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CASSELL'S NATIONAL LIBRARY.
TWELFTH-NIGHT:
OR,
WHAT YOU WILL
BY
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

الادارية
SAUZ
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE.
1892.
822-8
553
לד
1892

113065
INTRODUCTION.
536?76-29/
TWELFTH NIGHT is not included in Francis Meres's
list of comedies, assigned in his Palladis Tamia of
1598, to Shakespeare.
In the second scene of the third act of Twelfth
Night Maria says of Malvolio, that "he does smile
his face into more lines than are in the new map
with the augmentation of the Indies." This has
been regarded as an allusion to some one of many
maps contained in the folio volume of the transla-
tion by William Philip of "J. Huighen van
Linschoten his Discours of Voyages into the Easte
and West Indies, in foure Bookes," published
in 1598. The reference is really to a Map of the
World-"the New Map"-published in 1600. This
was the first Map of the World engraved in
England on Mercator's projection. It was given in
that year by Hakluyt in his "Voyages." The
latest geographical discovery recorded on it was of
6
INTRODUCTION.
Northern Nova Zemlya, made by the Dutchinan
Barents in 1596. Earlier in the same second scene
of the Third Act of Twelfth Night Fabian says to
Sir Andrew Aguecheek, "You are now sailed into
the north of my lady's opinion; where you will
hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard."
Shakespeare seems, therefore, to have been lately
reading Hakluyt. The year of the New Map was
also the year of the foundation of the India
Company, which then began its trade by fitting out
four ships, and obtained its first charter in
December, 1600. Use was made, therefore, of all
information that could be obtained from Linschoten
or others in aid of a right mapping of the Indies,
and the map excelled all that had preceded it in its
delineation of the Eastern seas.
Of Mercator it may be said, by the way, that
the name was the Latinised surname of Gerhard
Kauffmann, who died in 1594. He invented
his projection in 1556. Edward Wright, who
"died in 1615, first applied Kauffmann's idea
to Navigation. Wright published in 1599 "Certain
Errors in Navigation Detected and Corrected," and

INTRODUCTION.
7
was then occupied with Hakluyt, Molyneux, and
others in the production, upon Mercator's plan, of
"a true hydrographical description of so much of
the world as hath been hitherto discovered." In
this map, besides a full supply of lines of latitude
and longitude, there are lines radiating in all
directions from a dozen or more centres on different
parts of the map. These lines, intersecting one
another, form to profane eyes such a web as might
be spun by a mad spider.
Shakespeare's allusion to this New Map fixes
the date of Twelfth Night as not earlier than the
year 1600.
The next piece of evidence as to the date of the
play is in the autograph diary of John Manning-
ham preserved in the British Museum (Harleian
MSS. 5353). Of the Readers' Feast at the Middle
Temple on the 2nd of February, 1602 (new style),
Manningham says:—" At our feast wee had a play
called Twelve Night or What You Will, much like
the Comedy of Errors, or Menechmi in Plautus,
but most like and neere to that in Italian called
Inganni. A good practise in it to make the steward
:-
8
INTRODUCTION.
beleeve his lady widdowe was in love with him, by
counterfayting a lettre, as from his lady, in generall
termes, telling him what shee liked best in him,
and prescribing his gesture in smiling, his apparraile,
&c., and then when he came to practise, making
him beleeve they tooke him to be mad." Olivia
being in mourning for her brother, Manningham
mistook her for a widow.
This passage proves that the play was written
before February, 1602. The reference to the New
Map shows that it was not written before the year
1600. The time of writing may, therefore, be
positively fixed within a limit of about eighteen
months; and we may fairly assume it to have been
late in the year 1600 or early in the year 1601.
There was no edition of Twelfth Night earlier
than the first folio of 1623.
Question as to the possible source of the sug
gestion of the plot only concerns the tale of the
shipwreck, of the love of Viola, and of cross pur-
poses arising out of her resemblance to her brother
Sebastian. Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown,
Malvolio, Maria, and their doings, are interwoven

INTRODUCTION.
9
with the tale by Shakespeare. They are all his,
and are no part of any piece that might or might
not be thought to have suggested the plot of
Twelfth Night.
One starting-point for the invention of the tale
of Viola and Sebastian was an Italian novel by
Matteo Bandello, the thirty-sixth of the second
part of his collection of two hundred and fourteen
tales, showing how "Nicuola, enamoured of
Lattantio, goes into his service dressed as a page,
and after many incidents marries him; and what
happens to a brother of hers." In the "Histoires
Tragiques" of Belleforest (1572), largely founded
on Bandello, the story is told again in French, with
some abridgments. In a book by Barnaby Riche,
first published in 1581 (reprinted in 1606), entitled
"Riche his Farewell to the Military Profession,"
the novel was recast and told in English, with
change in the names of the characters, as the tale
of "Apolonius and Silla." It is the second story
that Riche tells, and will be found in this volume
appended to Shakespeare's play.
The subject of Bandello's novel was made also
10
INTRODUCTION.
the groundwork of two early comedies in Italy, one
called Gl' Ingannati (the Mistaken), the other In-
ganni (Mistakes).
Of these, Gl' Ingannati
acted at Siena in 1531.
was the earlier. It was
Some part of the other
perhaps borrowed with
play (by M. Sechi) was
variation from its predecessor, but the differences
are of a kind to make its resemblance to Twelfth
Night less instead of greater. The oldest known
copy of Inganni is of the year 1562, but the title
of the play describes it as having been acted at
Milan in 1547. Inganni was turned into French
by Pierre de Larivey, who wrote nine comedies, all
taken from the Italian. This was printed in 1611
as Les Tromperies.
There were frequent editions of both these Italian
plays; of Gl' Ingannati in 1537, 1538, 1550, 1554,
1562, 1563, 1569, 1585; of Inganni in 1562, 1566,
1582, 1587, 1602, and other years.
A sketch of Gl' Ingannati, with a full translation
of the scenes which are most suggestive of the
action in Twelfth Night, was published in 1862 by
Thomas Love Peacock. This is the plot :-The

INTRODUCTION.
11
scene is in Modena. An old merchant, Virginio,
has a son and a daughter, Fabrizio and Lelia. He
lost his son and his property in the sack of Rome,
when Lelia was thirteen years old. The comedy
being first acted in 1531, Lelia was supposed to be,
at the time of performance, in her seventeenth year.
A rich old man, Gherardo Foiani, desired to marry
her. But the damsel's love was for a youth Fla-
minio de' Carandini, who had once flirted with her
and was now enamoured of Isabella, daughter of
the old Gherardo. Lelia left, therefore, the con-
vent where she had been placed, put on male dress,
took the name of Fabio degl' Alberini, and sup-
plied the place of a page whose service she knew
that Flaminio had lost. Flaminio sent her often
with letters and messages of his love to Isabella
Foiani. Isabella, taking Lelia for a young man,
fell madly in love with her. Lelia, as Fabio,
replied that she could not return love for love
unless Isabella put an end to Flaminio's pursuit
of her. That, and some jesting with the old man
Gherardo, and the servant who had not succeeded
in fetching Lelia from the convent to be married
12
INTRODUCTION.
to Gherardo, is the substance of the story of the
First Act of Gľ Ingannati.
In the Second Act of Gl' Ingannati, Lelia, as
Fabio, tells Flaminio that he can get no kind
answers from Isabella. Why does he not give her
up? Has he never loved any one else? Yes, once,
a Lelia. Then why does he not go back to her?
Sent urgently by Flaminio to Isabella, and sum-
moned urgently to Isabella by Isabella's maid,
Pasquella, Lelia goes and, as Fabio, excites hope in
Isabella that her love will be returned, on condition
that she drive away Flaminio. (There is no such
Her love is
selfishness in Shakespeare's Viola.
pure enough for sacrifice.) Isabella kisses Fábio
in the door-way. Other servants of Flaminio,
jealous of Fabio, see the kiss and report it; after
Lelia has told Flaminio that Isabella would not
listen to suit for him, and again
has not any one else to love?
asked, whether he
Yes, there was a
Lelia--Isabella may think I still
Tell Isabella that I hate Lelia.
Lelia.
care for her.
"Ah me!" says
“What is the matter? Are you in pain ?"
There is in this Act a little
"Yes, in the heart."
INTRODUCTION.
13
comic business with a Spaniard, Giglio, who wants
two words with Isabella. The Spaniard promises
her maid a rosary, that he does not mean to give,
while the maid intends to take the rosary without
meaning to keep her promise of admitting him into
the house.
In the beginning of the Third Act of GP In-
gannati, Lelia's brother Fabrizio comes into Modena
with his tutor Piero, a pedant, and a greedy
servant. Fabrizio had been taken away from
Modena when very young. Piero will show him
the town. Two touting hotel-keepers (one being
host of "The Fool," the other host of "The Pig")
contend for possession of the guests.
Lelia's father has learnt from one of the nuns
that his daughter is living in page's dress with
a young man. Fabrizio, while his servants sleep,
walks abroad; and the innkeeper, as he goes out,
observes to him that he is exactly like a page in
the town, who also goes dressed in white. Fabrizio
in his walk meets Isabella's maid, who mistakes
him for Fabio.
Gherardo will not keep his engagement to Lelia
14
INTRODUCTION.
when he learns that she has run away in male
dress from her father's keeping. Fabrizio in his
walk comes upon the two old men, and is mistaken
by them both for Lelia. His father calls him a
hussy, and he takes his father for some mad old
man who ought to be locked up.
men agree that the poor girl has
Both the old
lost her wits.
They get him into Gherardo's house. There he is
to be locked up with Isabella till he can be dressed
as a maiden should be.
In the Fourth Act of Gl' Ingannati, Fabrizio's
tutor and servant quarrel over his disappearance.
The tutor comes upon his old master, Fabrizio's
father, tells him that his son was, in the sack of
Rome, made prisoner to a captain who was after-
wards killed, and that the Court then took the
captain's property and set his prisoners at liberty.
His son, the tutor tells Virginio, is now in Modena,
lodged at the sign of "The Fool." At "The Fool"
Virginio finds a bill to pay, but not his son.
Meanwhile Gherardo, meeting Lelia herself as
Fabio, thinks she has escaped from his house:
He greets Fabio as Lelia, his dear wife, who enters
INTRODUCTION.
15
the house to Isabella. Giglio is tricked out of his
rosary. The servant is reproved for having let the
supposed Lelia escape, but replies that she is still
locked up with Isabella. Thus Fabrizio, mistaken
by Isabella for Fabio, becomes to Isabella all she
has desired.
In the Fifth Act of Gl' Ingannati there is a
general storming of Isabella's room. There Piero
finds Fabrizio, and causes him to be known to his
father as Fabrizio, not Lelia. Flaminio follows in
wrath, to find in Isabella's room his faithless page.
Her old nurse Clementia tells Flaminio the story
of Lelia's service to him as Fabio. Lelia then
enters in female dress, and Flaminio takes her for
his wife. The Spaniard Giglio is fooled again.
Isabella learns how she has changed the sister for
the brother.
In Inganni the brother and sister are twin
children of a Genoese merchant, Anselmo. They
were taken to sea at four years old, and, for
convenience, both children were dressed as boys.
They were captured by corsairs and sold in
slavery, the girl always abiding by her character
10
INTRODUCTION.
of boy. Both become by course of events bought
servants in Naples, where they can meet at will,
and know their relationship. The girl, Ginevra,
-called Roberto-is in the service of Massimo
Caraccioli, whose daughter Portia loves her as a
man, and whose son Gostanzo Ginevra loves as a
woman. When Portia's love puzzles Ginevra too
much, she substitutes her brother for herself. But
Gostanzo loves a Dorotea, who, with all that con-
cerns her, is taken from the Asinaria of Plautus,
except the addition of an incident from Terence.
Gostanzo transfers his affection from Dorotea
The father
when Ginevra tells him who she is.
Anselno, no longer a slave, makes his appearance
at the cnl of the play with a great deal of money.
The money ensures full contentment with his
children's marriages to Portia and Gostanzo.
Here is a combination of old Latin comedy
mixed with a story also of a Latin flavour, having
some family likeness to that of Gl' Ingannati. It
is lower, however, in form, and much less like
Twelfth Night where the genius of Shakespeare
lifts the old story from the lower ground on which

INTRODUCTION.
17
it dwells, of the earth earthy, into the fresh air
and sunshine, making Innocence herself the teller
of the love dreams of the young.
Shakespeare's treatment of the tale gives us the
comedy-as Romeo and Juliet was the tragedy—
of love's young dream. The play was named
perhaps from the whimsical drawings of partners
that were a part of Twelfth Night sport, and from
the association of that time with the acting of
light-hearted masques and plays. The twelfth
night after Christmas ended with special jollity
the twelve days of the Christmas festival. Choos-
ing of kings and queens on that day by lot
is said to have been a way of commemorating
the homage of the three kings who, guided by
the star, came on the twelfth day to the infant
Jesus.
Twelfth Night, in Shakespeare, is a masque of
love with comedy cross-purposes arising from
confusion of partners. It is alive with song and
jest. Shakespeare's age was about thirty-seven
when he wrote it. It was written not very long
after the Merchant of Venice; and Hamlet was,
18
INTRODUCTION.
after Twelfth Night, possibly the next play that
Shakespeare wrote.
While all that was gross in old forms of the tale
of brother and sister disappears in Shakespeare's
treatment of it, the ideal of young love has its
finer life brought out by contrast with the doings
of Sir Toby and his friends. This use of contrast
is akin to the artistic heightening of our sense of
the ideal in the Midsummer Night's Dream, by using
as a foil to the bright fancy that plays through
the fairy scenes the comic dulness of Nic Bottom
and his friends.
In a city of Illyria there is a young Duke Orsino
inspired by nature with sweet yearnings after love.
He is in the position of young Romeo enamoured
of fair Rosaline, when Nature begets a desire and
chance that determines Rosaline as the first object
may transfer it to a Juliet, but the yearning itself
lies in the fine spirit of youth that no chance of
outward fortune can destroy.
Twelfth Night opens to soft
gestion of this, in lines full
sense of harmony :-
The First Act of
music with sug-
of the delicious
INTRODUCTION.
19
"If music be the food of love, play on:
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again;-it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing, and giving odour.”
Pope, in his edition of Shakespeare, altered in
this passage "sound" to "south," and the change
has been generally accepted. It has a vague pretti-
ness, but the rustle of the summer breeze over the
crisp leaves and blossoms of a bank of violets,
stealing and giving odour, is an image more
clearly presented to the mind when the word is
left as, I believe, Shakespeare wrote it.
The fitful and swift movements of love fancy
are expressed in the next lines:-
Enough; no more:
"T is not so sweet now as it was before.
O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
20
INTRODUCTION.
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical."
The first lines having thus struck the keynote
of the play, a short dialogue begins the story.
Near to the duke's palace is the house of a rich
maiden, daughter of a count who has been twelve
months dead. Her brother, who had succeeded to
his father's large possessions, has also died, and she
inherits all. She pleads long mourning for her
brother against the duke's suit for her love.
There is set over her great household a stately
steward, who is capable and faithful, only ridicu-
lous through his self-love.
There is in her household Feste, her father's fool,
a skilled musician.
As sons of gentlemen wore great lord's liveries,
so this great lady has in the service of her chamber
a maid, Maria, well enough educated to have a
handwriting like her own, well enough dressed to
make it doubtful to Viola, when first seeing
Olivia and Maria together, which is the lady of
the house.

