Act II, Scene V — Olivia’s garden
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.
SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
FABIAN. Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
FABIAN. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.
SIR TOBY. To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew?
SIR ANDREW. And we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter Maria.
SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India?
MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk; he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.
[Exit Maria.]
Enter Malvolio.
MALVOLIO. ’Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me, and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t?
SIR TOBY. Here’s an overweening rogue!
FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!
SIR ANDREW. ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
SIR TOBY. Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio.
SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue!
SIR ANDREW. Pistol him, pistol him.
SIR TOBY. Peace, peace.
MALVOLIO. There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
SIR ANDREW. Fie on him, Jezebel!
FABIAN. O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.
MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state—
SIR TOBY. O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!
MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.
SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone!
FABIAN. O, peace, peace.
MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby.
SIR TOBY. Bolts and shackles!
FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.
MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me—
SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live?
FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace!
MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control—
SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then?
MALVOLIO. Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech—’
SIR TOBY. What, what?
MALVOLIO. ‘You must amend your drunkenness.’
SIR TOBY. Out, scab!
FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
MALVOLIO. ‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—’
SIR ANDREW. That’s me, I warrant you.
MALVOLIO. ‘One Sir Andrew.’
SIR ANDREW. I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool.
MALVOLIO. [Taking up the letter.] What employment have we here?
FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin.
SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!
MALVOLIO. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s, and thus makes she her great P’s. It is in contempt of question, her hand.
SIR ANDREW. Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that?
MALVOLIO. [Reads.] To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes. Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?
FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all.
MALVOLIO. [Reads.] _ Jove knows I love, But who? Lips, do not move, No man must know._
‘No man must know.’ What follows? The numbers alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio?
SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock!
MALVOLIO. _ I may command where I adore, But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; M.O.A.I. doth sway my life._
FABIAN. A fustian riddle!
SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I.
MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.
FABIAN. What dish o’ poison has she dressed him!
SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it!
MALVOLIO. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And the end—what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me! Softly! ‘M.O.A.I.’—
SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that:—he is now at a cold scent.
FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.
MALVOLIO. ‘M’—Malvolio; ‘M!’ Why, that begins my name!
FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults.
MALVOLIO. ‘M’—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: ‘A’ should follow, but ‘O’ does.
FABIAN. And ‘O’ shall end, I hope.
SIR TOBY. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry ‘O!’
MALVOLIO. And then ‘I’ comes behind.
FABIAN. Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.
MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I.’ This simulation is not as the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft, here follows prose. [Reads.] If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so. If not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, The Fortunate Unhappy.
Daylight and champian discovers not more! This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered, and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. [Reads.] Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee. Jove, I thank thee. I will smile, I will do everything that thou wilt have me.
[Exit.]
FABIAN. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
SIR TOBY. I could marry this wench for this device.
SIR ANDREW. So could I too.
SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
Enter Maria.
SIR ANDREW. Nor I neither.
FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?
SIR ANDREW. Or o’ mine either?
SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?
SIR ANDREW. I’ faith, or I either?
SIR TOBY. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.
MARIA. Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?
SIR TOBY. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
MARIA. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.
SIR TOBY. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!
SIR ANDREW. I’ll make one too.
[Exeunt.]
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.]
Act III, 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.]
Act III, 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.]
Act III, 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.]
Act IV, Scene I — The Street before Olivia’s House
Enter Sebastian and Clown.
CLOWN. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
SEBASTIAN. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow. Let me be clear of thee.
CLOWN. Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know you, nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so, is so.
SEBASTIAN. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else, Thou know’st not me.
CLOWN. Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming?
SEBASTIAN. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me. There’s money for thee; if you tarry longer I shall give worse payment.
CLOWN. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report—after fourteen years’ purchase.
Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby and Fabian.
SIR ANDREW. Now sir, have I met you again? There’s for you.
[Striking Sebastian.]
SEBASTIAN. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad?
[Beating Sir Andrew.]
SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.
