Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. Wit, an't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says Quinapalus?
Take the fool away. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow dishonest. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry: bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him.
Any thing that's mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty's a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say again, take her away. Sir, I bade them take away you. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain.
Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. Can you do it? Dexterously, good madonna. Make your proof. I must catechise you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof. Good madonna, why mournest thou?
Good fool, for my brother's death. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two pence that you are no fool. How say you to that, Malvolio? I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged.
I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies. Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of fools! Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you. From the Count Orsino, is it? I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended. Who of my people hold him in delay? Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on him! Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains!
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin? A gentleman. A gentleman! How now, sot! Good Sir Toby! Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? I defy lechery. There's one at the gate. Ay, marry, what is he? Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. What's a drunken man like, fool? Like a drowned man, a fool and a mad man: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drowned: go, look after him.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? Tell him he shall not speak with me. Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you.
What kind o' man is he? Why, of mankind. What manner of man? Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no. Of what personage and years is he? Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a cooling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my face. We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will? Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it.
Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. Whence came you, sir? I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech.
Are you a comedian? No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house? If I do not usurp myself, I am. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message.
Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in.
I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. Will you hoist sail, sir? No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.
Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind: I am a messenger. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as fun of peace as matter. Yet you began rudely. What are you? The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears, divinity, to any other's, profanation.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. Most sweet lady,— Olivia. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text? In Orsino's bosom. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom? To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you no more to say? Good madam, let me see your face. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't not well done? Excellently done, if God did all. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth.
Were you sent hither to praise me? I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. How does he love me? With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulged, free, learn'd and valiant; And in dimension and the shape of nature A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him; He might have took his answer long ago.
If I did love you in my master's flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense; I would not understand it. Why, what would you? Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out 'Olivia!
You might do much. What is your parentage? Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman. Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more; Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse: My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love; And let your fervor, like my master's, be Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. Unless the master were the man. How now! Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio! Here, madam, at your service. Run after that same peevish messenger, The county's man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not: tell him I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him: If that the youth will come this way to-morrow, I'll give him reasons for't: hie thee, Malvolio.
Madam, I will. I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be, and be this so.
Will you stay no longer? 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. 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! Alas the day! 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. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell. 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. Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia? Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.
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. She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.
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. I left no ring with her: what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger.
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. Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we! For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge?
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! O time! Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo surgere,' thou know'st,— Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late is to be up late.
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 life consist of the four elements?
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking. Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! Here comes the fool, i' faith. How now, my hearts! Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch. 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 spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good, i' faith.
I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it? 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. Now, a song. Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song. There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a— Feste. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? A love-song, a love-song. Ay, ay: I care not for good life. 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.
Excellent good, i' faith. Good, good. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. A contagious breath. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave. I shall be constrained in't to call thee knave, knight. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. Good, i' faith. Come, begin. 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. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. 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.
For the love o' God, peace! My masters, are you mad? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse 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?
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! 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 misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. Nay, good Sir Toby. Is't even so? Sir Toby, there you lie. This is much credit to you. 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? Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too. Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria! Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. Go shake your ears. Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the youth of the count's was today with thy 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. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan. O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!
What, for being a puritan? I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing 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.
What wilt thou do? 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.
I smell a device. I have't in my nose too. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. And your horse now would make him an ass. Ass, I doubt not. O, 'twill be admirable! 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. Good night, Penthesilea.
Before me, she's a good wench. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o' that? I was adored once too.
Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.
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. He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.
Who was it? Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
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 beloved. How dost thou like this tune? It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is throned. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves: Hath it not, boy?
A little, by your favour. What kind of woman is't? Of your complexion. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith? About your years, my lord. 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.
I think it well, my lord. 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. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! 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. Are you ready, sir? Ay; prithee, sing. 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 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!
There's for thy pains. No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir. I'll pay thy pleasure then. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. Give me now leave to leave thee. 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 every thing and their intent every where; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing.
Let all the rest give place. But if she cannot love you, sir? I cannot be so answer'd. Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love a 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? 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 call'd 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.
Ay, but I know— Orsino. What dost thou know? Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. Contents Characters in the Play. Entire Play Twelfth Night—an allusion to the night of festivity preceding the Christian celebration of the Epiphany—combines love, confusion, mistaken identities, and….
Act 1, scene 1 At his court, Orsino, sick with love for the Lady Olivia, learns from his messenger that she is grieving for…. Act 1, scene 2 On the Adriatic seacoast, Viola, who has been saved from a shipwreck in which her brother may have drowned, hears….
Act 2, scene 1 A young gentleman named Sebastian, who has recently been saved from a shipwreck in which his sister has been lost,…. Act 2, scene 4 Orsino asks for a song to relieve his love-longing. Act 2, scene 5 Maria lays her trap for Malvolio by placing her forged letter in his path.
Act 3, scene 2 Sir Andrew, convinced that Olivia will never love him, threatens to leave. Act 3, scene 3 Antonio, having followed Sebastian, explains the incident in his past that keeps him from safely venturing into the streets of….
Act 3, scene 4 Malvolio, dressed ridiculously and smiling grotesquely, appears before an astonished Olivia. Act 4, scene 1 The Fool encounters Sebastian, whom he mistakes for Cesario. Act 4, scene 2 Under directions from Sir Toby, the Fool disguises himself as a parish priest and visits the imprisoned Malvolio.
Act 4, scene 3 While Sebastian is sure that neither he nor Olivia is insane, he is amazed by the wonder of his new…. ACT 1. Get even more from the Folger You can get your own copy of this text to keep.
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