INTRODUCTION.
21
A greedy uncle, who would live jovially at other
folks' expense, Sir Toby Belch, has quartered him-
self upon his young niece, and has invited to share
his corner in the great house a rich dull-witted
knight, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, whom he brings
in as his niece's wooer, and so means to gull out of
a substantial part of his income of three thousand
ducats a year. We learn, indeed, that he has got
possession of two thousand of his friend's ducats
before the year is out. Thus Sir Toby keeps his
own money untouched, draws a good income from
Sir Andrew, and lives riotously at his niece's cost.
A well-to-do knight, who is so jovial and so
thrifty withal, is, in Maria's eyes, worth catching
for a husband. She is angling for him, and will
catch him. There is no young dream in her love:
Sir Toby and Maria pair with a love that is not,
like the duke's, "more noble than the world,” it
does prize "quantity of dirty lands."
The play is a tale of two households-Olivia's
and Orsino's as they are affected by the coming
of the brother and sister who seem doubles of each
other. The time of action of the play is three
22
INTRODUCTION.
܊܂
months.
“Three months this youth hath tended
upon me," says Orsino of Viola in the Fifth Act.
But the three months are supposed to pass between
the third and fourth scenes of the First Act.
From the fourth scene of the First Act to the end
of the play, the time of action is two days.
Brother and sister, Viola and Sebastian, are
thrown separately ashore on the coast of Illyria
from a wreck, and the saving of Viola with her
resolve to serve the Duke for a time as a page is
set between the first scene showing the Duke's
love-passion, and the third scene which sets
forth the relations of Sir Toby Belch with Sir
Andrew Aguecheek, and Maria humouring Sir
Toby.
Then the three months pass, and we find Viola,
as the boy Cesario, high in Orsino's confidence,
employed by him as ambassador of love to Olivia.
And she is faithful in the trust, although her own
dream of love has come to her, with Orsino for
ideal, In the fifth scene we may note that the
Clown has a quick eye for Maria's policy. "Well,
go thy way," he says: "if Sir Toby would leave
INTRODUCTION.
23
drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh
as any in Illyria." To which Maria replies,
"Peace, you rogue; no more o' that.”
When Malvolio speaks contemptuously of the
Clown-whereby he whets in him the appetite for
a revenge to come-Olivia defines her steward's
weakness: "O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,
and taste with a distempered appetite." Richard
III. gives us the tragic side of life to a man's self
alone-" Richard loves Richard. That is, I am
I"; in Malvolio we may say we have the same
fault shown on the comic side. Malvolio aspires
to the hand of Olivia as Richard to the crown,
with motives alike selfish and therefore mean.
Thus we have the young love that sacrifices all
to its ideal, in Orsino, Viola, Olivia, brighter by
contrast with the less ethereal ways by which Sir
Toby and Maria become man and wife, and with
the yet more opposite nature of the man by self-
love wedded to himself.
The First Act ends with Olivia's love fixed
upon the youth Cesario, upon the sister saved out
of the shipwreck.
24
INTRODUCTION.
The Second Act begins by opening the story of
the shipwrecked brother. Of his escape from
drowning, it may be observed that hope enough
was given to Viola in the second scene of the First
Act to take the tragic element out of the action of
the play. The captain then had said-
"I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself—
Courage and hope both teaching him tho practice-
To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;
Where like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.
Viola.
For saying so there's gold.
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope-
Whereto thy speech serves for authority-
The like of him."
Sebastian had been saved by Antonio when he
was a wreck past hope, and after three months'
nursing is fully recovered. He goes to the town;
Antonio following. "When came he to this
town?" Orsino asks at the end; and Antonio
replies:

INTRODUCTION.
25
66
To-day, my lord; and for three months before
No interim, not a minute's vacancy,
Both day and night did we keep company.'
"To-day" here means the second day of the
action after the third scene of the First Act. At
the end of the First Act Viola had left Olivia, and
Malvolio was sent after her with a ring. After
the scene that prepares for Sebastian's coming, we
have in the Second Act Malvolio following with the
ring, and asking Viola, "Were not you even now
with the Countess Olivia?" Viola answering, "Even
now, sir." In the third scene of the Second Act
it is night of the same day. Sir Toby and his
friends are making a night of it.
Malvolio comes
as steward to rebuke them-again preparing the
way for a retaliation on himself—and Maria says:
"Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night. Since
the youth of the Count's was to-day with my lady,
she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio,
let me alone with him.”
It may be worth noting that when, immediately
afterwards, Maria says of Malvolio, "sometimes he
is a kind of Puritan," it is into the mouth of the
26
INTRODUCTION.
witless Sir Andrew Aguecheek that Shakespeare
puts an expression of unreasoning ill-will to the
name:-
"Sir Andrew. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a
dog.
Sir Toby. What, for being a Puritan! Thy exquisite
reason, dear knight?
Sir Andrew. I have no exquisite reason for 't, but I have
reason good enough.”
And to the same imbecile knight Shakespeare
gives (Act III. scene 2) a reference to the
Brownists, who were much dreaded in Elizabeth's
time for their advocacy of freedom of opinion in
matters of doctrine. "Policy I hate," says Sir
Andrew; "I had as lief be a Brownist as a poli-
tician." Was not this meant for good-natured
satire upon that unreasoning clamour against
earnest men which comes often from poverty of
wit?
The first day of action after the three months'
interval ends with the third scene of the Second
Act, when Sir Toby's making a night of it has gone
far into the morning. "Come, come," he says,
INTRODUCTION.
27
"I'll go burn some sack, 't is too late to go to bed
now."
The next scene opens in Orsino's palace with the
morning of the second day. To this one day all
following incidents of the play belong. There is
again the prelude of soft music :—
"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."
Feste, the clown, who is to sing it, is not at hand.
Let the music then be played until he comes.
And so the spirit of young love then speaks again
with music in the air.
In this scene is a passage that has been perverted
into show of evidence that Shakespeare was not
happy in his wife Anne, because she was older
than he, although there is no good ground whatever
for supposing that Shakespeare's married life was
unhappy. Orsino asks Cesario if his fancy has
been caught by some fair favour.
Viola answers,
"A little, by your favour." "What kind of wo-
"Of your complexion."
man is 't?"
"She is
28
INTRODUCTION.
not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?"
"About your years, my lord?" "Too old, by
heaven." And then Orsino reasons that the woman
should take an older than herself,
"For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are;"
which reasoning, before the end of the scene, Orsino,
in the fitfulness of his love fancies, absolutely re-
verses:
"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 suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt.'
19
Here, as elsewhere, the variation is designed.
Between the earlier and later view of the relative
powers of love in men and women is an interval
of about ten minutes, within which the Clown has
said to Orsino, "The melancholy god protect thee,

INTRODUCTION.
29
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 busi-
ness might be everything, and their intent every-
where." Certainly those critics have put to sea
who suppose a dramatist is thinking of himself
when he is living in the persons of his story.
Sir Toby's delight in Maria's trick upon Malvolio
completes her conquest of him. "I could marry the
wench,” he says, “for this.”
"for this." Sir Andrew, with no
I too."
more wit of his own than an echo, says, "So could
"And ask no other dowry with her but
such another jest," says Sir Toby. "Nor I
neither," says Sir Andrew. And Sir Toby does
marry her, as Fabian tells at the end.
:
"Maria writ
The letter at Sir Toby's great importance;
In recompence whereof, he hath married her."
In the Third Act it is in the third scene—in the
middle of the play-that Sebastian first comes
among the other persons of the story, and the few
hours' confusion begins between brother and sister,
30
INTRODUCTION.
which leads on to the happy close.
At the first,
when Antonio, finding her as Cesario, mistakes
Viola for Sebastian, and at the profession of
ignorance says,—
"Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there's no blemish but the mind;
None can be called deformed but the unkind:"
Viola's after-thought is-
"He named Sebastian: I my brother knew
Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love."
The Fourth Act is of cross-purposes that lead to
the close of the Act with the marriage of Sebastian
to Olivia, who takes him for Cesario.
"Olivia. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean
well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by; there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,

INTRODUCTION.
31
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it,
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.-What do you say?
Sebastian. I'll follow this good man, and go with you,
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true."
There is not in Bandello, nor in Belleforest,
nor in Barnaby Riche, nor in Gl' Ingannati, nor
in Inganni, this consecration of the lady's love.
The Fifth Act is occupied with the untying of
the knot; the close of this Act being, according to
the testimony of the priest, only two hours after the
marriage of Olivia. The lapse of three months since
the shipwreck is twice made clear: by the testimony
of Antonio that he had nursed Sebastian for three
months, and the reply of the Duke, "Three
months this youth hath tended upon me." It is
equally clear that from the beginning of the fourth
scene of the Second Act we have the adventures of
a single day. Malvolio was not long kept in the dark.
Sir Toby cannot be said to have gone to bed drunk
32
INTRODUCTION.
last night, for he drank till it was too late to
go to bed, and burnt more sack. He has gono
through the day as usual, with cunning enough to
amuse himself, and keep Sir Andrew well in
hand :-
“Fabian. This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
Sir Toby. I have been dear to him, lad; some two
thousand strong, or so."
When Sir Andrew proposes to make peace by
giving Cesario his horse grey Capilet, Sir Toby
sees his way to a bit of filching, and says to
himself, "Marry, I'll ride your horse as well
as you." But Sir Toby is drunk before the
day is
over, very drunk when we see the
last of him. Whether he was sober when he
married Maria, does not matter to her. He is
a knight with good possessions, which he will not
diminish while he lives a short life and a merry
one on the contents of other folks' pockets, and
cellars. Maria will have made, in the world's
opinion, a good match. She will soon be a knight's
widow, with handsome possessions; and she will
INTRODUCTION.
33
have no difficulty in changing the unsavoury name
of Lady Belch for that of some good man whom
she may really care for.
But to Olivia and to Orsino, who finds in
Viola "his fancy's queen," Sebastian and Viola
will bring the satisfaction of young longing for a
love that glorifies all beauty of the world, that
feeds on music, and "lies rich when canopied with
bowers." Their pure ideal will put noblest aims
into the workday life of all their years to come.
They will wake from the young dream of perfec-
ions impossible on earth, but wake to a reality of
helpful sympathy and trust, that makes the light
of every day the light of God upon the way to
heaven.
H. M.
B-199
TWELFTH-NIGHT:
OR, WHAT YOU WILL.
DRAMATIS PERSONE.
ORSINO, Duke of Illyria.
MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia.
SEBASTIAN, Brother to Viola.
FABIAN,
ANTONIO, a α
Sea Captain,
Clown,
} Servants to Olivia.
Friend to Sebastian.
A Sea Captain, Friend to
Viola.
Gentlemen at-
tending on the
Duke.
VALENTINE,
CURIO,
SIR TOBY BELOH, Uncle to
Olivia.
SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.
OLIVIA, a rich Countess.
VIOLA, Sister to Sebastian.
MARIA, Olivia's Woman.
Lords, a Priest, Sailors,
Officers, Musicians, and At-
tendants.
SCENE.—A City in ILLYRIA; and the Sea-coast near it.
ACT I.
SCENE I.-A Room in the DUKE's Palace.
Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending.
Duke. If music be the food of love, play on ;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.-
That strain again!—it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,

36
[Act L
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Stealing and giving odour !-Enough; no more:
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.
Cur. Will you go hunt, my
Duke.
Cur.
lord?
What, Curio?
The hart.
Duke. Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purged the air of pestilence!
That instant was I turned into a hart,
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.—
Enter VALENTINE.
:
How now? what news from her?
Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer :
The element itself, till seven years hence,
Shall not behold her face at ample view ;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,
Scene 2.]
37
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.
Duke. O, she that hath a heart of that fine
frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath killed the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and
filled-
Her sweet perfections-with one self king-
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.-The Sea-coast.
Enter VIOLA, Captain, and Sailors.
Vio. What country, friends, is this?
Cap.
Illyria, lady.
Vio. And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance, he is not drowned :—what think you,
sailors?
38
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were
saved.
Vio. O my poor brother! and so, perchance, may
he be.
Cap. True, madam: and, to comfort you with
chance,
Assure yourself, after your ship did split,
When you, and this poor number saved with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself—
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice—
To a strong mast that lived upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.
Vio.
For saying so, there's gold.
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope-
Whereto thy speech serves for authority-
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.
Vio. Who governs here?
Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name.
Vio. What is his name?
Cap.
Orsino.
Vio. Orsino! I have heard my father name him :
Scene 2,1
39
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
He was a bachelor then.
Cap. And so is now, or was so very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 't was fresh in murmur-
-as, you know,
What great ones do, the less will prattle of
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia
Vio. What's she?
Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving
her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died; for whose dear loss,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.
Vio.
O, that I served that lady,
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.
Cap.
That were hard to compass;
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.
Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close-in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
40
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
I prithee,—and I'll pay thee bounteously,-
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke :
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him:
It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.
Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
Vio. I thank thee. Lead me on.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and MARIA.
Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to take
the death of her brother thus? I am sure care's
an enemy to life.
Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in
earlier o' nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great
exceptions to your ill hours.
Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted.
Scene 3.]
41
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within
the modest limits of order.
Sir To. Confine? I'll confine myself no finer
than I am. These clothes are good enough to
drink in; and so be these boots too,-an they be
not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you :
I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a
foolish knight that you brought in one night here
to be her wooer.
Sir To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Mar. Ay, he.
Sir To. He's as tall a man as any 's in Illyria.
Mar. What's that to the purpose ?
Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a
year.
Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these
ducats he's a very fool, and a prodigal.
:
Sir To. Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the
viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages
word for word without book, and hath all the good
gifts of nature.
Mar. He hath, indeed,—almost natural; for,
besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller ;
and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay
the gust he hath in quarrelling, 't is thought among
42
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a
grave.
Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels and
substractors that say so of him. Who are they?
Mar. They that add, moreover, he's drunk
nightly in your company.
Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece. I'll
drink to her as long as there is a passage in my
throat, and drink in Illyria. He's a coward and
a coystrel that will not drink to my niece till his
brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What,
wench ! Castiliano volto; for here comes Sir
Andrew Ague-face.
Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.
Sir And. Sir Toby Belch, how now, Sir Toby
Belch ?
Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew!
Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew.
Mar. And you too, sir.
Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
Sir And. What's that?
Sir To. My niece's chambermaid.
Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better
acquaintance.
Mar. My name is Mary, sır.
Scene 3.]
43
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir And. Good Mistress Mary Accost,-
Sir To. You mistake, knight: 'accost' is front
her, board her, woo her, assail her.
Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake
her in this company. Is that the meaning of
'accost'?
Mar. Fare you well, gentlemen.
Sir To. An thou let her part so, Sir Andrew,
would thou mightst never draw sword again !
Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would I
might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you
think you have fools in hand?
Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand.
Sir And. Marry, but you shall have: and here's
my hand.
Mar. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you,
bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it
drink.
Sir And. Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your
metaphor?
Mar. It's dry, sir.
Sir And. Why, I think so: I am not such an
ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's
your jest?
Mar. A dry jest, sir.
Sir And. Are you full of them?
*
44
[Act L
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends:
marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.
[Exit MARIA.
Sir To. O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary.
When did I see thee so put down?
Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless
you saw canary put me down. Methinks some-
times I have no more wit than a Christian, or an
ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef,
and I believe that does harm to my wit.
Sir To. No question.
Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it.—
I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.
Sir To. Pourquoi, my dear knight?
Sir And. What is pourquoi? do or not do? I
would I had bestowed that time in the tongues
that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting.
O, had I but followed the arts!
Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head
of hair.
Sir And. Why, would that have mended my
hair?
Sir To. Past question; for thou seest it will not
curl by nature.
Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does 't
not?
Scene 3.]
45
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir To. Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff,
and I hope to see a housewife take thee between
her legs and spin it off.
Sir And. 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby :
your niece will not be seen; or if she be, it's four
to one she 'll none of me. The count himself here
hard by woos her.
Sir To. She'll none o' the count; she'll not
match above her degree, neither in estate, years,
nor wit; I have heard her swear it. Tut, there's
life in 't, man.
Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a
fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world: I delight
in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws,
knight?
Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he
be, under the degree of my betters: and yet I will
not compare with an old man.
Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard,
knight?
Sir And. 'Faith, I can cut a caper.
Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to 't.
Sir And. And I think I have the back-trick
simply as strong as any man in Illyria.
Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore
46
[Act L.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
have these gifts a curtain before them are they
like to take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture?
why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and
come home in a coranto? My very walk should be
a jig: Fwould not so much as make water but in
ink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world
to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent
constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the
star of a galliard.
Sir And. Ay, 't is strong, and does indifferent
well in a flame-coloured stock. Shall we set about
some revels?
Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not
born under Taurus?
Sir And. Taurus? that's sides and heart.
Sir To. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me
see thee caper. [Sir ANDREW dances.] Ha! higher:
ha, ha!-excellent!
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV. -A Room in the DUKE's Palace.
Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.
Val. If the duke continue these favours towards
you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced :

Scene 4.1
47
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
he hath known you but three days, and already
you are no stranger.
Vio. You either fear his humour or my negli-
gence, that you call in question the continuance of
his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours ?
Val. No, believe me.
Vio. I thank you.
Here comes the count,
Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.
Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho?
Vio. On your attendance, my lord; here.
Duke. Stand you awhile aloof.-Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasped
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixéd foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.
Vio.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandoned to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord, what
then?
Duke. O, then unfold the passion of my love;
48
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
Vio. I think not so, my lord.
Duke.
Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill in sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know, thy constellation is right apt
For this affair :-some four, or five, attend him;
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company.-Prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
Vio.
I'll do my best
To woo your lady :-[aside] yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt.
Scene 5.]
49
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
SCENE V.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter MARIA and Clown.
Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been,
or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may
enter, in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang
thee for thy absence.
Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in
this world needs to fear no colours.
Mar. Make that good.
Clo. He shall see none to fear.
Mar. A good lenten answer.
I can tell thes
where that saying was born, of-I fear no colours.
Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary?
Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold
to say in your foolery.
Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that have it
;
and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
Mar. Yet you will be hanged for being so long
absent; or, to be turned away,-is not that as
good as a hanging to you?
Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad mar-
riage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it
out.
|_ Mar. You are resolute, then ?
50
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Clo. Not so neither; but I am resolved on two
points.
Mar. That if one break the other will hold; or,
if both break, your gaskins fall.
Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go
thy way if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou
wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in
Illyria.
Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here
comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you
were best.
[Exit.
Clo. 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? Better a witty fool than a foolish
wit.
Enter OLIVIA ana MALVOLIO.
God bless thee, lady!
Oli. Take the fool away.
Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the
lady.
Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of
you: besides, you grow dishonest.
Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good

Scene 5.]
51
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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 dis-
honest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him :
anything 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.
Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you.
Clo. 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.
Oli. Can you do it?
Clo. Dexteriously, good madonna.
Oli. Make your proof.
Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna. Good
my mouse of virtue, answer me.
Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll
bide your proof.
Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou ?
Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death.
52
[Act L.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
your
Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for
brother's soul being in heaven.-Take away the
fool, gentlemen.
Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth
he not mend?
Mal. Yes, and shall do, till the pangs of death
shake him infirmity, that decays the wise, doth
ever make the better fool.
Clo. 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 twopence that you are no fool.
Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio?
Mal. 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.
Oli. O, 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
Scene 5.]
53.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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.
Clo. Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for
thou speakest well of fools!
Re-enter MARIA.
Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentle-
man much desires to speak with you.
Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it?
Mar. I know not, madam: 't is a fair young
man, and well attended.
Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay?
Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing
but madman: fie on him! [Exit MARIA.] Go you,
Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick,
or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit
MALVOLIO.]—Now you see, sir, how your fooling
grows old, and people dislike it.
Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy
eldest son should be a fool,-whose skull Jove cram
with brains! for here comes one of thy kin has a
most weak pia mater
54
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH.
Oli. By mine honour, half drunk.—What is he
at the gate, cousin?
Sir To. A gentleman.
Oli. A gentleman! what gentleman ?
Sir To. "T is a gentleman here-a plague o' these
pickle-herring !-How now, sot ?
Clo. Good Sir Toby !—
Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early
by this lethargy?
Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one
at the gate.
Oli. Ay, marry; what is he?
Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care
not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one. [Exit.
Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool?
Clo. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a mad-
man : one draught above heat makes him a
the second mads him; and a third drowns
fool;
him.
Oli. 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.
Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool
shall look to the madman.
[Exit.
Scene 5.)
55
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Re-enter MALVOLIO.
Mal. 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: 1 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? he's fortified against
any denial.
Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me.
Mal. '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.
Oli. What kind o' man is he?
Mal. Why, of man kind.
Oli. What manner of man?
Mal. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you,
will you or no.
Oli. Of what personage and years is he?
Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young
enough for a boy; as a squash is before 't is a peas-
cod, or a codling when 't is almost an apple: 't is
with him e'en standing water, between hoy and
man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks
56
[Act J.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
very shrewishly; one would think his mother's
milk were scarce out of him.
Oli. Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.
Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
Re-enter MARIA.
[Exit.
Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my
face.
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
Enter VIOLA.
Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is
she?
Oli. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your
will?
Vio. 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.
Oli. Whence came you, sir?
Vio. 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.
Scene 5.]
57
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Oli. Are you a comedian ?
Vio. 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?
Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am.
Vio. 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.
Oli. Come to what is important in 't: I forgive
you the praise.
Vio. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and
't is poetical.
Oli. 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: 't is not that
time of moon with me to make one in so skipping
a dialogue.
Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.
Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a
little longer. Some mollification for your giant,
sweet lady.
Oli. Tell me your mind.
58
} [Aot I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Vio. I am a messenger.
Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to de-
liver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak
your office.
Vio. 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 full of
peace as matter.
Oli. Yet you began rudely.
what would you?
What are you?
Vio. The rudeness that hath appeared in me,
have I learned from my entertainment. What I
am, and what I would, are as secret as maiden-
head to your ears, divinity; to any other's, pro-
fanation.
:
Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this
divinity. [Exit MARIA.] Now, sir, what is your
text?
Vio. Most sweet lady,—
Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be
said of it. Where lies your text?
Vio. In Orsino's bosom.
Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his
bosom?
Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of
his heart.
Scene 5.1
59
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Oli. O, I have read it: it is heresy. Have you
no more to say?
Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.
Oli. 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? [Unveiling.
Vio. Excellently done, if God did all.
Oli. 'T is in grain, sir; 't will endure wind and
weather.
Vio. "T is beauty truly blent, whose red and
white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,
If will lead these graces to the grave
you
And leave the world no copy.
Oli. 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?
Vio. I see you, what you are,—you are too
proud;
60
[Act I.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you: O, such love
Could be but recompensed, though you were
crowned
The nonpareil of beauty!
Oli.
How does he love me ?
Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli. 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, learned, 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.
Vio. 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.
Oli.
Why, what would you?
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemnéd love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
Scene 5.]
61
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
Oli. You might do much. What is your parent-
age?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.
Oli.
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.
I thank you for your pains:
Fare you well :
spend this for me.
Vio. 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 fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.[Exit.
Oli. 'What is your parentage?'
'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well :
I am a gentleman.'—I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon:-not too fast;-soft!
soft!
Unless the master were the man.-How now!
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

62
[Aot 1.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes.-Well, let it be.-
What, ho, Malvolio.
Mal.
Re-enter Malvolio.
Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. 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.
Mal. Madam, I will.
[Exit.
Oil. I do I know not what, and fear to find
my
Mine eye too great a flatterer for mind.
Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be,—and be this so! [Exit.
Į
-
Boene 1]'
63
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
ACT II.
SCENE I.-The Sea-coast.
Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.
Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not
that I go with you?
Seb. 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.
Ant. Let me yet know of you whither you are
bound.
Seb. 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 Mes
saline, whom I know you have heard of. He left
behind him myself and a sister, both born in an
64
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
:
hour if the heavens had been pleased, would we
had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for some
hour before you took me from the breach of the sea
was my sister drowned.
Ant. Alas the day!
Seb. 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 remem
brance again with more.
Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
Seb. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.
Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let
me be your servant.
Seb. If you will not undo what you have done,
that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire
it not. Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of
kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my
mother, that, upon the least occasion more, mine
eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count
Orsino's court: farewell.
[Exit.
Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies in Orsino's court,

Scene 2.]
65
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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. [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Street.
Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.
Mal. Were not you even now with the Countess
Olivia?
Vio. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have
since arrived but hither.
Mal. 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.
Vio. She took the ring of me ;-I'll none of it.
Mal. 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.
[Exit.
c-199
66
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Vio. I left no ring with her: what means this
lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charmed her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That, as methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man :-if it be so,-as 't is,-
Poor lady, she were better love her dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be.-
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him
As she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
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!—
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O Time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie.
[Exit.
Scene 3.]
67
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
SCENE III.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Sir ANDREW AGUE-
CHEEK.
Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed
after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo
surgere, thou knowest,—
Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I
know, to be up late, is to be up late.
Sir To. 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?
Sir And. Faith, so they say; but I think, it
rather consists of eating and drinking.
Sir To. Thou 'rt a scholar: let us therefore eat
and drink.-Maria, I say!-a stoop of wine!
Sir And. Here comes the fool, i̇' faith.
Enter Clown.
Clo. How now, my hearts! Did you never see
the picture of We Three?
Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent
68
LAct II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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 Pigrogro-
mitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of
Queubus: 't was very good, i' faith. I sent thee
sixpence for thy lomas: hadst it?
Clo. 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.
Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best
fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.
Sir To. Come on; there is sixpence for you:
let's have a song.
Sir And. There's a testril of me too: if one
knight give a-
Clo. Would you have a love-song, or a song of
good life?
Sir To. A love-song, a love-song.
Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
SONG,
Clo. O mistress mine! where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low ;
Trip no farther, pretty sweeting;
Scene 3.]
69
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Sir And. Excellent good, i̇' faith.
Sir To. Good, good.
Clo.
What is love? 't is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty ;
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true
knight.
Sir To. A contagious breath.
Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in con-
tagion. But shall we make the welkin dance
indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch
that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall
we do that?
Sir And. An you love me, let's do 't: I am dog
at a catch.
Clo. By 'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch
well.
Sir And. Most certain. Let our catch be,
Thou knave.
Clo. Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? I

70
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
shall be constrained in 't to call thee knave,
knight.
Sir And. 'T is not the first time I have con-
strained one to call me knave.
begins, Hold thy peace.
Begin, fool: it
Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And. Good, i' faith. Come, begin.
[They sing the catch
Enter MARIA.
Mar. 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.
Sir To. My lady's a Cataian; we are poli-
ticians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three
merry men be we. Am not I consanguineous? am
I not of her blood? Tillyvally, lady! [Sings.]
There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!
Clo. Beshrew me, the knight 's in admirable
fooling.
Sir And. 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.
Sir To.
[Sings.]
December,-
O, the twelfth day of
Mar. For the love o' God, peace!
Scene 3.]
71
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Enter MALVOLIO.
Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are
you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but
to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do
ye make an ale-house of my lady's house, that ye
squeak out your coziers' catches without any miti-
gation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of
place, persons, nor time, in you?
Sir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches.
Snick up!
Mal. 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
misdemeanours, 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.
Sir To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs
be gone.
Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.
Clo. His eyes do show, his days are almost done.
Mal. Is 't even so?
Sir To. But I will never die.
Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Mal. This is much credit to yon.