CLOWN. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence.
[Exit Clown.]
SIR TOBY. Come on, sir, hold!
SIR ANDREW. Nay, let him alone, I’ll go another way to work with him. I’ll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that.
SEBASTIAN. Let go thy hand!
SIR TOBY. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed. Come on.
SEBASTIAN. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.
[Draws.]
SIR TOBY. What, what? Nay, then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.
[Draws.]
Enter Olivia.
OLIVIA. Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee hold!
SIR TOBY. Madam.
OLIVIA. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne’er were preach’d! Out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario. Rudesby, be gone!
[Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.]
I prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go. Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, He started one poor heart of mine, in thee.
SEBASTIAN. What relish is in this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
OLIVIA. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be ruled by me!
SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will.
OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be!
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene II — A Room in Olivia’s House
Enter Maria and Clown.
MARIA. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate. Do it quickly. I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst.
[Exit Maria.]
CLOWN. Well, I’ll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in’t, and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student, but to be said, an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter.
Enter Sir Toby and Maria.
SIR TOBY. Jove bless thee, Master Parson.
CLOWN. Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That that is, is’: so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is ‘that’ but ‘that’? and ‘is’ but ‘is’?
SIR TOBY. To him, Sir Topas.
CLOWN. What ho, I say! Peace in this prison!
SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well. A good knave.
Malvolio within.
MALVOLIO. Who calls there?
CLOWN. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
CLOWN. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
SIR TOBY. Well said, Master Parson.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness.
CLOWN. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms, for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Say’st thou that house is dark?
MALVOLIO. As hell, Sir Topas.
CLOWN. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?
MALVOLIO. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark.
CLOWN. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.
MALVOLIO. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are. Make the trial of it in any constant question.
CLOWN. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl?
MALVOLIO. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
CLOWN. What think’st thou of his opinion?
MALVOLIO. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.
CLOWN. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas!
SIR TOBY. My most exquisite Sir Topas!
CLOWN. Nay, I am for all waters.
MARIA. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee not.
SIR TOBY. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou find’st him. I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.
[Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria.]
CLOWN. [Singing.] _Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does._
MALVOLIO. Fool!
CLOWN. My lady is unkind, perdy.
MALVOLIO. Fool!
CLOWN. Alas, why is she so?
MALVOLIO. Fool, I say!
CLOWN. She loves another— Who calls, ha?
MALVOLIO. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for’t.
CLOWN. Master Malvolio?
MALVOLIO. Ay, good fool.
CLOWN. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
MALVOLIO. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.
CLOWN. But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool.
MALVOLIO. They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.
CLOWN. Advise you what you say: the minister is here. [As Sir Topas] Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore. Endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas!
CLOWN. [As Sir Topas] Maintain no words with him, good fellow. [As himself] Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas. [As Sir Topas] Marry, amen. [As himself] I will sir, I will.
MALVOLIO. Fool, fool, fool, I say!
CLOWN. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you.
MALVOLIO. Good fool, help me to some light and some paper. I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.
CLOWN. Well-a-day that you were, sir!
MALVOLIO. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.
CLOWN. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?
MALVOLIO. Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true.
CLOWN. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink.
MALVOLIO. Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee be gone.
CLOWN. [Singing.] _I am gone, sir, and anon, sir, I’ll be with you again, In a trice, like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath, Cries ‘ah, ha!’ to the devil: Like a mad lad, ‘Pare thy nails, dad. Adieu, goodman devil.’_
[Exit.]
Act IV, Scene III — Olivia’s Garden
Enter Sebastian.
SEBASTIAN. This is the air; that is the glorious sun, This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t, And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant, Yet there he was, and there I found this credit, That he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service. For though my soul disputes well with my sense That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad, Or else the lady’s mad; yet if ’twere so, She could not sway her house, command her followers, Take and give back affairs and their dispatch, With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.
Enter Olivia and a Priest.
OLIVIA. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there, before him And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. He shall conceal it Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth. What do you say?
