.
OLIVIA.
Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear
That makes thee strangle thy propriety.
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up.
Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear’st.
Enter Priest.
O, welcome, father!
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence
Here to unfold—though lately we intended
To keep in darkness what occasion now
Reveals before ’tis ripe—what thou dost know
Hath newly passed between this youth and me.
PRIEST.
A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings,
And all the ceremony of this compact
Sealed in my function, by my testimony;
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave,
I have travelled but two hours.
DUKE.
O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be
When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
VIOLA.
My lord, I do protest—
OLIVIA.
O, do not swear.
Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.
Enter Sir Andrew.
SIR ANDREW.
For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.
OLIVIA.
What’s the matter?
SIR ANDREW.
’Has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the
love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.
OLIVIA.
Who has done this, Sir Andrew?
SIR ANDREW.
The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he’s the very
devil incardinate.
DUKE.
My gentleman, Cesario?
SIR ANDREW.
’Od’s lifelings, here he is!—You broke my head for nothing; and that that I
did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby.
VIOLA.
Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:
You drew your sword upon me without cause,
But I bespake you fair and hurt you not.
Enter Sir Toby, drunk, led by the Clown.
SIR ANDREW.
If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me. I think you set nothing by a
bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting, you shall hear more: but if he had
not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did.
DUKE.
How now, gentleman? How is’t with you?
SIR TOBY.
That’s all one; ’has hurt me, and there’s th’ end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick
Surgeon, sot?
CLOWN.
O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i’ th’
morning.
SIR TOBY.
Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue.
OLIVIA.
Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?
SIR ANDREW.
I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together.
SIR TOBY.
Will you help? An ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a
gull?
OLIVIA.
Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to.
[Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.]
Enter Sebastian.
SEBASTIAN.
I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;
But had it been the brother of my blood,
I must have done no less with wit and safety.
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you.
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
DUKE.
One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!
A natural perspective, that is, and is not!
SEBASTIAN.
Antonio, O my dear Antonio!
How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me
Since I have lost thee.
ANTONIO.
Sebastian are you?
SEBASTIAN.
Fear’st thou that, Antonio?
ANTONIO.
How have you made division of yourself?
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?
OLIVIA.
Most wonderful!
SEBASTIAN.
Do I stand there? I never had a brother:
Nor can there be that deity in my nature
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister,
Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured.
Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What countryman? What name? What parentage?
VIOLA.
Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;
Such a Sebastian was my brother too:
So went he suited to his watery tomb.
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.
SEBASTIAN.
A spirit I am indeed,
But am in that dimension grossly clad,
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,
And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola.’
VIOLA.
My father had a mole upon his brow.
SEBASTIAN.
And so had mine.
VIOLA.
And died that day when Viola from her birth
Had numbered thirteen years.
SEBASTIAN.
O, that record is lively in my soul!
He finished indeed his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years.
VIOLA.
If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurp’d attire,
Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola; which to confirm,
I’ll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserv’d to serve this noble count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
SEBASTIAN.
[To Olivia.] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook.
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid;
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived:
You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.
DUKE.
Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck.
[To Viola.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
VIOLA.
And all those sayings will I over-swear,
And all those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbed continent the fire
That severs day from night.
DUKE.
Give me thy hand,
And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.
VIOLA.
The captain that did bring me first on shore
Hath my maid’s garments. He, upon some action,
Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit,
A gentleman and follower of my lady’s.
OLIVIA.
He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither.
And yet, alas, now I remember me,
They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.
Enter Clown, with a letter and Fabian.
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banished his.
How does he, sirrah?
CLOWN.
Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case
may do. Has here writ a letter to you. I should have given it you today
morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when
they are delivered.
OLIVIA.
Open ’t, and read it.
CLOWN.
Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman. By the
Lord, madam,—
OLIVIA.
How now, art thou mad?
CLOWN.
No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to
be, you must allow vox.
OLIVIA.
Prithee, read i’ thy right wits.
CLOWN.
So I do, madonna. But to read his right wits is to read thus; therefore
perpend, my princess, and give ear.
OLIVIA.
[To Fabian.] Read it you, sirrah.
FABIAN.
[Reads.] By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know
it. Though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cousin rule
over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have
your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I
doubt not but to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of me as you
please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury.
The madly-used Malvolio.
OLIVIA.
Did he write this?
CLOWN.
Ay, madam.
DUKE.
This savours not much of distraction.
OLIVIA.
See him delivered, Fabian, bring him hither.
[Exit Fabian.]
My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister, as a wife,
One day shall crown th’ alliance on’t, so please you,
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
DUKE.
Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer.
[To Viola.] Your master quits you; and for your service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you call’d me master for so long,
Here is my hand; you shall from this time be
Your master’s mistress.
OLIVIA.
A sister? You are she.
Enter Fabian and Malvolio.
DUKE.
Is this the madman?
OLIVIA.
Ay, my lord, this same.
How now, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.
OLIVIA.
Have I, Malvolio? No.
MALVOLIO.
Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand,
Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase,
Or say ’tis not your seal, not your invention:
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,
And tell me, in the modesty of honour,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you,
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown
Upon Sir Toby, and the lighter people;
And acting this in an obedient hope,
Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gull
That e’er invention played on? Tell me why?
OLIVIA.
Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,
Though I confess, much like the character:
But out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand.
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presuppos’d
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content.
This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee.
But when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.
FABIAN.
Good madam, hear me speak,
And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come,
Taint the condition of this present hour,
Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not,
Most freely I confess, myself and Toby
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ
The letter, at Sir Toby’s great importance,
In recompense whereof he hath married her.
How with a sportful malice it was follow’d
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,
If that the injuries be justly weigh’d
That have on both sides passed.
OLIVIA.
Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!
CLOWN.
Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness
thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude, one Sir Topas, sir, but
that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.’ But do you remember? ‘Madam,
why laugh you at such a barren rascal? And you smile not, he’s gagged’? And
thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
MALVOLIO.
I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
He hath been most notoriously abus’d.
DUKE.
Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace:
He hath not told us of the captain yet.
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come:
For so you shall be while you are a man;
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen.
[Exeunt.]
Clown sings.
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas, to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
[Exit.]