72
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir To. Shall I bid him go?
Clo. What an if you do?
Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo. O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.
Sir To. Out o' time!-Sir, ye lie.
Art any
more than a steward? Dost thou think, because
thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?
Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be
hot i' the mouth too.
Sir To. Thou 'rt i' the right.-Go, sir, rub your
chain with crumbs.-A stoop of wine, Maria!
Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's
favour at anything more than contempt, you would
not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall
know of it, by this hand.
[Exit.
Mar. Go shake your ears.
Sir And. 'T were as good a deed as to drink
when a man 's a-hungry, to challenge him the field,
and then to break promise with him, and make a
fool of him.
Sir To. Do 't, knight: I'll write thee a chal-
lenge; or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by
word of mouth.
Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night.
Since the youth of the count's was to-day with my
Scene 3.]
73
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur
Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull
him into a nay-word, 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.
Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us something
of him.
Mar. Marry, sir. sometimes he is a kind of
puritan.
Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like
a dog.
Sir To. What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite
reason, dear knight?
Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't, but
I have reason good enough.
Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or anything
constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,
that cons state without book, and utters it by great
swaths the best persuaded of himself, so crammed,
as he thinks, with excellences, 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
74
| Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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 for-
gotten matter we can hardly make distinction of
our hands.
Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And. I have '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's 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.
well.
Fare-
Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. [Exit MARIA,
Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.
Scene 4.]
75
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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 ï' the 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 some sack;
't is 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 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.
76
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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
[Exit CURIO.-Music.
while.
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?
Vio. 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?
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.
Scene 4. J
77
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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.
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 displayed, 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,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love

78
LAct II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Like the old age.
Clo. Are you ready, sir?
Duke. Ay; prithee, sing.
[Music.
SONG.
Clo. 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 corse, where my bones shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, 0, 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 singing,
sir.
Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.
Scene 4]
79
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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 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.
Duke. Let all the rest give place.—
[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.
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 bestowed 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.
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir?
Duke. I cannot be so answered.
Vio.
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 answered?
80
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
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.
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.
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?
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her
love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Scene 5.]
81
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too;-and yet I know not.—
Sir, shall I to this lady?
Duke.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste: give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.-OLIVIA'S Garden.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,
and FABIAN.
Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this
sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the
niggardly, rascally sheep-biter come by some notable
shame?
Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought
me out o' favour with my lady about a bear-bait-
ing here.
82
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear
again; and we will fool him black and blue ;-
shall we not, Sir Andrew?
Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Sir To. Here comes the little villain.
Enter MARIA.
How now, my nettle of India?
Mar. Get ye all three into the box tree:
Malvolio's coming down this walk: he has been
yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to his own
shadow this half-hour. Observe him, for the love
of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a
contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of
jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there
[throws down a letter]; for here comes the trout
that must be caught with tickling.
Enter MALVOLIO.
[Exit.
Maria
Mal. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune.
once told me she did affect me: and I have heard
herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it
should be one of my complexion. Besides, she
uses me with a more exalted respect than any one
else that follows her. What should I think
on 't
Scene 5.]
83
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir To. Here's an overweening rogue !
Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare
turkey-cock of him : how he jets under his advanced
plumes!
Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
Sir To. Peace, I say.-
Mal. To be Count Malvolio,-
Sir To. Ah, rogue!
Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir To. Peace, peace !—
Mal. There is example for 't; the lady of the
Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.—
Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel !
Fab. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how
imagination blows him.—
Mal. Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my state,—
Sir To. O, for a stone bow, to hit him in the
eye!—
Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branched
velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where
I have left Olivia sleeping,-
Sir To. Fire and brimstone !
Fab. O, peace! peace !—
Mal. And then to have the humour of state;
and after a demure travel of regard,-telling them
84
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
I know my place, as I would they should do theirs,
-to ask for my kinsman Toby.-
Sir To. Bolts and shackles !
Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
Mal. Seven of my people, with an obedient start,
make out for him. I frown the while; and, per-
chance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich
jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies there to me.—
Sir To. Shall this fellow live?
Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us by
th' ears, yet peace !—
Mal. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching
my familiar smile with an austere regard of
control,-
Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o'
the lips then?
Mal. Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes having
cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of ·
speech,'-
Sir To. What, what?
Mal. You must amend your drunkenness.'-
Sir To. Out, scab !
Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of
our plot.-
Mal. Besides, you waste the treasure of your
time with a foolish knight,'-
Scene 5.]
85
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.—
Mal. One Sir Andrew,'-
Sir And. I knew 't was I; for many do call me
fool.
Mal. [Seeing the letter.] What employment have
we here?
Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin.
Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of humours
intimate reading aloud to him!
Mal. [Taking up the letter.] By my life, this is
my lady's hand! these be her very C's, her U's, and
her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It is,
in contempt of question, her hand.
Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her 7's: why
that?
Mal. [Reads.] To the unknown beloved, this, and
my good wishes: her very phrases!-By your
leave, wax.-Soft!-and the impressure her Lucrece,
with which she uses to seal: 't is my lady. Το
whom should this be?
Fab. This wins him, liver and all.—
Mal. [Reads.] Jove knows, I love ;
But who?
Lips, do not move :
No man must know.
No man must know.-What follows? the numbers
86
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
altered !-No man must know: if this should be
thee,-Malvolio?
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock!
Mal. [Reads.] I may command, where I adore;
But silence, like a Lucrece' knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore :
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.—
Fab. A fustian riddle.
Sir To. Excellent wench, say I.—
Mal. M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.
Nay, but first, let me see,-let me see.—
Fab. What a dish of poison has she dressed
him!
Sir To. And with what wing the staniel checks
at it!-
Mal. I may command, where I adore. Why,
she may command me: I serve her; she is my
lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity.
There is no obstruction in this :-and the end,
what should that alphabetical position portend? if
I could make that resemble something in me,-
Softly!-M, O, A, I,—
Sir To. O! ay! make up that. He is now at a
cold scent.
Fab. Sowter will cry upon 't, for all this, though
it be as rank as a fox.
Scene 5.]
87
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Mal. M,-Malvolio :-M,-why, that begins my
name.
Fab. Did not I say, he would work it out? the
cur is excellent at faults.
Mal. M,-but then there is no consonancy in
the sequel; that suffers under probation: A should
follow, but O does.-
Fab. And O shall end, I hope.
Sir To. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him
cry 01-
Mal. And then I comes behind.-
Fab. Ay, an you had an eye behind you, you
might see more detraction at your heels than for-
tunes before you.
Mal. M, O, A, I:—this simulation is not as
the former :—and yet, to crush this a little, it
would bow to me, for every one of these letters are
in my name. Soft! here follows prose.-[Reads.]
If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I
am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness:
some are born great, some achieve greatness, and
some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy Fates
open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace
them: and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to
be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. Be
opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let
89
[Act II.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself
into the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee,
that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy
yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-
gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art made,
if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a
steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy
to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that
would alter services with thee,
THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.
Daylight and champain discover not more: this is
open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross
acquaintance, I will be point-de-vise the very man.
I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade
me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady
loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings
of late; she did praise my leg being cross-gartered ;
and in this she manifests herself to my love, and,
with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits
of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I
will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and
cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting
ori. Jove and my stars be praised!-Here is yet
a postscript. [Reads.] Thou canst not choose but
know who I am. If thou entertainest my love, let

Scene 5.]
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
it appear in thy smiling: thy smiles become thee
well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my
sweet, I prithee.—Jove, I thank thee.—I will smile;
I will do everything that thou wilt have me. [Exit.
Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
Sir To. I could marry this wench for this
device,―
Sir And. So could I too.
Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her, but
such another jest.
Sir And. Nor I neither.
Fab. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
Re-enter MARIA.
Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
Sir And. Or o' mine either?
Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and
become thy bond-slave?
Sir And. I' faith, or I either?
Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a
dream, that when the image of it leaves him he
must run mad.
Mar. Nay, but say true; does it work upon
him?
Sir To. Like aqua-vitæ with a midw
Murse

TWELFTH-NIGHT.
[Act III.
Mar. If you will, then, see the fruits of the
sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he
will come to her in yellow stockings, and 't is a
colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion
she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will
now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being
addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot
but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will
see it, follow me.
Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excel-
lent devil of wit!
Sir And. I'll make one too.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.-OLIVIA'S Garden.
Enter VIOLA, and Clown with a tabor.
Vio. Save thee, friend, and thy music! dost thou
live by thy tabor ?
Clo. No, sir, I live by the church.
Vio. Art thou a churchman ?
Clo. No such matter, sir: I do live by the
church, for I do live at my house, and my house
doth stand by the church.
Scene 1.]
91
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Vio. So thou may'st say, the king lies by a
beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or, the church
stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the
church.
Clo. You have said, sir.-To see this age !—A
sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit:
now quickly the wrong side may be turned out-
ward!
Vio. Nay, that 's certain: they, that dally
nicely with words, may quickly make them
wanton.
Clo. I would therefore, my sister had had no
name, sir.
Vio. Why, man?
Clo. Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally
with that word might make my sister wanton.
But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds
disgraced them.
Vio. Thy reason, man?
Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without
words; and words are grown so false, I am loth to
prove reason with them.
Vio. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and
carest for nothing.
Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something; but
in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if
92
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would
make you invisible.
Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
Clo. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no
folly she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married ;
and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to
herrings, the husband's the bigger: I am, in-
deed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.
Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb; like
the sun it shines everywhere. I would be sorry,
sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master
as with my mistress: I think I saw your wisdom
there.
Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more
with thee. Hold, there's expenses for thee.
[Gives a piece of money.
Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair,
send thee a beard!
Vio. By my troth, I'll tell thee,-I am almost
sick for one; though I would not have it grow on
my chin. Is thy lady within?
Oler Would not a pair of these have bred, sig...
Kio Ves, being kept together, and put to use
Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia,
sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus.
1
Soene 1.]
A
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
93
Vio. I understand you, sir [gives another piece
of money], 't is well begged.
Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, beg-
ging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My
lady is within, sir. I will construe to them whence
you come who you are, and what you would, are
out of my welkin,-I might say, element, but the
word is overworn.
[Exit.
Vio. This fellow's wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit :
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time,
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art :
For folly that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Sir ANDREW
AGUE-CHEEK.
Sir To. 'Save you, gentleman.
Vio. And you, sir.
Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
Vio. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
Sir And. I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.
Sir To. Will you encounter the house? iny
94
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be
to her.
Vio. I am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she
is the list of my voyage.
Sir To. Taste your legs, sir; put them to
motion.
Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, than
I understand what you mean by bidding me taste
my legs.
Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
Vio. I will answer you with gait and entrance :
-but we are prevented.
Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.
Most excellent-accomplished lady, the heavens rain
odours on you!
Sir And. That youth's a rare courtier. 'Rain
odours!'-well.
Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your
own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.
Sir And. 'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed:'
-I'll get 'em all three all ready.
Oli. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me
to my hearing. [Exeunt Sir TOBY, Sir ANDREW,
and MARIA.] Give me your hand, sir
Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service.
Scene 1.]
95
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Oli. What is your name?
Vio. Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.
Oli. My servant, sir? T was never merry
world,
Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
Vio. And he is yours, and his must needs be
yours:
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
Oli. For him, I think not on him: for his
thoughts,
Would they were blanks, rather than filled with
me!
Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle
thoughts
On his behalf :-
Oli.
O, by your leave, I pray you,—
I bade you never speak again of him :
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.
Vio.
Dear lady,-
Oli. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you: so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
96
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours: what might you
think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your
receiving
Enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom,
Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.
Vio. I pity you.
Oli.
That's a degree to love.
Vio. No, not a grise; for 't is a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.
Oli. Why then, methinks, 't is time to smile
again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.—
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you;
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man :
There lies your way, due west.
Vio.
Then westward-ho!—
Grace, and good disposition tend your ladyship!
Scene 1.]
97
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
Oli. Stay:
I prithee, tell me what thou think'st of me.
Vio. That you do think you are not what you
are.
Oli. If I think so, I think the same of you.
Vio. Then think you right: I am not what I
am.
Oli. I would you were as I would have you be !
Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.
Oli. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is
noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause ;
But rather, reason thus with reason fetter,-
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,-
D-199
98
[Act. III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam: never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
Oli. Yet come again; for thou perhaps may'st
move
That heart which now abhors, to like his love.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,
and FABIAN.
Sir And. No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
Sir To. Thy reason, dear venom; give thy reason.
Fab. You must needs yield your reason, Sir
Andrew.
Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more
favours to the count's serving-man than ever she
bestowed upon me; I saw 't i' the orchard.
Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell
me that.
Sir And. As plain as I see you now.
Fab. This was a great argument of love in her
toward you.
Scene 2.]
99
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir And. 'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?
Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the
oaths of judgment and reason.
Sir To. And they have been grand-jurymen since
before Noah was a sailor.
Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your
sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dor-
mouse valour, to put fire in your heart, and brim-
stone in your liver. You should then have accosted
her, and with some excellent jests, fire-new from
the mint, you should have banged the youth into
dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and
this was balked: the double gilt of this oppor-
tunity you let time wash off, and you are now
sailed into the north of my lady's opinion; where
you will hang like an icicle on a Dutchman's beard,
unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt
either of valour or policy.
Sir And. An't be any way, it must be with
valour; for policy I hate: I had as lief be a
Brownist as a politician.
Sir To. Why then, build me thy fortunes upon
the basis of valour. Challenge me the count's youth
to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places: my
niece shall take note of it; and assure thyself,
there is no love-broker in the world can more
100
(Act IIL
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
prevail in man's commendation with woman than
report of valour.
Fab. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
Sir And. Will either of you bear me a challenge
to him?
Sir To. Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst
and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be
eloquent and full of invention: taunt him with
the license of ink: if thou Thou'st him some thrice,
it shall not be amiss; and as many Lies as will lie
in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big
enough for the bed of Ware in England, set 'em
down: go, about it. Let there be gall enough in
thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no
matter: about it.
Sir And. Where shall I find you?
Sir To. We'll call thee at thy cubiculo. Go.
[Exit Sir ANDREW.
Fab. This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad,—some two
thousand strong, or so.
Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him but
you'll not deliver 't ?
Sir To. Never trust me then; and by all means
stir on the youth to an answer.

