Part 199

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. 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._]

ACT III.

SCENE I. Olivia’s garden.

Enter Viola and Clown with a tabor.

VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor?

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

VIOLA. Art thou a churchman?

CLOWN. 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.

VIOLA. 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.

CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a chev’ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!

VIOLA. Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.

CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.

VIOLA. Why, man?

CLOWN. 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.

VIOLA. Thy reason, man?

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

VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car’st for nothing.

CLOWN. 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.

VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool?

CLOWN. 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.

VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.

CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there.

VIOLA. Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee.

CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!

VIOLA. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

VIOLA. Yes, being kept together, and put to use.

CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.

VIOLA. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged.

CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say “element”, but the word is overworn.

[_Exit._]

VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man’s art: For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit; But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit.

Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.

SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman.

VIOLA. And you, sir.

SIR ANDREW. _Dieu vous garde, monsieur._

VIOLA. _Et vous aussi; votre serviteur._

SIR ANDREW. I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours.

SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.

VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir, I mean, she is the list of my voyage.

SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion.

VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs.

SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented.

Enter Olivia and Maria.

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you!

SIR ANDREW. That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well.

VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.

SIR ANDREW. ‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready.

OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.

[_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Maria._]

Give me your hand, sir.

VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service.

OLIVIA. What is your name?

VIOLA. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.

OLIVIA. My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment: Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours. Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.

OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me!

VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf.

OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you. I bade you never speak again of him. But would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres.

VIOLA. Dear lady—

OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. Under your hard construction must I sit; To force that on you in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours. What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom, Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.

VIOLA. I pity you.

OLIVIA. That’s a degree to love.

VIOLA. No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA. Why then methinks ’tis time to smile again. O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf! [_Clock strikes._] The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you. And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your wife is like to reap a proper man. There lies your way, due west.

VIOLA. Then westward ho! Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship! You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA. Stay: I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me.

VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are.