Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 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 taffata, 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,

Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so: Must she not then be answered?
Duke. There is no woman's sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,-
No motion of the liver, but the palate,-
That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare

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.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

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, Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We

e men may say more, swear more: but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too;-and yet I know not.— Sir, shall I to this lady?

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK, and FABIAN.

Sir Toby. 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 Toby. Wouldst 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 of 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 And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter MARIA.

Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain :How now, my nettle of India?

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

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 !

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. Mal. 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; court'sies there to me :

Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

Mal. 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?

Mal. Saying, "Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech :-"

Sir Toby. What, what?

Mal. "You must amend your drunkenness." Sir Toby. Out, scab!

Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

Mal. "Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight;"

Sir And. That 's me, I warrant you.

Mal. "One Sir Andrew."

Sir And. I knew 't was I, for many do call me fool.

Mal. What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter. Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. Sir Toby. O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!

Mal. 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 And. Her C's, her U's, and her T's: Why that?

Mal. [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 : 't is my lady. To whom should this be? Fab. 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 altered!" No man must know: "-If this should be thee, Malvolio?

Sir Toby. Marry, hang thee, brock!
MALVOLIO reads.

"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."

Fab. A fustian riddle !

Sir Toby. Excellent wench, say I. Mal. " M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.”— Nay, but first, let me see let me see-let me

see.

Fab. What a dish of poison hath she dressed him!

Sir Toby. And with what wing the stannyel checks at it?

:

Mal. "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.

Fab. Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.

Mal. “M”—Malvolio ;-"M"-why that begins my name.

Fab. Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is excellent at faults.

Mal. "M"-But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: "A" should follow, but "O" does.

Fab. And "O" shall end, I hope.

Sir Toby. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry "O."

Mal. And then "I" comes behind.

Fab. Ay, an you had an eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

Mal. "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.—

"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 them. 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

art made, if thou desirest 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-de-vice, 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 crossgartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!-Here is yet a postscript.

"Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'y thee." Jove, I thank thee.-I will smile; I will do every thing that thou wilt have me. [Exit. Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophi.

Sir Toby. I could marry this wench for this device.

Sir And. So could I too.

Sir Toby. And ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest.

Sir And. Nor I neither.

Enter MARIA.

Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Sir Toby. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
Sir And. Or o' mine either?

Sir Toby. Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy bond-slave?

Sir And. 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.

Mar. Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

Sir Toby. Like aqua-vitæ with a midwife. Mar. 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 And. I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.-OLIVIA'S Garden.

Enter VIOLA, and Clown with a tabor.

Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy music: Dost

thou live by thy tabor?

Clo. No, sir, I live by the church.

Vio. Art thou a churchman?

Clo. 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.

Vio. 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.

Clo. You have said, sir. To see this age!A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit; how quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!

Vio. Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words, may quickly make them wanton. Clo. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

Vio. Why, man?

Clo. 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.

Vio. Thy reason, man?

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.

Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.

Clo. 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.

Vio. Art thou not the Lady Olivia's fool?

Clo. 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. Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.

Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it shines every where. I would