I think oxen and
wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew,
doene 2.]
101
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
if he were opened and you find so much blood in
his liver as will clog the foot of a flea I'll eat the
rest of the anatomy.
Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his
visage no great presage of cruelty.
Sir To. Look, where the youngest wren of nine
comes.
Enter MARIA.
Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh
yourselves into stitches, follow me.
Yond gull
Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for
there is no Christian, that means to be saved by
believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible
passages of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.
Sir To. And cross-gartered?
Mar. Most villainously; like a pedant that
keeps a school i' the church.-I have dogged him
like his murderer. He does obey every point of
the letter that I dropped to betray him he does
smile his face into more lines than are in the new
map, with the augmentation of the Indies. You
have not seen such a thing as 'tis; I can hardly
forbear hurling things at him. I know, my lady
will strike him: if she do, he 'll smile, and take 't
for a great favour.
Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
[Exeunt.
102
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
SCENE III.A Street.
Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO.
Seb. I would not, by my will, have troubled you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
Ant. I could not stay behind you; my desire,
More sharp than filéd steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you,-though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts, which to a stranger,
Unguided, and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.
Seb.
My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make, but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay;
But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,
You should find better dealing.
What's to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
Ant. To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodg
ing
Scene 3.]
103
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Seb. I am not weary, and 't is long to night:
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and things of fame
That do renown this city.
Ant.
Would, you'd pardon me:
I do not without danger walk these streets.
Once, in a sea-fight 'gainst the count his galleys,
I did some service; of such note, indeed,
That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answered.
Seb. Belike, you slew great number of his people.
Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody nature,
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answered in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,
Most of our city did: only myself stood out;
For which, if I be lapsed in this place,
I shall pay dear.
Seb.
Do not then walk too open.
Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my
purse.
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your know-
ledge
With viewing of the town: there shall you have me.
104
[Act IIL
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Seb. Why I your purse?
Ant. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
Seb. I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for
An hour.
Ant.
To the Elephant.—
Seb.
I do remember.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.-OLIVIA'S Garden.
Enter OLIVIA and Maria,
Oli. I have sent after him: he says, he 'll come ;—
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begged or
borrowed.
I speak too loud.-
Where is Malvolio he is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes :—
Where is Malvolio?
Mar. He's coming, madam; but in very strange
manner. He is sure possessed, madam.
Oli. Why, what's the matter? does he rave?
Mar. No, madam, he does nothing but smile:
your ladyship were best to have some guard about
Scene 4]
105
TWELFTH-NIGHT
you, if he come; for sure the man is tainted in his
wits.
Oli. Go call him hither.-I'm as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.-
Re-enter MARIA with Malvolio.
How now, Malvolio ?
Mal. Sweet lady, ho, ho.
Oli. Smil'st thou ?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
Mal. Sad, lady! I could be sad: this does make
some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering;
but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is
with me as the very true sonnet is, 'Please one,
and please all.'
Oli. Why, how dost thou, man? what is the
matter with thee?
Mal. Not black in my mind, though yellow in
my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands
shall be executed : I think we do know the sweet
Roman hand.
Oti: Wilt thou go to bed, Malvotio ?
Mut. To bedt ay, sweetheart and I'll come to
;-sweetheart-y-and
thee.
Oli. God comfort thee! why dost thou smile so,
and kiss thy hand so oft?
106
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Mar. How do you, Malvolio?
Mal. At your request?
answer daws.
Yes; nightingales
Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous
boldness before my lady?
Mal. 'Be not afraid of greatness: '—'t was well
writ.
Oli. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio?
Mal. Some are born great,'-
Oli. Ha?
Mal. Some achieve greatness,'-
Oli. What sayest thou?
Mal. And some have greatness thrust upon
them.'
Oli. Heaven restore thee!
Mal. Remember, who commended thy yellow
stockings,'-
Oli. My yellow stockings?
Mal.
And wished to see thee cross-gartered.'
Oli. Cross-gartered?
Mal. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to
be so :'-
Oli. Am I made?
•
Mal. If not, let me see thee a servant still.'
Oli. Why, this is very midsummer madness.
Scene 4.]
107
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Madam, the young gentleman of the
Count Orsino's is returned. I could hardly
entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's
pleasure.
Oli. I'll come to him. [Exit Servant.] Good
Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where's my
cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a
special care of him: I would not have him mis-
carry for the half of my dowry.
[Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA.
Mal. Oh, ho! do you come near me now? no
worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? This
concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on
purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for
she incites me to that in the letter. 'Cast thy
humble slough,' says she;-'be opposite with a
kinsman, surly with servants,-let thy tongue
tang with arguments of state, put thyself into the
trick of singularity; and consequently sets
down the manner how; as, a sad face, a reverend
carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir
of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it
is Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful!
And when she went away now, 'Let this fellow
108
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
be looked to:' fellow! not Malvolio, nor after
my degree, but fellow. Why, everything adheres
together, that no drachm of a scruple, no scruple
of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe
circumstance What can be said? Nothing that
can be, can come
between me and the full prospect
of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of
this, and he is to be thanked.
Re-enter MARIA, with Sir TOBY BILCH and
FABIAN.
Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of
sanctity? If all the devils in hell be drawn in
little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I'll
speak to him.
Fab. Here he is, here he is.-How is 't with
you, sir? how is 't with you, man ?
Mal. Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my
private; go off.
Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within
him did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady
prays you to have a care of him.
Mal. Ah, ha! does she so?
Sir To. Go to, go to: peace! peace! we must
deal gently with him; let me alone.-How do you,
Scene 4)
109
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Malvolio? how is 't with you? What, man! defy
the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
Mal. Do you know what you say?
Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the devil,
how he takes it at heart! Pray God, he be not
bewitched!
Fab Conry-big-water to the wis
Unffär.
Mar, Marryy--and it shall be done to-morrow
morning, if I-live. My lady would not lose him
for more than I'll say.
Mal. How now, mistress?
Mar. O Lord!
Sir To. Prithee, hold thy peace: this is not
the way.
Do you not see you move him? let me
alone with him.
Fab. No way but gentleness; gently, gently:
the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used.
Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock! how
dost thou, chuck ?
Mal. Sir!
Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me.
What,
man! 't is not for gravity to play at cherry-pit
with Satan: hang him, foul collier!
Mar. Get him to say his prayers; good Sir
Toby, get him to pray.
Mal. My prayers, minx!
110
LAct III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Mar. No, I warrant you; he will not hear of
godliness.
Mal. Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle
shallow things: I am not of your element: you
shall know more hereafter.
Sir To. Is 't possible?
[Exit.
Fab. If this were played upon a stage now,
I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
Sir To. His very genius hath taken the in-
fection of the device, man.
Mar. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take
air, and taint.
Fab. Why, we shall make him mad, indeed.
Mar. The house will be the quieter.
Sir To. Come, we'll have him in a dark room
and bound. My niece is already in the belief that
he's mad: we may carry it thus, for our pleasure
and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out
of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him; at
which time we will bring the device to the bar, and
crown thee for a finder of madmen.-But see, but see.
Fab. More matter for a May morning.
Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,
Sir And. Here's the challenge; read it: I
warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in 't.
Scene 4.]
111
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Fab. Is 't so saucy
?
Sir And. Ay, is 't, I warrant him: do but read.
Sir To. Give me. [Reads.] Youth, whatsoever
thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.
Fab. Good, and valiant.
Sir To. [reads] Wonder not, nor admire not in
thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show
thee no reason for 't.
Fab. A good note, that keeps you from the blow
of the law.
Sir To. [reads] Thou comest to the Lady Olivia;
and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest
in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge
thee for.
Fab. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense-
less.
Sir To. [reads] I will waylay thee going home;
where, if it be thy chance to kill me,-
Fab. Good.
Sir To. [reads] Thou killest me like a rogue and
a villain.
Fab. Still you keep o' the windy side of the
law: good.
Sir To. [reads] Fare thee well; and God have
mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy
upon mine, but my hope is better; and so look to
112
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy
sworn enemy, ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.-If this
letter move him not, his legs cannot: I'll give 't
him.
Mar. You may have very fit occasion for 't: he
is now in some commerce with my lady, and will
by-and-by depart.
Sir To. Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at
the corner of the orchard, like a bum-bailie.
So
soon as ever thou seest him, draw, and, as thou
drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft,
that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent,
sharply twanged off, gives manhood more appro-
bation than ever proof itself would have earned
him. Away!
Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing.
[Exit.
Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter: for
the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him
out to be of good capacity and breeding: his em-
ployment between his lord and my niece confirms
no less therefore this letter, being so excellently
ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth,—he
will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I
will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set
upon Ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and
Scene 4.]
113
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
drive the gentleman-as, I know, his youth will
aptly receive it-into a most hideous opinion of
his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will
so'fright them both, that they will kill one another
by the look, like cockatrices.
Fab. Here he comes with your niece: give
them way, till he take leave, and presently after
him.
Sir To. I will meditate the while upon some
horrid message for a challenge.
[Exeunt Sir TOBY, FABIAN, and MARIA.
Re-enter OLIVIA, with VIOLA.
Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary out :
There's something in me that reproves my fault,
But such a headstrong potent fault it is
That it but mocks reproof.
Vio. With the same 'haviour that your passion
bears,
Goes on my master's grief.
Oli. Here, wear this jewel for me, 't is my
picture.
Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you :
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me that I'll deny, .
114
[Act III
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
That honour, saved, may upon asking give?
Vio. Nothing but this,-your true love for my
master.
Oli. How with mine honour may I give him
that
Which I have given to you?
Vio.
I will acquit you.
Oli. Well, come again to-morrow: fare thee
well:
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.[Exit.
Re-enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and FABIAN.
Sir To. Gentlemen, God save thee!
Vio. And you, sir.
Sir To. That defence thou hast, betake thee
to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done
him, I know not; but thy intercepter, full of de-
spite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the
orchard end: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy
preparation; for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and
deadly.
Vio. You mistake, sir; I am sure, no man hath
any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free
and clear from any image of offence done to any
man.
Sir To. You'll find it otherwise, I assure you:
Scene 4.]
115
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake
you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him
what youth, strength, skill, and wrath can furnish
man withal.
Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he?
Sir To. He is knight, dubbed with unhatched
rapier, and on carpet consideration; but he is a
devil in private brawl; souls and bodies hath he
divorced three; and his incensement at this moment
is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but
by pangs of death and selpulchre: hob, nob, is his
word: give 't or take't.
Vio. I will return again into the house, and
desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter.
I have heard of some kind of men, that put quar-
rels purposely on others, to taste their valour :
belike, this is a man of that quirk.
Sir To. Sir, no; his indignation derives itself
out of a very competent injury: therefore, get you
on, and give him his desire. Back you shall not
to the house, unless you undertake that with me
which with as much safety you might answer him :
therefore, on, or strip your sword stark naked; for
meddle you must, that's certain, or for swear to
wear iron about you.
Vio. This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech
116
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the
knight what my offence to him is: it is something
of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
Sir To. I will do so.-Signior Fabian, stay you
by this gentleman till my return.
[Exit.
Vio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
Fab. I know the knight is incensed against you,
even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the
circumstance more.
Vio. I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read
him by his form, as you are like to find him in the
proof of his valour. He is, indeed, sir, the most
skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could
possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will
you walk towards him? I will make your peace
with him, if I can.
Vio. I shall be much bound to you for 't: I am
one that had rather go with sir priest, than sir
knight: I care not who knows so much of my
mettle.
[Exeunt.
Re-enter Sir TOBY, with Sir ANDREW.
Sir To. Why, man, he's a very devil; I have
not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him,
rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck-
Scene 4.)
117
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
in with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable;
and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your
feet hit the ground they step on: they say, he has
been fencer to the Sophy.
Sir And. Pox on 't, I'll not meddle with him.
Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified :
Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.
Sir And. Plague on 't; an I thought he had
been valiant and so cunning in fence, I'd have
seen him damned ere I'd have challenged him.
Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my
horse, grey Capulet.
Sir To. I'll make the motion: stand here, make
a good show on 't: this shall end without the
perdition of souls.-[Aside.] Marry, I'll ride your
horse as well as I ride you.
Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA.
[TO FABIAN.] I have his horse to take up the
quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth's a
devil.
Fab. [To Sir TOBY.] He is as horribly conceited
of him; and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were
at his heels.
Sir To. [TO VIOLA.] There's no remedy, sir: he
will fight with you for oath's sake: marry, he
118
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and
he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of:
therefore draw for the supportance of his vow: he
protests he will not hurt you.
Vio. [Aside.] Pray God defend me! A little
thing would make me tell them how much I lack
of a man.
Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious.
Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy:
the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one
bout with you; he cannot by the duello avoid it :
but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and
a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to't.
Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath. [Draws.
Vio. I do assure you, 't is against my will.
[Draws.
Enter ANTONIO.
Ant. Put up your sword.-If this young gentle-
man
Have done offence, I take the fault on me:
If you offend him, I for him defy you. [Drawing.
Sir To. You, sir? why, what are you?
Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do
more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
Scene 4.]
119
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for
you.
[Draws.
Fab. O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the
officers.
Sir To. I'll be with you anon.
Vio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.
Sir And. Marry, will I, sir:—and, for that I
promised you, I'll be as good as my word: he will
bear you easily, and reins well.
Enter two Officers.
1 Off. This is the man; do thy office.
2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino.
Ant.
You do mistake me, sir.
1 Off. No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.-
Take him away: he knows I know him well.
Ant. I must obey.-[To VIOLA.] This comes
with seeking you :
But there's no remedy: I shall answer it.
What will you do, now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you
Than what befalls myself.
But be of comfort.
You stand amazed ;
120
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
2 Off. Come, sir, away.
Ant. I must entreat of you some of that money.
Vio. What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have showed me here,
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something. My having is not much,
I'll make division of my present with you:
Hold, there is half my coffer.
Ant.
Will you deny me now?
Is 't possible, that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
Vio.
I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice or any feature.
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.
Ant.
O heavens themselves!
2 Off. Come, sir, I pray you, go.
Ant. Let me speak a little. This youth that you
see here
I snatched one half out of the jaws of death
1
Scene 4.]
121
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Relieved him with such sanctity of love,-
And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
1 Off. What's that to us? The time goes by:
away!
Ant. But O how vile an idol proves this god!—
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.—
In nature there's no blemish but the mind;
None can be called deformed but the unkind :
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourished by the devil.
1 Off. The man grows mad: away with him!
Come, come, sir.
Ant. Lead me on.
[Exeunt Officers with ANTONIO.
Vio. Methinks, his words do from such passion
fly
That he believes himself: so do not I.
Prove true, imagination! O, prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you !
Sir To. Come hither, knight; come hither,
Fabian: we'll whisper o'er a couplet or two of
most sage saws.
Vio. He named Sebastian: I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,
In favour was my brother; and he went
122
[Act III.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
•
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,-
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
[Exit.
Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more
a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in
leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying
him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, religious
in it.
Sir And. 'Slid, I'll after him again, and beat
him.
Sir To. Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw
thy sword.
Sir And. An I do not,—
Fab. Come, let's see the event.
[Exit.
Sir To. I dare lay any money 't will be nothing
yet.
[Exeunt.
Scene 1.]
123
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.-The Street before OLIVIA's House.
Enter SEBASTIAN and Clown.
Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not
sent for you?
Seb. Go to, go to; thou art a foolish fellow: let
me be clear of thee.
Clo. Well held out; i' faith! No, I do not
know you; nor I am not sent to you by my lady
to bid you come speak with her; nor your name
is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose
neither. Nothing that is so is so.
Seb. I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else:
Thou know'st not me.
un-
Clo. Vent my folly! He has heard that word
of some great man, and now applies it to a fool:
vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the
world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now,
gird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent
to my lady: shall I vent to her that thou art
coming?
Seb. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me.
There's money for thee: if you tarry longer,
124
[Act IV.
TWELFTH-NIGHT,
I shall give worse payment.
Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand.—
These wise men that give fools money, get them-
selves a good report after fourteen years' purchase.
Enter Sir ANDREW.
Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again?
there's for you.
[Striking SEBASTIAN.
Seb. Why, there's for thee, and there, and
there.
Are all the people mad?
[Beating Sir ANDREW.
Enter Sir TOBY and FABIAN.
Sir To. Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger
o'er the house.
Clo. This will I tell my lady straight. I would
not be in some of your coats for twopence. [Exit.
Sir To. Come on, sir; hold.
Sir And. Nay, let him alone; I'll go another
way to work with him; I'll have an action of
battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria :
though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for
that.
Seb. Let go thy hand.
Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come,
my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well
fleshed; come on.
Scene 1.J
125
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Seb. I will be free from thee. [Disengages him-
self.] What wouldst thou now?
If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.
Sir To. What, what? Nay, then I must have
an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.
[Draws.
Enter OLIVIA.
Oli. Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee,
hold!
Sir To. Madam !
Oli. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preached. Out of my
sight!-
Be not offended, dear Cesario.—
Rudesby, be gone!
[Exeunt Sir TOBY, Sir ANDREW, and FABIAN.
I prithee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botched up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but
go:
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
J
126
[Act IV.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
Seb. What relish is in this how runs the
stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep.
Oli. Nay; come, I prithee. Would thou 'dst be