SEBASTIAN. I’ll follow this good man, and go with you, And having sworn truth, ever will be true.
OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father, and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine!
[Exeunt.]
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.]
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
Dramatis Personæ
DUKE OF MILAN, father to Silvia VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen PROTEUS, one of the two gentlemen ANTONIO, father to Proteus THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine EGLAMOUR, agent for Silvia in her escape SPEED, a clownish servant to Valentine LANCE, the like to Proteus PANTINO, servant to Antonio HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan OUTLAWS, with Valentine
JULIA, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus SILVIA, beloved of Valentine LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia
Servants, Musicians
SCENE: Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua
Act I, Scene I — Verona. An open place
Enter Valentine and Proteus.
VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus. Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were’t not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honoured love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would when I to love begin.
PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu. Think on thy Proteus when thou haply seest Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel. Wish me partaker in thy happiness When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy headsman, Valentine.
VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success?
PROTEUS. Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee.
VALENTINE. That’s on some shallow story of deep love, How young Leander crossed the Hellespont.
PROTEUS. That’s a deep story of a deeper love, For he was more than over shoes in love.
VALENTINE. ’Tis true; for you are over boots in love, And yet you never swam the Hellespont.
PROTEUS. Over the boots? Nay, give me not the boots.
VALENTINE. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.
PROTEUS. What?
VALENTINE. To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment’s mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights. If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; If lost, why then a grievous labour won; However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
PROTEUS. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.
VALENTINE. So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove.
PROTEUS. ’Tis love you cavil at. I am not Love.
VALENTINE. Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
PROTEUS. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
VALENTINE. And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turned to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes. But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee That art a votary to fond desire? Once more adieu. My father at the road Expects my coming, there to see me shipped.
PROTEUS. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.
VALENTINE. Sweet Proteus, no. Now let us take our leave. To Milan let me hear from thee by letters Of thy success in love, and what news else Betideth here in absence of thy friend; And I likewise will visit thee with mine.
PROTEUS. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan.
VALENTINE. As much to you at home, and so farewell.
[Exit.]
PROTEUS. He after honour hunts, I after love. He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought; Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.
Enter Speed.
SPEED. Sir Proteus, ’save you. Saw you my master?
PROTEUS. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan.
SPEED. Twenty to one, then, he is shipped already, And I have played the sheep in losing him.
PROTEUS. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be a while away.
SPEED. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and I a sheep?
PROTEUS. I do.
SPEED. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep.
PROTEUS. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.
SPEED. This proves me still a sheep.
PROTEUS. True, and thy master a shepherd.
SPEED. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.
PROTEUS. It shall go hard but I’ll prove it by another.
SPEED. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep.
PROTEUS. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep. Thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep.
SPEED. Such another proof will make me cry “baa”.
PROTEUS. But dost thou hear? Gav’st thou my letter to Julia?
SPEED. Ay, sir. I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour.
PROTEUS. Here’s too small a pasture for such store of muttons.
SPEED. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her.
PROTEUS. Nay, in that you are astray; ’twere best pound you.
SPEED. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter.
PROTEUS. You mistake; I mean the pound, a pinfold.
SPEED. From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over, ’Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover.
PROTEUS. But what said she?
SPEED. [Nods his head.] Ay.
PROTEUS. Nod—“Ay”. Why, that’s “noddy”.
SPEED. You mistook, sir. I say she did nod, and you ask me if she did nod; and I say “Ay”.
PROTEUS. And that set together is “noddy”.
SPEED. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains.
PROTEUS. No, no, you shall have it for bearing the letter.
SPEED. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.
PROTEUS. Why, sir, how do you bear with me?
SPEED. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly, having nothing but the word “noddy” for my pains.
PROTEUS. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.
SPEED. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.
PROTEUS. Come, come, open the matter; in brief, what said she?
SPEED. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered.
PROTEUS. [Giving him a coin.] Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?
SPEED. Truly, sir, I think you’ll hardly win her.
