William Shakespeare - The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

MARIA. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affection’d ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so cramm’d, 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’s 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, ‘t will 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 ador’d 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; ‘t is too late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV. 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.

Go 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 thron’d.

DUKE.

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?

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!

[Re-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]

SONG

CLOWN.

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 every thing, and their intent every where; for that ‘s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Exit.]

DUKE.

Let all the rest give place.

[CURIO and ATTENDANTS retire.]

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 ‘t is 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 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.

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 lov’d 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 pin’d in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy,