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Enter MARIA.

Mar. What a caterwauling do you keep here ! If my lady have not called up her steward, Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never

trust me.

Sir To. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men be we. Am not I consanguineous ? am I not of her blood ?

Tilly-valley, lady! [Singing.] There dwelt a mano in Babylon, lady, lady!

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

Sir To. (singing.] O the twelfth day of December,-Mar. For the love of God, peace.

Enter MALVOLIO. Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?

Sir To. We did keep, time, sir, in our catches. Sneck-up!

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir To. [singing.] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be

gone. Mar. Nay, good sir Toby.

Clo. [singing.] His eyes do show his days are almost donc.

Mal. Is't even so ?
Sir To. [singing.] But I will never die.
Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to you.
Sir To. (singing.] Shall I bid him go?
Clo. [singing.] What an if you do ?
Sir To. [singing.] Shall I bid him


and spare


Clo. [singing. ] .O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To. Out o’tune, sir ? ye lie.—Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ?

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.

Sir To. Thou’rt i' the right.-Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs.—A stoop of wine, Maria !

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule ; she shall know of it, by this hand.

[Exit. Mar. Go shake your ears.

Sir And. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him.

Sir To. Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge : or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mout

Mar. Sweet sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him; if I do not gull him into a nay-word, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed : I know I can do it.

Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

Sir To. What, for being a puritan ? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.

Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed as he thinks with excellences, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on him, love him : and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated : I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent! I smell a devic:.
Sir And. I have it in my nose too.


Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass.

Mar. Ass, I doubt not.
Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you : I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter : observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

[Exit. Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.

Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; what o' that ?

Sir And. I was adored once too.

Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.—Thou hadst need send for more money.

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ the end, call me cut.

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now; come, knight; come, knight.


SCENE IV.-A Room in the Duke's Palace.


Enter DUKE, VIOLA, Curio, and others.
Duke. Give me some music. -Now, good mor-

row, friends :-
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song

we heard last night ; Methought, it did relieve my passion much; More than light airs and recollected terms, Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times :Come, but one verse.

Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

Duke. Who was it?

Cur, Feste, the jester, my lord : a fool, that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is about the house. Duke. Seek him out :—and play the tune the while.

[Exit Curio.—Music.
Come hither, boy; if ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me :
For, such as I am, all true lovers are :
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is beloved.-How dost thou like this

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

Thou dost speak masterly; My life upon't, young though thou art, thine

eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?

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