PROTEUS. Why? Couldst thou perceive so much from her?
SPEED. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter. And being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she’ll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she’s as hard as steel.
PROTEUS. What said she, nothing?
SPEED. No, not so much as “Take this for thy pains.” To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so, sir, I’ll commend you to my master.
PROTEUS. Go, go, begone, to save your ship from wrack, Which cannot perish having thee aboard, Being destined to a drier death on shore.
[Exit Speed.]
I must go send some better messenger. I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post.
[Exit.]
Act I, Scene II — The same. The garden of Julia’s house
Enter Julia and Lucetta.
JULIA. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?
LUCETTA. Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully.
JULIA. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
LUCETTA. Please you, repeat their names, I’ll show my mind According to my shallow simple skill.
JULIA. What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?
LUCETTA. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine; But, were I you, he never should be mine.
JULIA. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio?
LUCETTA. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so-so.
JULIA. What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus?
LUCETTA. Lord, Lord, to see what folly reigns in us!
JULIA. How now? What means this passion at his name?
LUCETTA. Pardon, dear madam, ’tis a passing shame That I, unworthy body as I am, Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.
JULIA. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?
LUCETTA. Then thus: of many good I think him best.
JULIA. Your reason?
LUCETTA. I have no other but a woman’s reason: I think him so because I think him so.
JULIA. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?
LUCETTA. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.
JULIA. Why, he of all the rest hath never moved me.
LUCETTA. Yet he of all the rest I think best loves ye.
JULIA. His little speaking shows his love but small.
LUCETTA. Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all.
JULIA. They do not love that do not show their love.
LUCETTA. O, they love least that let men know their love.
JULIA. I would I knew his mind.
LUCETTA. Peruse this paper, madam.
[Gives her a letter.]
JULIA. To Julia—Say, from whom?
LUCETTA. That the contents will show.
JULIA. Say, say, who gave it thee?
LUCETTA. Sir Valentine’s page, and sent, I think, from Proteus. He would have given it you, but I, being in the way, Did in your name receive it. Pardon the fault, I pray.
JULIA. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? Now trust me, ’tis an office of great worth, And you an officer fit for the place. There, take the paper; see it be returned, Or else return no more into my sight.
LUCETTA. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.
JULIA. Will ye be gone?
LUCETTA. That you may ruminate.
[Exit.]
JULIA. And yet I would I had o’erlooked the letter. It were a shame to call her back again And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. What fool is she, that knows I am a maid And would not force the letter to my view, Since maids in modesty say “No” to that Which they would have the profferer construe “Ay”. Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is to call Lucetta back And ask remission for my folly past. What ho! Lucetta!
Enter Lucetta.
LUCETTA. What would your ladyship?
JULIA. Is ’t near dinner time?
LUCETTA. I would it were, That you might kill your stomach on your meat And not upon your maid.
[Drops and picks up the letter.]
JULIA. What is’t that you took up so gingerly?
LUCETTA. Nothing.
JULIA. Why didst thou stoop, then?
LUCETTA. To take a paper up that I let fall.
JULIA. And is that paper nothing?
LUCETTA. Nothing concerning me.
JULIA. Then let it lie for those that it concerns.
LUCETTA. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter.
JULIA. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.
LUCETTA. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. Give me a note. Your ladyship can set—
JULIA. As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of “Light o’ Love”.
LUCETTA. It is too heavy for so light a tune.
JULIA. Heavy? Belike it hath some burden then?
LUCETTA. Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it.
JULIA. And why not you?
LUCETTA. I cannot reach so high.
JULIA. Let’s see your song. [Taking the letter.] How now, minion!
LUCETTA. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out. And yet methinks I do not like this tune.
JULIA. You do not?
LUCETTA. No, madam, it is too sharp.
JULIA. You, minion, are too saucy.
LUCETTA. Nay, now you are too flat And mar the concord with too harsh a descant. There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.
JULIA. The mean is drowned with your unruly bass.
