Page 105 of 119
Enter Antonio and Sebastian.
ANTONIO.
Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you?
SEBASTIAN.
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.
ANTONIO.
Let me know of you whither you are bound.
SEBASTIAN.
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 I 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.
ANTONIO.
Alas the day!
SEBASTIAN.
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.
ANTONIO.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
SEBASTIAN.
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
ANTONIO.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.
SEBASTIAN.
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.
[Exit.]
ANTONIO.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies in Orsino’s court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But come what may, I do adore thee so,
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.
[Exit.]
Enter Viola; Malvolio at several doors.
MALVOLIO.
Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?
VIOLA.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.
MALVOLIO.
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have
taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a
desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more, that you be never
so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s
taking of this. Receive it so.
VIOLA.
She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it.
MALVOLIO.
Come sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so
returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it
his that finds it.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!
She made good view of me, indeed, so much,
That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none.
I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper false
In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him,
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master’s love;
As I am woman (now alas the day!)
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I,
It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!
[Exit.]
Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.
SIR TOBY.
Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and
diluculo surgere, thou know’st.
SIR ANDREW.
Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late.
SIR TOBY.
A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and
to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed
betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four elements?
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.
SIR TOBY.
Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.
Enter Clown.
SIR ANDREW.
Here comes the fool, i’ faith.
CLOWN.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”?
SIR TOBY.
Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.
SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty
shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In
sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spok’st of
Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’twas
very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?
CLOWN.
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My
lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.
SIR ANDREW.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.
SIR TOBY.
Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.
SIR ANDREW.
There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a—
CLOWN.
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
SIR TOBY.
A love-song, a love-song.
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, ay. I care not for good life.
CLOWN. [sings.]
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting.
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.
SIR ANDREW.
Excellent good, i’ faith.
SIR TOBY.
Good, good.
CLOWN.
What is love? ’Tis not hereafter,
Present mirth hath present laughter.
What’s to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
SIR ANDREW.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
SIR TOBY.
A contagious breath.
SIR ANDREW.
Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.
SIR TOBY.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin
dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three
souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?
SIR ANDREW.
And you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch.
CLOWN.
By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
SIR ANDREW.
Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou knave.”
CLOWN.
“Hold thy peace, thou knave” knight? I shall be constrain’d
in’t to call thee knave, knight.
SIR ANDREW.
’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin,
fool; it begins “Hold thy peace.”
CLOWN.
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.
SIR ANDREW.
Good, i’ faith! Come, begin.
[Catch sung.]
Enter Maria.
MARIA.
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 TOBY.
My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey,
and [Sings.] Three merry men be we. Am not I consanguineous? Am I
not of her blood? Tilly-vally! “Lady”! There dwelt a man in
Babylon, Lady, Lady.
CLOWN.
Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.
SIR ANDREW.
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 TOBY.
[Sings.] O’ the twelfth day of December—
MARIA.
For the love o’ God, peace!
Enter Malvolio.
MALVOLIO.
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
ale-house 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 TOBY.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
MALVOLIO.
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, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to
bid you farewell.
SIR TOBY.
[Sings.] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
MARIA.
Nay, good Sir Toby.
CLOWN.
[Sings.] His eyes do show his days are almost done.
MALVOLIO.
Is’t even so?
SIR TOBY.
[Sings.] But I will never die.
CLOWN.
[Sings.] Sir Toby, there you lie.
MALVOLIO.
This is much credit to you.
SIR TOBY.
[Sings.] Shall I bid him go?
CLOWN.
[Sings.] What and if you do?
SIR TOBY.
[Sings.] Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
CLOWN.
[Sings.] O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.
SIR TOBY.
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?
CLOWN.
Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too.
SIR TOBY.
Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup
of wine, Maria!
MALVOLIO.
Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than
contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it,
by this hand.
[Exit.]
MARIA.
Go shake your ears.
SIR ANDREW.
’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 TOBY.
Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver
thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
MARIA.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s
was today 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 nayword, 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 TOBY.
Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.
MARIA.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
SIR ANDREW.
O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog.
SIR TOBY.
What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
SIR ANDREW.
I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.
MARIA.
The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything 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 excellencies,
that it is his grounds 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 TOBY.
What wilt thou do?
MARIA.
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 TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device.
SIR ANDREW.
I have’t in my nose too.
SIR TOBY.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my
niece, and that she is in love with him.
MARIA.
My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.
SIR ANDREW.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
MARIA.
Ass, I doubt not.
SIR ANDREW.
O ’twill be admirable!
MARIA.
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 TOBY.
Good night, Penthesilea.
SIR ANDREW.
Before me, she’s a good wench.
SIR TOBY.
She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that?
SIR ANDREW.
