Vio. A little, by your favour. Of your complexion. What Duke. What kind of woman is't? Vio. Duke. She is not worth thee, then. years, i' faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven; let still the woman An elder than herself; so wears she to him, Vio. I think it well, my lord. Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses; whose fair flower, so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! Re-enter CURIO and Clown. Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last night : Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. Clo. Are you ready, sir? [Music. sir. SONG. Clo. Come away, come away, death, My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: Sad true lover ne'er find my grave, Duke. There's for thy pains. Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then. Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Exit Clown. Duke. Let all the rest give place.— [Exeunt CURIO and Attendants. Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty: Tell her my love, more noble than the world, The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems, Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart Can bide the beating of so strong a passion And can digest as much: make no compare Vio. Ay, but I know,— Duke. What dost thou know? Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe : In faith, they are as true of heart as we. Duke. And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? And all the brothers too ;-and yet I know not :Sir, shall I to this lady? Duke. Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, [Exeunt. SCENE V.-Olivia's Garden. Enter Sir TOBY BELCHI, Sir ANDREW AGUECHEEK, and FABIAN. Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame! Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o' favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here. Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue:shall we not, sir Andrew? Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives. Enter MARIA. How now, my nettle of India ? VOL. III. 9 Mar. 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 Enter MALVOLIO. [Exit. Mal. "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 any one else that follows her. What should I think on't? Sir To. Here's an over-weening rogue! Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue :Sir To. Peace, I say. Mal. To be count Malvolio; Sir To. Ah! rogue ! Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. Sir To. Peace, peace! Mal. There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel! Fab. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him. Mal. Having been three month; married to her, sitting in my state |