ruled by me!
Seb. Madam, I will.
Oli.
O! say so, and so be.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.-A Room in OLIVIA'S House.
Enter MARIA and Clown.
Mar. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this
beard: make him believe thou art Sir Topas the
curate do it quickly; I'll call Sir Toby the
whilst.
[Exit.
Clo. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble
myself in't: and I would I were the first that
ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall
enough to become the function well; nor lean
enough to be thought a good student: but to be
said an honest man and a good housekeeper, goes
Scene 2.1
127
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
as fairly as to say a careful man and a great
scholar. The competitors enter.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and MARIA.
Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson.
Clo. Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit
of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily
said to a niece of King Gorboduc, 'That, that is,
is;' so I, being master parson, am master parson,
for what is that, but that? and is, but is?
Sir To. To him, Sir Topas.
Clo. What, ho, I say,-peace in this prison.
Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a good
knave.
Mal. [within] Who calls there?
Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit
Malvolio the lunatic.
Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to
my lady.
Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou
this man! Talkest thou nothing but of ladies ?
Sir To. Well said, master parson.
Mal. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged.
Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they
have laid me here in hideous darkness.
Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Satan!-I call thee by
the most modest terms; for I am one of those
128
[Act IV.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
gentle ones that will use the devil himself with
courtesy :-sayest thou, that house is dark ?
Mal. As hell, Sir Topas.
Clo. Why, it hath bay-windows transparent as
barricadoes, and the clear-stories towards the south-
north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest
thou of obstruction?
Mal. I am not mad, Sir Topas: I say to you,
this house is dark.
Clo. Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no
darkness but ignorance; in which thou art more
puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog.
Mal. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance,
though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say,
there was never man thus abused. I am no more
mad than you are: make the trial of it in any
constant question.
Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concern-
ing wild-fowl?
Mal. That the soul of our grandam might haply
inhabit a bird.
Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion?
Mal. I think nobly of the soul, and no way
approve his opinion.
Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in dark-
ness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras
Soene 2]
129
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
ere I will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a
woodcock lest thou dispossess the soul of thy
grandam. Fare thee well.
Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas !-
Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas !
Clo. Nay, I am for all waters.
Mar. Thou mightst have done this without thy
heard and gown: he sees thee not.
Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and bring
me word how thou findest him: I would, we were
well rid of this knavery. If he may be con-
veniently delivered, I would he were: for I am
now so far in offence with my niece, that I cannot
pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot.
Come by-and-by to my chamber.
[Exeunt Sir TOBY and MARIA,
Clo. [Singing.] Hey Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.
Mal. Fool,-
Clo. My lady is unkind, perdy.
Mal. Fool,-
Clo. Alas, why is she so ? ·
Mal. Fool, I say,—
Clo. She loves another.-Who calls, ha?
Mal. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well
at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and
E-199
130
[Act IV.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
paper: as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thank-
ful to thee for 't.
Clo. Master Malvolio!
Mal. Ay, good fool.
Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
Mal. Fool, there was never man so notoriously
abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.
Clo. But as well then you are mad indeed, if
you be no better in your wits than a fool.
Mal. They have here propertied me; keep me
in darkness, send ministers to me, asses! and do all
they can to face me out of my wits.
Clo. Advise you what you say: the minister is
here.-Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens.
restore ! endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy
vain bibble babble.
Mal. Sir Topas,-
Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow.
-Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b' wi' you, good
Sir Topas.-Marry, Amen.-I will, sir, I will.
Mal. Fool, fool, fool, I say,-
Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir?
I am shent for speaking to you.
Mal. Good fool, help me to some light and some
paper: I tell thee, I am as well in my wits as any
man in Illyria.
Scene 2.]
131
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Clo. Well-a-day, that you were, sir!
Mal. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink,
paper, and light, and convey what I will set down
to my lady: it shall advantage thee more than
ever the bearing of letter did.
Clo. I will help you to 't. But tell me true, are
you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit ?
Mal. Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.
Clo. Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see
his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and
ink.
Mal. Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree :
I prithee, be gone.
Clo.
I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I'll be with you again,
In a trice,
Like to the old Vice,
Your need to sustain;
Who with dagger of lath,
In his rage and his wrath,
Cries, Ah, ha! to the devil:
Like a mad lad,
Pare thy nails, dad,
Adieu, goodman drivel.
[Exit
132
[Act IV.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
SCENE III.-OLIVIA'S Garden.
Enter SEBASTIAN.
Seb. This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel 't and see 't;
And though 't is wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 't is not madness. Where's Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant ;
Yet there he was, and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service;
For though my soul disputes well with my sense
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,
And wrangle with my reason that persuades me
To any other trust but that I'm mad,—
Or else the lady 's mad: yet, if 't were so,
She could not sway her house, command her
followers,
Take and give back affairs and their despatch
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As, I perceive, she does: there's something in 't,
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.
Scene 31.
133
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Enter OLIVIA and a Priest.
Oli. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean
well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by; there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it,
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth.-What do you say?
Seb. I'll follow this good man, and go with you,
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
Oli. Then lead the way, good father; and heavens
so shine,
That they may fairly note this act of mine!
[Exeunt.
134
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
ACT V.
SCENE I. The Street before OLIVIA'S House.
Enter Clown and FABIAN.
Fab. Now, as thou lov'st me, let me see his
letter.
Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me another
request.
Fab. Anything.
Clo. Do not desire to see this letter.
Fab. This is, to give a dog, and in recompense
desire my dog again.
Enter DUKE, VIOLA, and Attendants.
Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
Clo. Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.
Duke. I know thee well: how dost thou, my good
fellow !
Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the
worse for my friends.
Duke. Just the contrary; the better for thy
friends.
Clo. No, sir, the worse.
Duke. How can that be?
Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an
Scene 1.]
135
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
ass of me; now, my foes tell me plainly I am an
ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the know-
ledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused:
so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four
negatives make your two affirmatives, why, then,
the worse for my friends, and the better for my
foes.
Duke. Why, this is excellent.
Clo. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you
to be one of my friends.
Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me:
there's gold.
[Gives money.
Clo. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I
would you could make it another.
Duke. O, you give me ill counsel.
Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this
once; and let your flesh and blood obey it.
Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a
double-dealer: there's another.
[Gives money.
Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and
the old saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex,
sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of
Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind,-one, two,
three.
Duke. You can fool no more money out of me at
this throw: if you will let your lady know, I am
136
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
here to speak with her, and bring her along with
you, it may awake my bounty further.
•
Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty, till I
come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you
to think, that my desire of having is the sin of
covetousness: but, as you say, sir, let your bounty
take a nap, I will awake it anon.
[Exit.
Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
Enter ANTONIO and Officers.
Duke. That face of his I do remember well;
Yet when I saw it last, it was besmeared,
As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war.
A bawbling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable,
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet,
That very envy, and the tongue of loss
Cried fame and honour on him.-What's the
matter?
1 Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy;
And this is he that did the Tiger board,
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.
Scene 1.]
137
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Vio. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;
But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me;
I know not what 't was, but distraction.
Duke. Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief,
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies?
Ant.
Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleased that I shake off these names you give
me:
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there, by your side,
From the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wrack past hope he was:
His life I gave him, and did thereto add
My love, without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication; for his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him, when he was beset :
Where, being apprehended, his false cunning-
Not meaning to partake with me in danger—
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
And grew a twenty-years-removéd thing
138
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,
Which I had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.
Vio.
How can this be?
Duke. When came he to this town?
Ant. To-day, my lord; and for three months
before-
No interim, not a minute's vacancy—
Both day and night did we keep company.
Duke. Here comes the countess: now heaven
walks on earth!—
But for thee, fellow,-fellow, thy words are mad-
ness:
Three months this youth hath tended upon me;
But more of that anon.-Take him aside.
Enter OLIVIA and Attendants.
Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not
have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?—
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
Vio. Madam?
Duke. Gracious Olivia,-
Oli. What do you say, Cesario-Good my
lord,-
Vio. My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
Scene 1.]
139
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.
Duke.
Still so cruel!
Oli. Still so constant, lord.
Duke. What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and inauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out
That e'er devotion tendered! What shall I do?
Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall
become him.
Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to
do it,
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love? a savage jealousy,
That sometime savours nobly.-But hear me this:
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still;
But this your minion, whom, I know, you love,
And whom, by Heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crownéd in his master's spite.-
Come, boy, with me: my thoughts are ripe in
mischief:
140
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven's heart within a dove.
[Going.
Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
Oli. Where goes Cesario?
Vio.
[Following.
After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above
Punish my life for tainting of my love!
Oli. Ay me, detested! how am I beguiled!
Vio. Who does beguile you? who does do you
wrong?
Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?
Call forth the holy father!
Duke. [TO VIOLA.]
[Exit an Attendant.
Come away.
Oli. Whither, my lord-Cesario, husband, stay.
Duke. Husband?
Oli.
Ay, husband: can he that deny?
Duke. Her husband, sirrah?
Vio.
No, my lord, not I.
Oli. Alas! it is the baseness of thy fear
That makes thee strangle thy propriety.
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up;
Scene 1.]
141
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear'st.-
Re-enter Attendant with the Priest.
O, welcome, father.
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,
Here to unfold-though lately we intended
To keep in darkness what occasion now
Reveals before 't is ripe-what thou dost know
Hath newly passed between this youth and me.
Priest. A contract and eternal bond of love,
Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthened by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Sealed in my function, by my testimony:
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my
grave
I have travelled but two hours.
Duke. O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou
be,
When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow,
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet,
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
142
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Vio. My lord, I do protest-
Oli.
O, do not swear!
Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.
Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, with his head
bleeding.
Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon! send
one presently to Sir Toby.
Oli. What's the matter?
Sir And. He has broke my head across, and has
given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the
love of God, your help! I had rather than forty
pound I were at home.
Oli. Who has done this, Sir Andrew ›
Sir And. The count's gentleman, one Cesario :
we took him for a coward, but he's the
the very
incardinate.
Duke. My gentleman, Cesario?
devil
Sir And. Od's lifelings! here he is.-You broke
my head for nothing! and that that I did, I was
set on to do 't by Sir Toby.
Vio. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt
you :
You drew your sword upon me without cause;
But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not.
Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you
Scene 1.]
143
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
have hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody
coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting,-you shall
hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he
would have tickled you othergates than he did.
Enter Sir TOBY BELCH and Clown.
Duke. How now, gentleman ? how is 't with you?
Sir To. That's all one: he has hurt me, and
there's the end on 't.-Sot, didst see Dick surgeon,
sot?
Clo. O, he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone :
his eyes were set at eight i' the morning.
Sir To. Then he's a rogue, and a passy-measures
pavin. I hate a drunken rogue.
Oli. Away with him! Who hath made this
havoc with them?
Sir And. I'll help you, Sir Toby, because we'll
be dressed together.
Sir To. Will you help,—an ass-head and a cox-
comb, and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull!
Oli. Get him to bed! and let his hurt be
looked to.
[Exeunt Clown, Sir TOBY, and Sir Andrew.
Enter SEBASTIAN.
Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your
kinsman ;
144
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
But had it been the brother of my blood,
I must have done no less, with wit and safety.
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that!
I do perceive it hath offended you:
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and two
persons;
A natural pérspective, that is, and is not!
Seb. Antonio, O my dear Antonio !
How have the hours racked and tortured me,
Since I have lost thee!
Ant. Sebastian are you?
Seb.
Fear'st thou that, Antonio!
Ant. How have you made division of yourself?-
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures.
Oli. Most wonderful!
Which is Sebastian?
Seb. Do I stand there? I never had a brother;
Nor can there be that deity in my nature,
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister
Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured.
[TO VIOLA.] Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What countryman? what name? what parentage}
Vio. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;
Such a Sebastian was my brother too,
Scene 1.j
145
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
So went he suited to his watery tomb.
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.
Seb.
A spirit I am indeed ;
But am in that dimension grossly clad
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek
And say-Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!
Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow,-
Seb. And so had mine.
Vio. And died that day, when Viola from her
birth
Had numbered thirteen years.
Seb. O, that recórd is lively in my soul.
He finished, indeed, his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years.
Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy both,
But this my masculine usurped attire,
Do not embrace me, till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jump,
That I am Viola: which to confirm,
I'll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maid's weeds, by whose gentle help
I was preserved to serve this noble count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
146
[Act V.
TWELFTH.NIGHT.
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
Seb. [To OLIVIA.] So comes it, lady, you have
been mistook;
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid,
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived.
You are betrothed both to a maid and man.
Duke. Be not amazed; right noble is his blood.—
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wrack.
[TO VIOLA.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand
times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
Vio. And all those sayings will I overswear
And all those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbéd continent, the fire
That severs day from night.
Duke.
Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.
Vio. The captain, that did bring me first on shore
Hath my maid's garments: he, upon some action
Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit,
A gentleman and follower of my lady's.
Oli. He shall enlarge him :- fetch Malvolio
hither :-
And yet, alas, now I remember me,
Scene 1.1
147
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
They say, poor gentleman, he 's much distract,
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banished his.-
Re-enter Clown, with a letter, and FABIAN.
How does he, sirrah?
Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Beelzebub at the
stave's end as well as a man in his case may do:
'has here writ a letter to you: I should have given 't
you to-day morning,—but as a madman's epistles
are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are
delivered.
Oli. Open it, and read it
Clo. Look then to be well edified, when the fool
delivers the madman. [Reads.] By the Lord,
madam,-
Oli. How now! art thou mad?
Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness: an
your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you
must allow vox.
Oli. Prithee, read i̇' thy right wits.
Clo. So I do, madonna; but to read his right
wits, is to read thus: therefore perpend, my
princess, and give ear.
Oli. [To FABIAN.] Read it you, sirrah.
Fab. [Reads.] By the Lord, madam, you wrong
me, and the world shall know it: though you have
148
[Act. V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin
rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as
well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that
induced me to the semblance I put on; with the
which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or
you much shame. Think of me as you please. I
leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out
of my injury.
The madly-used MALVOLIO.
Oli. Did he write this?
Clo. Ay, madam.
Duke. This savours not much of distraction.
Oli. See him delivered, Fabian: bring him hither.
[Exit FABIAN.
My lord, so please you, these things further thought
on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown the alliance on 't, so please you,
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your
offer.-
[TO VIOLA.] Your master quits you; and, for your
service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you called me master for so long,
Scene 1.J
149
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Here is my hand: you shall from this time be
Your master's mistress.
Oli.
A sister!—you are she.
Re-enter FABIAN, with MAlvolio.
Oli.
Duke. Is this the madman ?
How now, Malvolio
Ay, my lord, this same.
Mal.
Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.
Oli.
Have I, Malvolio? no.
Mal. Lady, you have.
Pray you, peruse that
letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand :
Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase;
Or say, 't is not your seal, nor your invention :
You can say none of this: well, grant it then,
And tell me, in the modesty of honour,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,
Bade me come smiling and cross-gartered to you,
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown
Upon Sir Toby, and the lighter people;
And, acting this in an obedient hope,
Why have you suffered me to be imprisoned,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gull
150
[Act V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
That e'er invention played on? tell me why.
Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing
Though, I confess, much like the character:
But, out of question, 't is Maria's hand.
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me thou wast mad; thou cam'st in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presupposed
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content :
This practice hath most shrewdly passed upon thee;
But when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.
Fab.
Good madam, hear me speak;
And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come
Taint the condition of this present hour,
Which I have wondered at. In hope it shall not,
Most freely I confess, myself and Toby
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceived against him. Maria writ
The letter at Sir Toby's great importance:
In recompense whereof, he hath married her.
How with a sportful malice it was followed
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,
If that the injuries be justly weighed
That have on both sides passed.
Scene 1.]
151
TWELFTH-NIGHT.
Oli. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!
Clo. Why, 'some are born great, some achieve
greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon
them.' I was one, sir, in this interlude,-one Sir
Topas, sir; but that's all one.-' By the Lord, fool,
I am not mad.'-But do you remember? 'Madam,
why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you
smile not, he's gagged:'-and thus the whirligig
of time brings in his revenges.
Mal. I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you.
[Exit.
Oli. He hath been most notoriously abused.
Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace,
He hath not told us of the captain yet:
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls.
Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence.-Cesario, come;
For so you shall be, while you are a man ;
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.
[Exeunt all, except Clown.

CLOWN sings.
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain ;
152
[Act. V.
TWELFTH-NIGHT.

A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain :-
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.

[Exit.
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
:
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
BY BARNABY RICH.
DURING the tyme that the famous Citie of Con-
stantinople remained in the handes of the Christians,
emongst many other noble menne, that kepte their
abidyng in that florishing Citie, there was one
whose name was Apolonius, a worthie Duke, who
beyng but a verie yong man, and euen then newe
come to his possessions whiche were verie greate,
leuied a mightie bande of menne, at his owne proper
charges, with whom he serued against the Turke,
duryng the space of one whole yere, in whiche
tyme although it were very shorte, this yong Duke
so behaued hym selfe, as well by prowesse and
valiaunce shewed with his owne handes, as other-
wise, by his wisedome and liberalitie, vsed towardes
his Souldiors, that all the worlde was filled with
the fame of this noble Duke. When he had thus
spent one yeares seruice, he caused his Trompet to
sounde a retraite, and gatheryng his companie
together, and imbarkyng theim selues he sette
saile, holdyng his course towardes Constantinople:
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
but beeyng vppon the Sea, by the extremitie of
a tempest whiche sodainly fell, his fleete was
deseuered some one way, and some an other, but
he hym selfe recouered the Ile of Cypres, where he
was worthily receiued by Pontus Duke and gover-
nour of the same Ile, with whom he lodged, while
his shippes were newe repairyng.
This Pontus that was Lorde and gouernour of
this famous Ile, was an auncient Duke, and had
twoo children, a soonne and a daughter, his sonne
was named Siluio, of whom hereafter we shall
haue further occasion to speake, but at this in-
stant he was in the partes of Africa, seruyng in the
warres.
The daughter her name was Silla, whose beautie
was so perelesse, that she had the soueraintie
emongest all other Dames, aswell for her beautie
as for the noblenesse of her birthe. This Silla
hauing heard of the worthinesse of Apolonius, this
yong Duke, who besides his beautie and good
graces, had a certaine naturall allurement, that
beeyng now in his companie in her fathers courte,
she was so strangely attached with the loue of
Apolonius, that there was nothyng might content
her but his presence and sweete sight, and although
she sawe no maner of hope, to attaine to that she
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157
moste desired: Knowing Apolonius to be but a
geaste, and readie to take the benefite of the next
Winde, and to departe into a straunge Countrey,
whereby she was bereued of all possibilitie euer to
see hym againe, and therefore striued with her self
to leaue her fondenesse, but all in vaine, it would
not bee, but like the foule whiche is once Limed,
the more she striueth, the faster she tieth her self.
So Silla was now constrained perforce her will to
yeeld to loue, wherefore from tyme to tyme, she
vsed so greate familiaritie with hym, as her honour
might well permitte, and fedde him with suche
amourous baites as the modestie of a maide could
reasonably afforde, whiche when she perceiued, did
take but small effecte, feelyng her self so muche
out raged with the extreamitie of her passion, by
the onely countenaunce that she bestowed vpon
Apolonius, it might haue been well perceiued, that
the verie eyes pleaded vnto hym for pitie and
remorse. But Apolonius commyng but lately from
out of the feelde, from the chasyng of his enemies,
and his furie not yet thoroughly desolved, nor
purged from his stomacke, gaue no regarde to these
amourous entisementes, whiche by reason of his
youth, he had not been acquainted with all. But
his minde ranne more to heare his Pilotes bryng
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
:
newes of a merrie winde, to serue his turne to
Constantinople whiche in the ende came very pros-
perously and giuing Duke Pontus heartie thankes
for his greate entertainment, takyng his leaue cf
hym self, and the Ladie Silla his daughter, departed
with his companie, and with a happie gaale ariued
at his desired porte: Gentlewomen accordyng to
my promise, I will heare for breuities sake, omit
to make repetition of the long and dolorous dis-
course recorded by Silla, for this sodaine departure
of her Apolonius, knowyng you to bee as tenderly
harted as Silla her self, whereby you maie the
better coniecture the furie of her Feuer.
But Silla the further that she sawe her self
bereued of all hope, euer any more to see her be-
loued Apolonius, so muche the more contagious
were her passions, and made the greater speede to
execute that she had premeditated in her mynde,
whiche was this: Emongest many seruauntes that
did attend vppon her, there was one whose name
was Pedro, who had a long time waited vpon her
in her Chamber, whereby she was well assured of
his fidelitie and trust: to that Pedro therefore she
bewraied first the feruencie of her loue borne to
Apolonius, coniuring him in the name of the
Goddes of Loue her self, and bindyng hym by the
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
159
duetie that a Seruante ought to have, that tendereth
his Mistresse safetie and good likyng, and desiryng
hym with teares tricklyng doune her cheekes, that
he would giue his consent to aide and assiste her,
in that she had determined, whiche was for that
she was fully resolued to goe to Constantinople,
where she might againe take the vewe of her
beloued Apolonius, that hee accordyng to the trust
she had reposed in hym, would not refuse to giue
his consent, secretly to conuaye her from out her
fathers Courte accordyng as she should giue hym
direction, and also to make hym self partaker of
her iourney, and to waite vpon her, till she had
seen the ende of her determination.
Pedro perceiuyng with what vehemencie his Ladie
and Mistresse had made request vnto hym, albeeit
he sawe many perilles and doubtes, dependyng in
her pretence, notwithstandyng, gaue his consent to
be at her disposition, promisyng her to further her
with his beste aduice, and to be readie to obeye
whatsoeuer she would please to commaunde him.
The match beyng thus agreed vpon, and all thynges
prepared in a readinesse for their departure: It
happened there was a Gallie of Constantinople,
readie to departe, whiche Pedro vnderstandyng
came to the Captaine, desiryng him to haue passage
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
for hym self, and for a poore maide that was his
sister, whiche were bounde to Constantinople vpon
certaine vrgent affaires, to whiche request, the
Captaine graunted, willyng hym to prepare aborde
with all speede, because the winde serued hym
presently to departe.
Pedro now commyng to his Mistres and tellyng
her how he had handeled the matter with the Cap-
taine: she likyng verie well of the deuise, disguisyng
her self into verie simple atyre, stole awaie from out
her fathers Court, and came with Pedro, whom now
she calleth brother aboarde the Galleye, where all
thynges beyng in readinesse and the winde seruyng
verie well, they launched forthe with their Oores,
and setsaile. When thei were at the Sea, the Captaine
of the Galleye takyng the vewe of Silla, perceiuyng
her singular beautie, he was better pleased in be-
holdyng of her face, then in takyng the height either
of the Sunne or Starre, and thinkyng her by the
homelinesse of her apparell, to be but some simple
maiden, callyng her into his Cabin, he beganne to
breake with her after the Sea fashion, desiryng
her to vse his owne Cabin for her better ease:
and duryng the tyme that she remained at the
Sea, she should not want a bedde. Silla not
beyng acquainted with any suche talke, blusshed
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
161
for shame, but made hym no auns were at all. My
Captaine feelyng suche a bickeryng within him
self, the like whereof he had never indured vpon
the Sea, was like to bee taken prisoner aboard his
owne Shippe, and forced to yeeld hym self captiue
without any Cannon shot: wherefore to salue all
sores, and thinkyng it the readiest waie to speed, he
began to breake with Silla in the waie of mariage,
tellyng her how happie a voiage she had made, to
fall into the likyng of suche a one as himself was,
who was able to keepe and maintaine her like a
gentilwoman, and for her sake would likewise take
her brother into his fellowship, whom he would by
some meanes prefarre in suche sorte, that bothe of
theim should haue good cause to thinke them selues
thrise happie, she to light of suche a housbande, and
he to light of suche a brother. But Silla, nothyng
pleased with these prefermentes, desired hym to cease
his talke, for that she did thinke her self indeede to
bee to vnworthie suche a one as he was, neither
was she minded yet to marrie, and therefore desired
hym to fixe his fancie vppon some that were better
worthie than her self was, and that could better
like of his curtesie then she could dooe, the Captaine
seeyng hymself thus refused, beyng in a greate chafe,
he saied as followeth.
F-199
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
•
Then seeyng you make so little accompte of my
curtesie, proffered to one that is so far vnworthie
of it, from henceforthe I will vse the office of my
aucthoritie, you shall knowe that I am the Cap-
taine of this Shippe, and haue power to commaunde
and dispose of thynges at my pleasure, and seying
you haue so scornfully reiected me to be your
loiall housbande, I will now take you by force,
and vse you at my will, and so long as it shall
please me, will kepe you for myne owne store,
there shall be no man able to defende you, nor
yet to perswade me from that I have determined.
Silla with these wordes beyng stroke into a great
feare, did thinke it now too late, to rewe her
rashe attempte, determined rather to dye with
her owne handes, then to suffer herself to be
abused in suche sorte, therefore she moste humbly
desired the Captaine so muche as he could to saue
her credite, and seyng that she must needes be at
his will and disposition, that for that present he
would depart, and suffer her till night, when in
the darke he might take his pleasure, without any
maner of suspition to the residue of his companie.
The Captaine thinking now the goole to be more
then half wonne, was contented so farre to satisfie
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
163
her request, and departed out leavyng her alone
in his Cabin.
Silla, beyng alone by her self, drue out her
knife readie to strike her self to the harrt, and
fallyng vpon her knees, desired God to receiue her
soule, as an acceptable sacrifice for her follies,
which she had so wilfully committed, crauyng
pardon for her sinnes, and so forthe continuying a
long and pitifull reconciliation to GOD: in the
middest whereof there sodainly fell a wonder-
full storme, the terrour whereof was suche, that
there was no man but did thinke the Seas would
presently haue swallowed them, the Billowes so
sodainly arose with the rage of the winde, that
thei were all glad to fall to heauing out of water,
for otherwise their feeble Gallie had neuer bin
able to haue brooked the Seas. This storme con-
tinued all that daie and the next night, and thei
beyng driuen to put romer before the winde to
keepe the Gallie a hed the Billowe, were driuen
vppon the maine shore, where the Gallie brake all
to peeces. There was euery man prouidyng to saue
his own life, some gat vpon Hatches, Boordes, and
Casks, and were driuen with the waues to and
fro, but the greatest nomber were drouned,
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
amongst the whiche Pedro was one. But Silla
her self beying in the Caben as you have heard,
tooke holde of a Chest that was the Captaines, the
whiche by the onely prouidence of GOD brought
her safe to the shore, the which when she hed
recouered, not knowyng what was become of
Pedro her manne, she deemed that bothe he
and all the rest had been drouned, for that she
sawe no bodie vppon the shore but her self, where-
fore, when she had a while made greate lamenta-
tions, complainyng her mishappes, she beganne in
the ende to comforte herselfe with the hope, that
she had to see her Apolonius, and found such
meanes that she brake open the Chest that
brought her to lande, wherin she found good
store of coine, and sondrie sutes of apparell that
were the captaines. And now to preuent a nomber
of iniuries, that might bee proffered to a woman
that was lefte in her case, she determined to leaue
her owne apparell, and to sort her self into some of
those sutes, that beyng taken for a man, she might
passe through the Countrie in the better safetie, &
as she changed her apparell, she thought it like-
wise conuenient to change her name, wherefore
not readily happenyng of any other, she called
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
165
her self Siluio, by the name of her owne brother,
whom you haue heard spoken of before.
In this maner she trauailed to Constantinople,
where she inquired out the Palace of the Duke
Apolonius, and thinking her self now to be both
fitte and able to plaie the seruing-man, she pre-
sented her self to the duke crauyng his seruice. The
duke verie willyng to giue succour vnto strangers,
perceiuyng him to bee a proper smogue young man,
gaue hym entertainment. Silla thought her self
now more then satisfied for all the casualties that
had happened vnto her in her iourney, that she
might at her pleasure take but the vew of the
Duke Apolonius, and aboue the reste of his
seruauntes was verie diligent and attendaunt vppon
hym; the whiche the Duke perceiuyng, beganne
likewise to growe into good likyng with the dili-
gence of his man, and therefore made hym one of
his Chamber. Who but Siluio then was moste neate
about hym, in helpyng of hym to make hym readie
in a mornyng in the settyng of his ruffes, in the
keepyng of his Chamber, Siluio pleased his maister
so well that aboue all the reste of his seruauntes
aboute him, he had the greatest credite, and the
Duke put him moste in trust.
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
At this verie instaunt, there was remainyng in
the Cittie a noble Dame a widowe, whose house-
band was but lately deceased, one of the noblest
men that were in the partes of Grecia, who left his
Lady and wife large possessions and greate liuinges.
This Ladies name was called Iulina, who besides
the aboundance of her wealth, and the greatnesse
of her reuenues, had likewise the soueraigntie of
all the Dames of Constantinople for her beautie.
To this Ladie Iulina, Apolonius became an earnest
suter, and accordyng to the maner of woers, be-
sides faire woordes, sorrowfull sighes, and piteous
countenaunces, there must bee sendyng of louyng
letters, Chaines, Bracelets, Brouches, Rynges,
Tablets, Gemmes, Juels, and presentes I knowe
not what: So my Duke, who in the tyme that he
remained in the Ile of Cypres, had no skill at all
in the arte of Loue, although it were more then
half proffered vnto hym, was now become a scholler
in Loues Schoole, and had alreadie learned his first
lesson, that is, to speak pitifully, to looke ruth-
fully, to promise largely, to serue diligently, and
to please carefully: Now he was learnyng his
seconde lesson, that is to reward liberally, to giue
bountifully, to present willyngly, and to write
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
167
lovyngly. Thus Apolonius was so busied in his
newe studie, that I warrant you there was no man
that could chalenge hym for plaiyng the truant, he
followed his profession with so good a will: And
who must bee the messenger to carrie the tokens
and loue letters, to the Ladie Iulina, but Siluio his
manne, in hym the Duke reposed his onely con-
fidence, to goe betweene hym and his Ladie.
Now gentil women, doe you thinke there coulde
haue been a greater torment devised wherewith to
afflicte the harte of Silla, then her self to bee
made the instrumente to woorke her owne mis-
happ, and to plaie the Atturney in a cause, that
made so muche againste her self. But Silla alto-
gether desirous to please her maister, cared nothyng
at all to offende her selfe, followed his businesse
with so good a will, as if it had been in her owne
preferment.
Iulina now hauyng many tymes, taken the gaze
of this yong youth Siluio, perceiuing hym to bee of
suche excellente perfecte grace, was so intangeled
with the often sight of this sweete temptation, that
she fell into as greate a likyng with the man, as
the maister was with her self: And on a tyme
