Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough. Mar. 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: 2 the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his ground 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 To. What wilt thou do? Mar. 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 To. Excellent! I smell a device. Sir And. I hav't in my nose too. Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him. Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass. Mar. Ass, I doubt not. Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable. Mar. 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 To. Good night, Penthesilea,3 (1) Affected. (2) The row of grass left by a mower. (3) Amazon. Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench. Sir To. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me; What o' that? Sir And. I was adored once too. Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.-Thou hadst need send for more money. Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut.1 Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt. SCENE IV-A room in the Duke's palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. Duke. Give me some music: Now, good mor- Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. Duke. Who was it? Cur. 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. Come hither, boy; If ever thou shalt love, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save, in the constant image of the creature Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour1 that it loves; Hath it not, boy? Vio.. Duke. What kind of woman is't? Vio. A little, by your favour. Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i'faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven; Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, Vio. 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. Vio. 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,2 (1) Countenance. (2) Lace makers. Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,1 And dallies with the innocence of love, Clo. Are you ready, sir? Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing. SONG. [Music. Clo. Come away, come away, death, My part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover ne'er find my grave, Duke. There's for thy pains. Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taf fata, for thy mind is a very opal3-I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their busi ness might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.-Farewell. [Exit Clown. (1) Simple truth. (2) Times of simplicity. (3) A precious stone of all colours. Duke. Let all the rest give place. [Exeunt Curio and attendants. Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty: The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, But 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems, That nature pranks! her in, attracts my soul. Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir? Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. Vio. 'Sooth, but you must Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 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, As Can 'bide the beating of so strong a passion Vio. Ay, but I know, Duke. What dost thou know? Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe: In faith, they are as true of heart as we. Duke. And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love, (1) Decks. |