Sir And. I'll stay a Month longer.I am a Fellow o'th' strangeft Mind i'the World: I delight in Masks and Revels fometimes altogether.

Sir To. Art thou good at thefe Kick-fhaws, Knight?

Sir And. As any Man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the Degree of my 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'r.

Sir And. And I think I have the Back-trick, fimply as ftrong as any Man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have thefe Gifts a Curtain before 'em? Are they like to take Duft, like Miftrefs Malls Picture? Why doft thou not go to Church in a Galliard, and come home in a Carranto? My very Walk should be a Jig ! I would not fo much as make Water but in a Sink-a-pace: What doft thou mean? Is it a World to hide Virtues in? I did not think, by the excellent Conftitution of thy Leg, it was form'd under the Star of a Galliard.

Sir And. Ay, 'tis ftrong, and it does indifferent well in a dam'd-colour'd Stocken. Shall we fit about fome Revels? Sir To. What shall we do elfe; 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 fee thee Caper, Ha, higher: Ha, ha, excellent.

SCENE IV. The Palace.

Enter Valentine, and Viola in Man's Attire.

[Exeunt.

Val. If the Duke continue thefe Favours towards you, Cefario, you are like to be much advanc'd; he hath known you but three Days, and already you are no Stranger.

Is

Vio. You either fear his Humour, or my Negligence, that you call in queftion the Continuance of his Love. he inconftant, Sir, in his Favours?

Val. No, believe me.

Ente

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.
Vio. I thank you: Here comes the Duke.
Duke. Who faw Cefario, hoa?

Vio. On your Attendance, my Lord, here.
Duke. Stand you a while aloof. Cefario,
Thou know'ft no lefs, but all: I have unclasp'd
To thee the Book even of my fecret Soul.
Therefore, good Youth, addrefs thy Gate unto her,
Be not deny'd Access, stand at her Doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed Foot fhall grow
"Till thou have Audience.

Vio. Sure, my noble Lord,

If the be fo abandon'd to her Sorrow
As it is fpoke, fhe never will admit me.

Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil Bounds,
Rather than make unprofited Return.

Vio. Say I do fpeak with her, my Lord, what then?
Duke. O then, unfold the Paffion of my Love,
Surprize her with Difcourfe of my dear Faith;
It fhall become thee well to act my Woes;
She will attend it better in thy Youth,
Than in a Nuncio's of more grave Afpect.
Vio. I think not fo, my Lord.

Duke. Dear Lad, believe it:

For they shall yet belie thy happy Years,
That fay thou art a Man: Diana's Lip

Is not more fmooth, and rubious; thy fmall Pipe
Is as the Maiden's Organ, fhrill and found,
And all is femblative a Woman's Part.
I know thy Conftellation is right apt
For this Affair: Some four or five attend him,
All if you will; for I my felf am beft
When leaft in Company. Profper well in this,
And thou fhalt live as freely as thy Lord,
To call his Fortunes thine.

Vio. I'll do my beft

To woo your Lady; yet a barful Strife,
Who-e'er I woo, my felf would be his Wife.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE V.

Olivia's House.

Enter Maria, and Clown.

Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou haft been, or I will not open my Lips fo wide as a Briftle may enter in way of thy Excufe; my Lady will hang thee for thy Abfence.

Clo. Let her hang me; he that is well hang'd in this World needs fear no Colours.

Mar. Make that good.

Clo. He fhall fee none to fear.

Mar. A good Lenten Anfwer: I can tell thee where that faying was born, of I fear no Colours.

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary?

Mar. In the Wars, and that may you be bold to say in your Foolery.

Clo. Well, God give them Wisdom that have it; and those that are Fools, let them ufe their Talents.

Mar. Yet you will be hang'd for being fo long abfent, or be turn'd away, is not this 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 refolute then?

Clo. Not fo neither, but I am refolv'd on two Points. Mar. That if one break the other will hold; or, if both break, your Gaskings 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 Illyria.

Mar. Peace, you Rogue, no more o'that: Here comes my Lady; make your Excufe wifely you were beft.

Enter Olivia and Malvolio.

Clo. Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good Fooling; thofe Wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove Fools; and I that am fure I lack thee, may pals for a wife Man. For what fays 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, y'are a dry Fool; I'll no more of fides you grow difhoneft.

you; b Clo. Two Faults, Madona, that Drink and good Coun will amend; for give the dry Fool Drink, then is the Fo not dry. Bid the dishonest Man mend himself; if he mend, he no longer dishonest, if he 'cannot, let the Botcher mend him Any thing that's mended is but patch'd: Virtue that tran, greffes is but patch'd with Sin, and Sin that amends is br patch'd with Virtue. If that this fimple Sillogifm will ferve fo; if it will not, what Remedy? As there is no true Cuckol but Calamity, fo Beauty's a Flower: The Lady bad take way the Fool, therefore I fay again, take her away.

Oli. Sir, I bad them take away you.

Clo. Mifprifion in the highest Degree. Lady, Cucullus nor facit monachum; that as much as to fay, as I were not mot ley in my Brain: Good Madona, give me leave to prov you a Fool.

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexterously, good Madona.

Oli. Make your Proof.

Clo. I muft catechize you for it, Madona, Good my Moufe of Virtue answer.

Oli. Well, Sir, for want of other Idlenefs, I'll bide your Proof.

Clo. Good Madona, why mourn'ft thou?
Oli. Good Fool, for my Brother's Death.
Clo. I think his Soul is in Hell, Madona.
Oli. I know his Soul is in Heaven, Fool.

Clo. The more Fool you, Madona, to mourn for your Brother's Soul being in Heaven: Take away the Fool, Gen

tlemen.

Oli. What think you of this Fool, Malvolio, doth he not mend?

Mal. Yes, and fhall do, 'till the Pangs of Death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the Wife, doth ever make the

better Fool.

Clo. God fend you, Sir, a fpeedy Infirmity, for the better increafing your Folly: Sir Toby will be fworn that I am no Fox, but he will not pass his Word for two Pence that you are no Fool.

Oli. How fay you to that, Malvolio?

Mal. I marvel your Ladyfhip takes Delight in fuch a barren Rafcal; I faw him put down the other Day with an ordinary Fool, that has no more Brains than a Stone. Look you now, he's out of his Guard already; unless you laugh and minister Occafion to him, he is gagg'd. I protest I take these wife Men that crow fo at thefe fet kind of Fools, no better than the Fools Zanies.

Oli. O you are fick of Self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a diftemper'd Appetite. To be generous, guiltlefs, and of free Difpofition, is to take those things for Bird-bolts that you deem Canon-Bullets: There is no Slander in an allow'd Fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet Man, though he do nothing but reprove. Clo. Now Mercury indue thee with learning, for thou speak'ft well of Fools.

Enter Maria.

Mar. Madam, there is at the Gate a young Gentleman much defires to speak with you.

Oli. From the Count Orfino 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 Kinfman.

Oli. Fetch him off I pray you, he speaks nothing but Madman: Fie on him. Go you, Malvolio; if it be a Suit from the Count, I am fick, or not at home. What you will to difmifs it. [Exit Malvolio. Now fee, Sir, how your fooling grows old, and People dif

like it.

Clo. Thou haft fpoke for us, Madona, as if thy eldest Son fhould be a Fool: whole Scull Jove cram with Brains, for here he comes.

Enter Sir Toby.

One of thy Kin has a moft weak Pia mater.

Oli. By mine Honour half drunk. What is he at the Gate, Coufin?

Sir To. A Gentleman.

Oli. A Gentleman? What Gentleman?