Twelfth Night
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._]
SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.
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._]
SCENE V. Olivia’s garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.
SIR TOBY.