# The Complete Works of William Shakespeare ## Part 197 Book page: https://www.cyberlibrary.org/en/books/the-complete-works-of-william-shakespeare-100/index.md HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector’s match? Art thou of blood and honour? THERSITES. No, no I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue. HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them. [_Exit_.] SCENE V. Another part of the plain. Enter Diomedes and a Servant. DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse; Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid. Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan, And am her knight by proof. SERVANT. I go, my lord. [_Exit_.] Enter Agamemnon. AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain; Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt; Patroclus ta’en, or slain; and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruis’d. The dreadful Sagittary Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all. Enter Nestor. NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles, And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field; Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot, And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale; then is he yonder, And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, Fall down before him like the mower’s swath. Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes; Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call’d impossibility. Enter Ulysses. ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance. Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, Roaring for Troilus; who hath done today Mad and fantastic execution, Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless care As if that lust, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all. Enter Ajax. AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus! [_Exit_.] DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there. NESTOR. So, so, we draw together. [_Exit_.] Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Where is this Hector? Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; Know what it is to meet Achilles angry. Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE VI. Another part of the plain. Enter Ajax. AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head. Enter Diomedes. DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where’s Troilus? AJAX. What wouldst thou? DIOMEDES. I would correct him. AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus! Enter Troilus. TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor, And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse. DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there? AJAX. I’ll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed. DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon. TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you both! [_Exeunt fighting_.] Enter Hector. HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother! Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Now do I see thee. Ha! have at thee, Hector! HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt. ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan. Be happy that my arms are out of use; My rest and negligence befriend thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again; Till when, go seek thy fortune. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. Fare thee well. I would have been much more a fresher man, Had I expected thee. Re-enter Troilus. How now, my brother! TROILUS. Ajax hath ta’en Aeneas. Shall it be? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He shall not carry him; I’ll be ta’en too, Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say: I reck not though thou end my life today. [_Exit_.] Enter one in armour. HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark. No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well; I’ll frush it and unlock the rivets all But I’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why then, fly on; I’ll hunt thee for thy hide. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE VII. Another part of the plain. Enter Achilles with Myrmidons. ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel; Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath; And when I have the bloody Hector found, Empale him with your weapons round about; In fellest manner execute your arms. Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye. It is decreed Hector the great must die. [_Exeunt_.] Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting; then Thersites. THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! Now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, ’loo! now my double-hen’d Spartan! ’loo, Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game. ’Ware horns, ho! [_Exeunt Paris and Menelaus_.] Enter Margarelon. MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight. THERSITES. What art thou? MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam’s. THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgement. Farewell, bastard. [_Exit_.] MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward! [_Exit_.] SCENE VIII. Another part of the plain. Enter Hector. HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take my breath: Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death! [_Disarms_.] Enter Achilles and Myrmidons. ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set, How ugly night comes breathing at his heels; Even with the vail and dark’ning of the sun, To close the day up, Hector’s life is done. HECTOR. I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek. ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek. [_Hector falls_.] So, Ilion, fall thou next! Now, Troy, sink down; Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain ‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’ [_A retreat sounded_.] Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part. MYRMIDON. The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord. ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth And, stickler-like, the armies separates. My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. [_Sheathes his sword_.] Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail; Along the field I will the Trojan trail. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE IX. Another part of the plain. Sound retreat. Shout. Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes and the rest, marching. AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this? NESTOR. Peace, drums! SOLDIERS. [_Within_.] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain. Achilles! DIOMEDES. The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles. AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be; Great Hector was as good a man as he. AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent To pray Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended; Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE X. Another part of the plain. Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor and Deiphobus. AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. Never go home; here starve we out the night. Enter Troilus. TROILUS. Hector is slain. ALL. Hector! The gods forbid! TROILUS. He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed. Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on. AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so. I do not speak of flight, of fear of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’ There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away; Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates; I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go; Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. Enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you! TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name! [_Exeunt all but_ Pandarus.] PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see— Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdu’d in armed trail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of Pandar’s hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made. It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases. [_Exit_.] TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL Contents ACT I Scene I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Scene II. The sea-coast. Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Scene V. A Room in Olivia’s House. ACT II Scene I. The sea-coast. Scene II. A street. Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Scene V. Olivia’s garden. ACT III Scene I. Olivia’s garden. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. A street. Scene IV. Olivia’s garden. ACT IV Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. Olivia’s Garden. ACT V Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Dramatis Personæ ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke VIOLA, in love with the Duke. SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, twin brother to Viola. A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. MARIA, Olivia’s Woman. SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia. SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK. MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. FABIAN, Servant to Olivia. CLOWN, Servant to Olivia. PRIEST Lords, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it. ACT I. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending. DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall; O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. Enough; no more; ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soever, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical. CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord? DUKE. What, Curio? CURIO. The hart. DUKE. Why so I do, the noblest that I have. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her? Enter Valentine. VALENTINE. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But like a cloistress she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance. DUKE. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers, Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The sea-coast. Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors. VIOLA. What country, friends, is this? CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady. VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, sailors? CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d. VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be. CAPTAIN. True, madam; and to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and those poor number sav’d with you, Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself, (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves So long as I could see. VIOLA. For saying so, there’s gold! Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know’st thou this country? CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born Not three hours’ travel from this very place. VIOLA. Who governs here? CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name. VIOLA. What is his name? CAPTAIN. Orsino. VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him. He was a bachelor then. CAPTAIN. And so is now, or was so very late; For but a month ago I went from hence, And then ’twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, What great ones do, the less will prattle of) That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. VIOLA. What’s she? CAPTAIN. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died; for whose dear love They say, she hath abjur’d the company And sight of men. VIOLA. O that I served that lady, And might not be delivered to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is. CAPTAIN. That were hard to compass, Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the Duke’s. VIOLA. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I pray thee, and I’ll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke; Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing, And speak to him in many sorts of music, That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. CAPTAIN. Be you his eunuch and your mute I’ll be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. VIOLA. I thank thee. Lead me on. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. SIR TOBY. What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life. MARIA. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. SIR TOBY. Why, let her except, before excepted. MARIA. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. SIR TOBY. Confine? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. MARIA. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer. SIR TOBY. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek? MARIA. Ay, he. SIR TOBY. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria. MARIA. What’s that to th’ purpose? SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. MARIA. Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats. He’s a very fool, and a prodigal. SIR TOBY. Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. MARIA. He hath indeed, almost natural: for, besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. SIR TOBY. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they? MARIA. They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company. SIR TOBY. With drinking healths to my niece; I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He’s a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish top. What, wench! _Castiliano vulgo:_ for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface. Enter Sir Andrew. AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch? SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew! SIR ANDREW. Bless you, fair shrew. MARIA. And you too, sir. SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. SIR ANDREW. What’s that? SIR TOBY. My niece’s chamber-maid. SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. MARIA. My name is Mary, sir. SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Mary Accost,— SIR TOBY. You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her. SIR ANDREW. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost? MARIA. Fare you well, gentlemen. SIR TOBY. And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again. SIR ANDREW. And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? MARIA. Sir, I have not you by the hand. SIR ANDREW. Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand. MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery bar and let it drink. SIR ANDREW. Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor? MARIA. It’s dry, sir. SIR ANDREW. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest? MARIA. A dry jest, sir. SIR ANDREW. Are you full of them? MARIA. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit Maria._] SIR TOBY. O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down? SIR ANDREW. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. SIR TOBY. No question. SIR ANDREW. And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. _Pourquoy_, my dear knight? SIR ANDREW. What is _pourquoy?_ Do, or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O, had I but followed the arts! SIR TOBY. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. SIR ANDREW. Why, would that have mended my hair? SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature. SIR ANDREW. But it becomes me well enough, does’t not? SIR TOBY. Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. SIR ANDREW. Faith, I’ll home tomorrow, Sir Toby; your niece will not be seen, or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me; the Count himself here hard by woos her. SIR TOBY. She’ll none o’ the Count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t, man. SIR ANDREW. I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight? SIR ANDREW. 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 TOBY. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? SIR ANDREW. Faith, I can cut a caper. SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to’t. SIR ANDREW. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria. SIR TOBY. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. SIR ANDREW. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dam’d-colour’d stock. Shall we set about some revels? SIR TOBY. What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus? SIR ANDREW. Taurus? That’s sides and heart. SIR TOBY. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher: ha, ha, excellent! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Valentine and Viola in man’s attire. VALENTINE. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? VALENTINE. No, believe me. Enter Duke, Curio and Attendants. VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count. DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho? VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord, here. DUKE. Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario, Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d To thee the book even of my secret soul. Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her, Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience. VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then? DUKE. O then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith; It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect. VIOLA. I think not so, my lord.