I was adored once too.
SIR TOBY.
Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.
SIR ANDREW.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
SIR TOBY.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me
cut.
SIR ANDREW.
If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
SIR TOBY.
Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now.
Come, knight, come, knight.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and others.
DUKE.
Give me some music. Now, good morrow, 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.
CURIO.
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.
DUKE.
Who was it?
CURIO.
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 plays.]
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 belov’d. How dost thou like this tune?
VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is throned.
DUKE.
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?
VIOLA.
A little, by your favour.
DUKE.
What kind of woman is’t?
VIOLA.
Of your complexion.
DUKE.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?
VIOLA.
About your years, my lord.
DUKE.
Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband’s heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women’s are.
VIOLA.
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
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.
VIOLA.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
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.
CLOWN.
Are you ready, sir?
DUKE.
Ay; prithee, sing.
[Music.]
The Clown’s song.
Come away, come away, death.
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown:
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.
DUKE.
There’s for thy pains.
CLOWN.
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
DUKE.
I’ll pay thy pleasure, then.
CLOWN.
Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.
DUKE.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
CLOWN.
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 everything, and their intent
everywhere, 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 yond same sovereign cruelty.
Tell her my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her,
Tell her I hold as giddily as fortune;
But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems
That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.
VIOLA.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
DUKE.
I cannot be so answer’d.
VIOLA.
Sooth, but you must.
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 answer’d?
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 suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.
VIOLA.
Ay, but I know—
DUKE.
What dost thou know?
VIOLA.
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?
VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ 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 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?
VIOLA.
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?
DUKE.
Ay, that’s the theme.
To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.]
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.
SIR TOBY.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
FABIAN.
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?
FABIAN.
I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ 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 ANDREW.
And we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter Maria.
SIR TOBY.
Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India?
MARIA.
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.
[Exit Maria.]
Enter Malvolio.
MALVOLIO.
’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
anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t?
SIR TOBY.
Here’s an overweening rogue!
FABIAN.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his
advanced plumes!
SIR ANDREW.
’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio.
SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!
SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.
SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace.
MALVOLIO.
There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the
wardrobe.
SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
FABIAN.
O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.
MALVOLIO.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state—
SIR TOBY.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!
MALVOLIO.
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a
day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.
SIR TOBY.
Fire and brimstone!
FABIAN.
O, peace, peace.
MALVOLIO.
And then to have the humour of state; 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!
FABIAN.
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.
MALVOLIO.
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; curtsies there to me—
SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?
FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace!
MALVOLIO.
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?
MALVOLIO.
Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me
this prerogative of speech—’
SIR TOBY.
What, what?
MALVOLIO.
‘You must amend your drunkenness.’
SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!
FABIAN.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
MALVOLIO.
‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish
knight—’
SIR ANDREW.
That’s me, I warrant you.
MALVOLIO.
‘One Sir Andrew.’
SIR ANDREW.
I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool.
MALVOLIO.
[Taking up the letter.] What employment have we here?
FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
SIR TOBY.
O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!
MALVOLIO.
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 ANDREW.
Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that?
MALVOLIO.
[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: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?
FABIAN.
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 alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio?
SIR TOBY.
Marry, hang thee, brock!
MALVOLIO.
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.
FABIAN.
A fustian riddle!
SIR TOBY.
Excellent wench, say I.
MALVOLIO.
‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let
me see, let me see.
FABIAN.
What dish o’ poison has she dressed him!
SIR TOBY.
And with what wing the staniel checks at it!
MALVOLIO.
‘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.
FABIAN.
Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.
MALVOLIO.
‘M’—Malvolio; ‘M!’ Why, that begins my name!
FABIAN.
Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults.
MALVOLIO.
‘M’—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: ‘A’ should follow, but ‘O’
does.
FABIAN.
And ‘O’ shall end, I hope.
SIR TOBY.
Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry ‘O!’
MALVOLIO.
And then ‘I’ comes behind.
FABIAN.
Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels
than fortunes before you.
MALVOLIO.
‘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.
[Reads.] 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 ’em. 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
cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st
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-device, 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 cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. [Reads.] Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee. Jove, I thank thee. I will smile, I will do everything that thou wilt have me.
[Exit.]
FABIAN.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid
from the Sophy.
SIR TOBY.
I could marry this wench for this device.
SIR ANDREW.
So could I too.
SIR TOBY.
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
Enter Maria.
SIR ANDREW.
Nor I neither.
FABIAN.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
SIR TOBY.
Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?
SIR ANDREW.
Or o’ mine either?
SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?
SIR ANDREW.
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.
MARIA.
Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?
SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
MARIA.
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 ANDREW.
I’ll make one too.
[Exeunt.]