LUCETTA. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.
JULIA. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [Tears the letter.] Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie. You would be fingering them to anger me.
LUCETTA. She makes it strange, but she would be best pleased To be so angered with another letter.
[Exit.]
JULIA. Nay, would I were so angered with the same! O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey And kill the bees that yield it with your stings! I’ll kiss each several paper for amends. Look, here is writ kind Julia. Unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitude, I throw thy name against the bruising stones, Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. And here is writ love-wounded Proteus. Poor wounded name, my bosom as a bed Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly healed; And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. But twice or thrice was Proteus written down. Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away Till I have found each letter in the letter Except mine own name. That some whirlwind bear Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock, And throw it thence into the raging sea. Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ: _Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet Julia._ That I’ll tear away; And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another. Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.
Enter Lucetta.
LUCETTA. Madam, dinner is ready, and your father stays.
JULIA. Well, let us go.
LUCETTA. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?
JULIA. If you respect them, best to take them up.
LUCETTA. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down. Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.
[Picks up pieces of the letter.]
JULIA. I see you have a month’s mind to them.
LUCETTA. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; I see things too, although you judge I wink.
JULIA. Come, come, will’t please you go?
[Exeunt.]
Act I, Scene III — The same. A room in Antonio’s house
Enter Antonio and Pantino.
ANTONIO. Tell me, Pantino, what sad talk was that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?
PANTINO. ’Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.
ANTONIO. Why, what of him?
PANTINO. He wondered that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars to try their fortune there; Some to discover islands far away; Some to the studious universities. For any or for all these exercises He said that Proteus your son was meet, And did request me to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age In having known no travel in his youth.
ANTONIO. Nor need’st thou much importune me to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have considered well his loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, Not being tried and tutored in the world. Experience is by industry achieved And perfected by the swift course of time. Then tell me whither were I best to send him?
PANTINO. I think your lordship is not ignorant How his companion, youthful Valentine, Attends the Emperor in his royal court.
ANTONIO. I know it well.
PANTINO. ’Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither. There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, And be in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.
ANTONIO. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised, And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it, The execution of it shall make known. Even with the speediest expedition I will dispatch him to the Emperor’s court.
PANTINO. Tomorrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso With other gentlemen of good esteem Are journeying to salute the Emperor And to commend their service to his will.
ANTONIO. Good company. With them shall Proteus go.
Enter Proteus reading a letter.
And in good time! Now will we break with him.
PROTEUS. Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn. O, that our fathers would applaud our loves To seal our happiness with their consents. O heavenly Julia!
ANTONIO. How now? What letter are you reading there?
PROTEUS. May’t please your lordship, ’tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine, Delivered by a friend that came from him.
ANTONIO. Lend me the letter. Let me see what news.
PROTEUS. There is no news, my lord, but that he writes How happily he lives, how well beloved And daily graced by the Emperor, Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.
ANTONIO. And how stand you affected to his wish?
PROTEUS. As one relying on your lordship’s will, And not depending on his friendly wish.
ANTONIO. My will is something sorted with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed, For what I will, I will, and there an end. I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus in the Emperor’s court. What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. Tomorrow be in readiness to go. Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.
PROTEUS. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided; Please you deliberate a day or two.
ANTONIO. Look what thou want’st shall be sent after thee. No more of stay. Tomorrow thou must go. Come on, Pantino, you shall be employed To hasten on his expedition.
[Exeunt Antonio and Pantino.]
PROTEUS. Thus have I shunned the fire for fear of burning And drenched me in the sea, where I am drowned. I feared to show my father Julia’s letter Lest he should take exceptions to my love, And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by an by a cloud takes all away.
Enter Pantino.
PANTINO. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you. He is in haste. Therefore, I pray you, go.
PROTEUS. Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto, And yet a thousand times it answers “No”.
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene I — Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace
Enter Valentine and Speed.
SPEED. Sir, your glove.
VALENTINE. Not mine. My gloves are on.
SPEED. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one.
VALENTINE. Ha? Let me see. Ay, give it me, it’s mine. Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia!
SPEED. [Calling.] Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia!
VALENTINE. How now, sirrah?
SPEED. She is not within hearing, sir.
VALENTINE. Why, sir, who bade you call her?
SPEED. Your worship, sir, or else I mistook.
VALENTINE. Well, you’ll still be too forward.
SPEED. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.
VALENTINE. Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam Silvia?
SPEED. She that your worship loves?
VALENTINE. Why, how know you that I am in love?
SPEED. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a schoolboy that had lost his ABC; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money. And now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.
VALENTINE. Are all these things perceived in me?
SPEED. They are all perceived without ye.
VALENTINE. Without me? They cannot.
SPEED. Without you? Nay, that’s certain, for without you were so simple, none else would. But you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady.
VALENTINE. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia?
SPEED. She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?
VALENTINE. Hast thou observed that? Even she I mean.
SPEED. Why, sir, I know her not.
VALENTINE. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know’st her not?
SPEED. Is she not hard-favoured, sir?
VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured.
SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough.
VALENTINE. What dost thou know?
SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favoured.
VALENTINE. I mean that her beauty is exquisite but her favour infinite.
SPEED. That’s because the one is painted, and the other out of all count.
VALENTINE. How painted? And how out of count?
SPEED. Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty.
VALENTINE. How esteem’st thou me? I account of her beauty.
SPEED. You never saw her since she was deformed.
VALENTINE. How long hath she been deformed?
SPEED. Ever since you loved her.
VALENTINE. I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful.
SPEED. If you love her, you cannot see her.
VALENTINE. Why?
SPEED. Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes, or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered!
VALENTINE. What should I see then?
SPEED. Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose.
VALENTINE. Belike, boy, then you are in love, for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.
SPEED. True, sir, I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours.
VALENTINE. In conclusion, I stand affected to her.
SPEED. I would you were set, so your affection would cease.
VALENTINE. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves.
SPEED. And have you?
VALENTINE. I have.
SPEED. Are they not lamely writ?
VALENTINE. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace, here she comes.
Enter Silvia.
SPEED. [Aside.] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her.
VALENTINE. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows.
SPEED. [Aside.] O, give ye good e’en! Here’s a million of manners.
SILVIA. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.
SPEED. [Aside.] He should give her interest, and she gives it him.
VALENTINE. As you enjoined me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours, Which I was much unwilling to proceed in But for my duty to your ladyship.
[Gives her a letter.]
SILVIA. I thank you, gentle servant, ’tis very clerkly done.
VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off, For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully.
SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains?
VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much. And yet—
SILVIA. A pretty period. Well, I guess the sequel; And yet I will not name it. And yet I care not. And yet take this again.
[Offers him the letter.]
And yet I thank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.
SPEED. [Aside.] And yet you will; and yet another “yet”.
VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it?
SILVIA. Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly writ, But, since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them.
[Offers the letter again.]
VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you.
SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request, But I will none of them. They are for you. I would have had them writ more movingly.
VALENTINE. Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.
SILVIA. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.
VALENTINE. If it please me, madam? What then?
SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. And so good morrow, servant.
[Exit.]
SPEED. [Aside.] O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple! My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better? That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter?
VALENTINE. How now, sir? What are you reasoning with yourself?
SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming. ’Tis you that have the reason.
VALENTINE. To do what?
SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia.
VALENTINE. To whom?
SPEED. To yourself. Why, she woos you by a figure.
VALENTINE. What figure?
SPEED. By a letter, I should say.
VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me.
SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?
VALENTINE. No, believe me.
SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest?
VALENTINE. She gave me none, except an angry word.
SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter.
VALENTINE. That’s the letter I writ to her friend.
SPEED. And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end.
VALENTINE. I would it were no worse.
SPEED. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well. For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply, Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’Tis dinner time.
VALENTINE. I have dined.
SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir, though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved.
[Exeunt.]