Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal. This is much Credit to you.

Sir To. Shall I bid him go?

Clo. What and if you do?

Sir To Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo. O no, no, no, you dare not.

[Singing.

Sir To. Out o'tune, Sir, ye lie: Art thou any more than a Steward? Doft thou think, because thou art virtuous, there ihall be no more Cakes and Ale?

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and Ginger fhall be hot i'th' Mouth too.

Sir To. Thou'rt i'th' right. Go, Sir, rub your Chain with Crums. A Stoop of Wine, Maria.

Mal. Miftrefs Mary, if you priz'd my Lady's Favour at any thing more than Contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil Rule; fhe fhall know of it, by this Hand. [Exit.

Mar. Go fhake

your Ears.

Sir And. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a Man's a hungry, to challenge him the Field, and then to break Promife with him, and make a Fool of him.

Sir To. Do't, Knight, I'll write thee a Challenge: or I'll deliver thy Indignation to him by word of Mouth.

Mar. Sweet, Sir Toby, be patient for to Night; fince the Youth of the Duke's was to day with my Lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monfieur 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 lye ftraight in my Bed: I know I can do it.

Sir To. Poffefs us, poffefs us, tell us fomething of him. Mar. Marry, Sir, fometimes he is a kind of a Puritan. Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a Dog. Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exquifite Reason, dear Knight.

Sir And. I have no exquifite Reafon for't, but I have Reafon good enough.

Mar. The Devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing conftantly but a Time-pleafer, an affection'd Afs, that Cons State without Book, and utters it by great fwarths. The beft perfuaded of himself: So cram'd, as he thinks, with Excellencies, that it is his ground of Faith, that all that look

on

on him, love him; and on that Vice in him will my Revenge find notable Caufe to work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way fome obfcure Epiftles of Love, wherein, by the colour of his Beard, the shape of his Leg, the manner of his Gate, the expreffure of his Eye, Forehead, and Complexion, he fhall find himself most feelingly perfonated. I can write very like my Lady your Neice, on a forgotten matter we can hardly make diftin&ion of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent, I fmell a Device.

Sir And. I have't in my Nofe too.

Sir To. He fhall think by the Letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my Neice, and that she is in Love with him.

Mar. My purpose is indeed a Horfe of that Colour.

Sir And. And your Horfe now would make him an Afs.
Mar. Afs, I doubt not.

Sir And. O 'twill be admirable.

Mar, Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my Phyfick will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the Fool make a third, where he fhall find the Letter: Obferve his Construction of it: For this Night to Bed, and dream on the Event. Farewel.

Sir To. Good Night, Penthifilea.

Sir And. Before me, the's a good Wench.

[Exit.

Sir To. She's a Beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o'that?

Sir And. I was ador'd once too.

Sir To. Let's to Bed, Knight: Thou hadft need fend for more Mony.

Sir And. If I cannot recover your Neice, I am a foul way out.

Sir To. Send for Mony, Knight; if thou haft her not i'th end, call me Cut.

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Sir To. Come, come, I'll go burn fome Sack, 'tis too late to go to Bed now: Come, Knight, come, Knight.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE IV. The Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

Duke. Give me fome Mufick; now good morrow,
Friends;

Now good, Cafario, but that piece of Song,
That old and antick Song we heard last Night;
Methought it did relieve my Paffion much,
More than light Airs, and recollected Terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-pac'd Times.
Come, but one Verse.

Cur. He is not here, so please your Lordship, that should fing it.

Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Fefte the Jefter, 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.

Come hither, Boy, if ever thou shalt Love,
In the fweet Pangs of it, remember me;
For fuch as I am, all true Lovers are,

Unftaid and skittish in all Motions elfe,
Save in the conftant Image of the Creature
That is belov'd. How doft thou like this Tune?
Vio. It gives a very Eccho to the Seat
Where Love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou doft fpeak mafterly.

My Life upon't, young tho' thou art, thine Eye

Hath ftaid upon fome Favour that it loves:

Hath it not, Boy?

Vio. A little, by your Favour.

Duke. What kind of Woman is't?

Vio. Of your Complexion.

[Mufick.

Duke. She is not worth thee then. What Years, i'faith?

Vio. About your Years, my Lord.

Duke. Too old, by Heav'n; Let still the Woman take
An elder than her felf, fo wears the to him;
So fways the level in her Husband's Heart.
For, Boy, however we do praise our selves,

Our

Our Fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, fooner loft and worn,
Than Womens are.

Vio. I think it well, my Lord.

Duke. Then let thy Love be younger than thy felf,
Or thy Affection cannot hold the bent:
For Women are as Roses, whofe fair Flower
Being once difplaid, doth fall the very hour.
Vio. And fo they are: Alas, that they are so.
To dye, even when they to Perfection grow.
Enter Curio and Clown.

Duke. O Fellow come, the Song we had last night.
Mark it, Cefario, it is old and plain;

The Spinfters and the Knitters in the Sun,

And the free Maids that weave their Thread with Bones, Do use to chant it: it is filly footh,

And dallies with the Innocence of Love,

Like the old Age.

Clo. Are you ready, Sir?

Duke. I prethee fing.

SONG.

Come away, come away, Death,

And in fad Cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, Breath,

I am flain by a fair Cruel Maid.

[Mufick

My Shroud of white, ftuck all with Yew, O prepare it.
My part of Death no one so true did fhare it.

Not a Flower, not a Flower fweet,

On my black Coffin let there be ftrown :
Not a Friend, not a Friend greet

My poor Corps, where my Bones fhall be thrown.
A thousand thousand Sighs to fave, lay me O where
Sad true Lover never find my Grave, to weep there.

Duke. There's for thy Pains.

Clo. No Pains, Sir, I take pleasure in finging, Sir.
Duke. I'll pay thy Pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, Sir, and Pleafure will be paid one time, or other.

Duke

Duke. Give me now leave, to leave thee.

Clo. Now the melancholly God protect thee, and th Taylor make thy Doublet of changeable Taffata, for th Mind is a very Opal. I would have Men of fuch Confta cy put to Sea, that their Business might be every thing, and their intent every where, for that's it that always makes good Voyage of nothing. Farewel. [Exi Duke. Let all the reft give place. Once more, Cefario, Get thee to yond fame fovereign 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 Jems
That Nature pranks her in, attracts my Soul,
Vio. But if the cannot love you, Sir.
Duke. It cannot be fo anfwer'd.

Vio. Sooth but you muft.

Say that fome 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 fo; Muft fhe not then be anfwer'd?
Duke. There is no Woman's Sides

Can bide the beating of fo ftrong 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 Pallat,
That fuffers Surfeit, Cloyment, and Revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the Sea,

And can digeft as much; make no compare
Between that Love a Woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.

Vio. Ay but I know

Duke. What doft thou know?

Vio. Too well what love Women to Men do 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?