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.]
S IV
A R D’ P
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?
