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and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.
Sir And. 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, sir Toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me. The count himself, here hard by, woos her.
Sir To. She'll none o' the count: she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's life in't,
Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world: I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of iny betters: and yet I will not compare with an old man.
Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't.
Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in Illyria.
Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig: I would not so much as make water, but in a sinka-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.
Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a damask-coloured stock. Shall we set about some revels?
Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
Sir And. Taurus? that's sides and heart. Sir To. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha! higher: ha, ha!-excellent! [Exeunt.
SCENE IV. A Room in the DUKE's Palace.
Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire. Val. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced : he || hath known you but three days, and already you are
Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? Val. No, believe me.
Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.
Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here.
Sure, my noble lord,
Vio. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what
Duke. O! then unfold the passion of my love;
Mar. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or, to be turned away: is not that as good as a hanging to you?
Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out. Mar. You are resolute, then?
Clo. Not so neither; but I am resolved on two points.
Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.
Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way if sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.
Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely; you were best. [Erit.
Enter OLIVIA, and MALVOLIO.
Clo. Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.-God bless thee, lady!
Oli. Take the fool away.
Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest.
Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest: if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing that's mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but Dear lad, believe it, patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism For they shall yet belie thy happy years, will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As That say thou art a man: Diana's lip there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a Is not more smooth, and rubious; thy small pipe flower. The lady bade take away the fool; thereIs as the maiden's organ, shrill, and sound, fore, I say again, take her away. And all is semblative a woman's part. I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this affair.-Some four, or five, attend him;
Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you.
Clo. Misprision in the highest degree!-Lady, cucullus non facit monachum: that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Oli. Can you do it?
Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna.
Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness I'll bide your proof.
Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou ? Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. Clo. I think, his soul is in hell, madonna. Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.—Take away the fool, gentlemen.
Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
Mal. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool.
Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio?
Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such
a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.
Oli. O! you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Mal. He has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you. Oli. What kind of man is he? Mal. Why, of man kind.
Oli. What manner of man?
Mal. Of very ill manner: he'll speak with you, will you, or no.
Oli. Of what personage, and years is he?
Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrew
Clo. Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for ishly: one would think, his mother's milk were thou speakest well of fools!
Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you.
Oli. From the count Örsino, is it?
Mar. I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.
Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay? Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you: he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him!-[Exit MARIA.]—Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. -[Exit MALVOLIO.]-Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.
Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool, whose skull Jove cram with brains; for here he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.
Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool? Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him.
Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz, for he's in the third degree of drink : he's drown'd: go, look after him.
Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown.
Mal. Madam, yond' young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick: he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep : he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.
Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
scarce out of him.
Oli. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face.
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
Oli. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty. I pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible even to the least sinister usage. Oli. Whence came you, sir?
Vio. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.
Oli. Are you a comedian?
Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?
Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.
Oli. Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.
Vio. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.
Oli. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard, you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, begone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your
Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?
Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
Oli. O! I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.
Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you, sir; such a one I was this present: is't not well done? [Unveiling.
Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. Oli. 'Tis in grain, sir: 'twill endure wind and weather.
Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on. Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
Oli. O! sir, I will not be so hard-hearted. I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle, and utensil, labelled to my will; as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?
Vio. I see you what you are: you are too
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
How does he love me?
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
A gracious person; but yet I cannot love him.
Vio. If I did love you in my master's flame,
Oli. You might do much. What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.
Get you to your lord:
I cannot love him. Let him send no more,
"Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
Unless the master were the man.
Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.
Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that I go with you?
Seb. By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore, I shall crave of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
Seb. No, 'sooth, sir. My determinate voyage is mere extravagancy; but I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in: therefore, it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom, 1 know, you have heard of: he left behind him. myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended!
but, you, sir, altered that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned.
Ant. Alas, the day!
Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more.
Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O, good Antonio! forgive me your trouble.
Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.
Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the count Orsino's court: farewell.