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 Belch
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 Belch
And with what wing the staniel cheques 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 Belch
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 Belch
Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry O!
Malvolio
And then I comes behind.
Fabian
Ay, an 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 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 champaign 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-devise 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 entertainest 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 Belch
I could marry this wench for this device.
Sir Andrew
So could I too.
Sir Toby Belch
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
Sir Andrew
Nor I neither.
Fabian
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Re-enter Maria
Sir Toby Belch
Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?
Sir Andrew
Or o’ mine either?
Sir Toby Belch
Shall I play my freedom at traytrip, and become thy bond-slave?
Sir Andrew
I’ faith, or I either?
Sir Toby Belch
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 Belch
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 Belch
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 tabour
Viola
Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabour?
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 tabour, if thy tabour stand by the church.
Clown
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!
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 carest 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 every where. 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, an 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!
&nbs
p; Viola
By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one;
Aside
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 construe 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 over-worn.
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, cheque at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practise
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 Belch, and Sir Andrew
Sir Toby Belch
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 Belch
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 Belch
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 Belch
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, to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.
Sir Andrew
‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant’ and ‘vouchsafed:’ I’ll get ’em all three all ready.
Olivia
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.
Exeunt Sir Toby Belch, 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:
You’re 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 the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hideth 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 were is alike 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 thinkest of me.
Viola
That you do think you are not what you are.
Olivia
If I think so, I think the same of you.
Viola
Then think you right: I am not what I am.
Olivia
I would you were as I would have you be!
Viola
Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
Olivia
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love’s night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause,
But rather reason thus with reason fetter,
Love sought is good, but given unsought better.
Viola
By innocence I swear, and by my youth
I have one heart, one bosom and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam: never more
Will I my master’s tears to you deplore.
Olivia
Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
Exeunt
SCENE II. OLIVIA’S HOUSE.
Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew, and Fabian
Sir Andrew
No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer.
Sir Toby Belch
Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
Fabian
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
Sir Andrew
Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count’s serving-man than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ the orchard.
Sir Toby Belch
Did she see thee the while,
old boy? tell me that.
Sir Andrew
As plain as I see you now.
Fabian
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
Sir Andrew
’Slight, will you make an ass o’ me?
Fabian
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason.
Sir Toby Belch
And they have been grand-jury-men since before Noah was a sailor.
Fabian
She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy.
Sir Andrew
An’t be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.
Sir Toby Belch
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the count’s youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour.
Fabian
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
Sir Andrew
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
Sir Toby Belch
Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou’st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down: go, about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it.
Sir Andrew
Where shall I find you?
Sir Toby Belch
We’ll call thee at the cubiculo: go.
Exit Sir Andrew
Fabian
This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.
Sir Toby Belch
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.
Fabian
We shall have a rare letter from him: but you’ll not deliver’t?
Sir Toby Belch
Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of the anatomy.
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