Siluio beyng sent from his maister, with a message
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
to the Ladie Iulina, as he beganne very earnestly
to solicet in his maisters behalfe, Iulina inter-
ruptyng hym in his tale, saied: Siluio it is enough
that you haue saied for your maister, from hence
forthe either speake for your self, or saie nothyng
at all. Silla abashed to heare these wordes, began
in her minde to accuse the blindnesse of Loue, that
Iulina neglectyng the good will of so noble a Duke,
woulde preferre her love vnto suche a one, as
Nature it self had denaied to recompence her
likyng.
And now for a tyme, leauyng matters dependyng
as you haue heard, it fell out that the right Siluio
indeede (whom you haue heard spoken of before,
the brother of Silla,) was come to his Fathers
Courte into the Ile of Cypres, where vnderstand-
ing, that his sister was departed, in maner as you
haue heard, coniectured, that the very occasion did
proceade of some liking had betwene Pedro her
man (that was missyng with her) and her self, but
Siluio who loved his sister, as dearly as his owne
life, and the rather for that she was his naturall
sister, bothe by Father and Mother, so the one of
theim was so like the other, in countenaunce and
fauour, that there was no man able to descerne the
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
169
one from the other by their face, sauyng by their
apparell, the one beyng a man, the other a
woman.
Siluio therefore vowed to his father, not onely
to seeke out his sister Silla, but also to reuenge
the villanie, whiche he conceiued in Pedro, for the
carriyng awaie of his sister; and thus departyng,
hauyng trauailed through many Cities and Tounes,
without hearyng any maner of newes of those he
wente to seeke for, at the laste he arriued at
Constantinople, where as he was walkyng in an
euenyng for his owne recreation, on a pleasaunte
greene yarde, without the walles of the Citie, he
fortuned to meete with the Ladie Iulina, who like-
wise had been abroad to take the aire. And as she
sodainly caste her eyes vppon Siluio, thinkyng
hym to bee her olde acquaintaunce, by reason thei
were so like one an other, as you haue heard
before, saied vnto hym, sir Siluio, if your haste
be not the greater, I praie you let me haue a little
talke with you, seyng I haue so luckely mette you
in this place.
Siluio wonderyng to heare hym self so rightlie
named, beeyng but a straunger, not of aboue twoo
daies continuaunce in the Citie, verie courteouslie
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APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
came towardes her, desirous to heare what she
would saie.
Iulina commaunding her traine somthyng to
stande backe, saied as followeth. Seyng my good
will and frendly loue, hath been the onely cause to
make me so prodigall to offer, that I see is so lightly
reiected, it maketh me to thinke, that men bee of
this condition, rather to desire those thynges, whiche
thei can not come by, then to esteeme or value of
that, whiche bothe largely and liberallie is offered
vnto theim: but if the liberalitie of my proffer, hath
made to seme lesse the value of the thing that I
ment to present, it is but in your owne c[on]ceipt,
consideryng how many noble men there hath been
here before, and be yet at this present, whiche
hath bothe serued, sued, and moste humbly in-
treated, to attaine to that, whiche to you of my
self, I haue freely offred, and I perceiue is dispised,
or at the least verie lightly regarded.
Siluio wonderyng at these woordes, but more
amazed that she could so rightlie call him by his
name, could not tell what to make of her speeches,
assurying hym self that she was deceiued, and did
mystake hym, did thinke notwithstandyng, it had
been a poincte of greate simplicitie, if he should
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
171
forsake that, whiche Fortune had so fauourably
proffered vnto hym, perceiuyng by her traine, that
she was some Ladie of greate honour, and vewyng
the perfection of her beautie, and the excellencie of
her grace and countenaunce, did thinke it vnpos-
sible that she should be despised, and therefore
aunswered thus.
Madame, if before this tyme, I haue seemed to
forgett my self, in neglectyng your courtesie, whiche
so liberally you haue ment vnto me: please it you
to pardon what is paste, and from this daie fore-
wardes, Siluio remaineth readie preste to make
suche reasonable amendes as his abilitie maie any
waies permit, or as it shall please you to commaunde.
Iulina the gladdest woman that might bee, to
heare these ioyfull newes, saied: Then my Siluio
see you faile not to Morowe at night to Suppe with
me at my owne house, where I will discourse farther
with you, what amendes you shall make me, to
whiche request Siluio gaue his glad consente, and
thus thei departed verie well pleased. And as
Iulina did thinke the tyme verie long, till she had
reapte the fruite of her desire: so Siluio he wishte
for Haruest before Corne could growe, thinkyng
the tyme as long, till he sawe how matters would
172
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
fall out, but not knowyng what Ladie she might
bee, he presently (before Iulina was out of sight)
demaunded of one that was walkyng by, what she
was, and how she was called, who satisfied Siluio
in euery poincte, and also in what parte of the
toune her house did stande, the whereby he might
enquire it out.
Siluio thus departing to his lodging, passed the
night with verie vnquiet sleapes, and the nexte
Mornyng his mynde ran so muche of his Supper,
that he neuer cared, neither for his Breakfast, nor
Dinner, and the daie to his seemyng passed away
so slowelie, that he had thought the statelie Steedes
had been tired, that drawe the Chariot of the Sunne,
or els some other Iosua had commaunded them
againe to stande, and wished that Phaeton had
been there. with a whippe.
Iulina on the other side, she had thought the
Clocke setter had plaied the knaue, the daie came
no faster forewardes, but sixe a clocke beeyng once
stroken, recouered comforte to bothe parties; and
Siluio hastenyng hymself to the Pallace of Iulina,
where by her he was frendly welcomed, and a
sumpteous supper beeyng made readie, furnished
with sondrie sortes of delicate dishes, thei satte
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
173
theim doune, passyng the Supper tyme with
amarous lokes, louyng countenaunces, and secret
glances conueighed from the one to the other,
whiche did better satisfie them, then the feedyng
of their daintie dishes.
Supper tyme beeyng thus spent, Iulina did thinke
it verie vnfitly, if she should tourne Siluio to go
seeke his lodgyng in an euenyng, desired hym
therefore, that he would take a bedde in her house
for that Night, and bringyng hym vp into a faire
Chamber, that was verie richely furnished, she
founde suche meanes, that when all the reste of
her housholde seruauntes were a bedde and quiet,
she came her self to beare Siluio companie. But
the Mornyng approchyng, Iulina took her leaue,
and conueighed her self into her owne chamber, and
when it was faire daie light, Siluano makyng hym
self readie, departed likewise about his affaires in
the towne, debatyng with hym self how thynges
had happened, beyng well assured that Iulina had
mistaken hym, and therefore for feare of further
euilles, determined to come no more there, but
tooke his iourney towardes other places in the
partes of Grecia, to see if he could learne any
tidynges of his sister Silla.
174
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
The duke Apolonius hauyng made a long sute
and neuer a whit the nerer of his purpose, came to
Iulina to craue her direct auns were, either to accept
of hym, and of suche conditions as he proffered vnto
her, or els to giue hym his laste farewell.
Iulina, as you haue heard, had taken an earnest
penie of an other, whom she had thought to be
the Dukes man, was at a controuersie in her self,
what she might doe: one while she thought, seying
her occasion serued so fitt to craue the Duke's good
will, for the mariyng of his manne, then againe,
she could not tell what displeasure the Duke would
conceiue, in that she should seeme to preferre his
manne before hym self, did thinke it therefore
beste to conceale the matter, till she might speake
with Siluio, to vse his opiniõ how these matters
should be handled, and herevpon resoluyng her
self, desiryng the duke to pardon her speeches,
saied as followeth.
Sir Duke, for that from this tyme forwardes I
am no longer of my self, hauing giuen full power
and authoritie ouer to an other, whose wife I now
remaine by faithfull vowe and promise: And
albeeit, I knowe the world will wonder, when
thei shall vnderstande the fondnesse of my choice,
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
175
yet I trust you your self will nothyng dislike with
me, sithe I haue ment no other thing, then
the satisfiyng of myne owne contentation and
likyng.
The Duke hearyng these woordes, aunswered:
Madam, I 'must then content my self, although
against my wil, hauing the Lawe in your owne
handes, to like of whom you liste, and to make
choise where it pleaseth you.
Iulina giuing the Duke greate thankes, that
would content himself with suche pacience, de-
sired hym likewise, to giue his free consent and
good will, to the partie whom she had chosen to be
her housebande.
Naie surely Madam (quoth the Duke) I will
neuer giue my consent, that any other man shall
enioye you but my self, I haue made too greate
accompt of you, then so lightly to passe you awaie
with my good will: But seeyng it lieth not in me
to let you, hauyng (as you saie) made your owne
choise, so from hence forwardes I leaue you to your
owne likyng, alwaies willyng you well, and thus
will take my leaue,
The Duke departed towardes his owne house
verie sorrowfull, that Iulina had thus serued hym,
176
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
but in the meane space that the Duke had re-
mained in the house of Iulina, some of his ser-
uantes fell into talke and conference, with the
seruantes of Iulina, where debatyng betwene them,
of the likelihood of the Mariage, betweene the
Duke and the Ladie, one of the seruantes of Iulina
saide that he had neuer sawe his Ladie and
mistres, vse so good countenaunce to the Duke
hym self, as she had doen to Siluio his manne, and
began to report with what familiaritie and courtesie
she had receiued hym, feasted hym, and lodged
hym, and that in his opinion, Siluio was like to
speede before the Duke or any other that were
suters.
This tale was quickly brought to the Duke hym-
self, who makyng better enquirie into the matter,
founde it to be true that was reported, and better
consideryng of the woordes, which Iulina had vsed
towardes hymself, was verie well assured that it
could be no other then his owne manne, that had
thrust his Nose so farre out of ioynte, wherefore
without any further respect, caused hym to be
thrust into a dongcon, where he was kept prisoner,
in a verie pitifull plight.
Poore Siluio, hauyng gotte intelligence by some
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
177
of his fellowes, what was the cause that the Duke
his maister did bear suche displeasure unto hym,
deuised all the meanes he could, as well by medita-
tion by his fellowes, as otherwise by petitions, and
supplications to the Duke, that he would suspende
his Iudgemente, till perfecte proofe were had in
the matter, and then if any maner of thyng did fall
out againste him, wherby the Duke had cause to
take any greef, he would confesse hymself worthie
not onely of imprisonmente, but also of most vile
and shamefull death: with these petitions he daiely
plied the Duke, but all in vaine, for the duke
thought he had made so good proofe, that he was
throughlie confirmed in his opinion against his man.
But the Ladie Iulina wonderying what made
Siluio, that he was so slacke in his visitation,
and why he absented hym self so long from her
presence, beganne to thinke that all was not well,
but in the ende, findyng her self to bee with child,
fearyng to become quite bancroute of her honour,
did thinke it more then tyme to seeke out a
Father, and made suche secret searche, and
diligent enquirie, that she learned the truthe
how Siluio was kepte in prison, by the Duke
his Maister, and mindyng to tinde a present
178
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
remedie, as well for the loue she bare to Siluio, as
the maintainaunce of her credit and estimation, she
speedily hasted to the Pallace of the Duke, to whom
she saied as followeth.
Sir Duke, it maie bee that you will thinke my
commyng to your house in this sorte, doeth some-
thyng passe the limites of modestie, the whiche I
protest before GOD, proceadeth of this desire, that
the worlde should knowe how iustly I seke meanes
to maintaine my honour, but to the ende I seeme
not tedious with prolixitie of woordes, not to vse
other then direct circumstaunces, knowe sir, that
the loue I beare my onely beloued Siluio, whom I
doe esteeme more then all the Iewells in the worlde,
whose personage I regard more then my owne life,
is the onely cause of my attempted iourney, be-
sechyng you, that all the whole displeasure, whiche
I vnderstand you haue conceiued against hym,
maie be imputed vnto my charge, and that it would
please you louingly to deale with him, whom of
my self I haue chosen rather for the satisfaction
of mine honest likyng, then for the vaine pre-
heminences or honourable dignities looked after by
ambicious myndes.
The Duke hauing heard this discourse, caused
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
179
Siluio presently to be sent for, and to be brought
before hym, to whom he saied: Had it not been
sufficient for thee, when I had reposed myself in
thy fidelitie, and the trustinesse of thy seruice, that
thou shouldest so traiterously deale with me, but
since yt time haste not spared, still to abuse me
with so many forgeries, and periured protestations,
not onely hatefull vnto me, whose simplicitie thou
thinkest to bee suche that by the plotte of thy
pleasaunt tongue, thou wouldest make mee beleeue
a manifest vntrothe; but moste habominable bee
thy doynges in the presence and sight of God, that
hast not spared to blaspheme his holy name, by
calling hym to bee a witnesse to maintaine thy
leasynges, and so detestably wouldest forsweare
thyself, in a matter that is so openly knowne.
Poore Siluio whose innocencie was suche yt he
might lawfully sweare, seing Iulina to be there in
place, aunswered thus:
Moste noble Duke, well vnderstandyng your
conceiued greefe, moste humbly I beseche you
patiently to heare my excuse, not mindyng thereby
to aggrauate or heape vp youre wrathe and dis-
pleasure, protestyng before God, that there is no-
thying in the worlde, whiche I regarde so much, or
*
180
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
dooe esteeme so deare, as your good grace and
fauour, but desirous that your grace should know
my innocencie, and to cleare my self of suche
impositions, wherewith I knowe I am wrongfully
accused, whiche as I vnderstande should be in the
practisyng of the Ladie Iulina, who standeth here
in place, whose acquitaunce for my better discharge,
now I moste humbly craue, protestyng before the
almightie God, that neither in thought, worde, nor
deede, I haue not otherwise vsed my self then
accordyng to the bonde and duetie of a seruaunte
that is bothe willing & desirous, to further his
Maisters sutes, which if I haue otherwise saied
then that is true, you Madame Iulina, who can
verie well deside in the depthes of all this doubte,
I moste humbly beseche you to certifie a trothe, if
I haue in any thyng missaied, or haue otherwise
spoke, then is right and iust.
Iulina hauyng heard this discoorse whiche Siluio
had made, perceiuing that he stoode in greate awe
of the Dukes displeasure, aunswered thus: Think
not my Siluio that my commyng hither is to accuse
you of any misdemeanour towardes your Maister,
so I dooe not denaie but in all suche Imbassages
wherein towardes me you haue been imployed, you
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
181
haue vsed the office of a faithfull and trustie mes-
senger, neither am I ashamed to confesse, that the
first daie that mine eyes did beholde the singuler
behauiour, the notable curtesie, and other innumer-
able giftes wherwith my Siluio is endued, but that
beyonde all measure my harte was so inflamed, that
impossible it was for me, to quenche the feruente
loue, or extinguishe the least parte of my conceiued
torment, before I had bewraied the same vnto hym,
and of my owne motion craued his promised faithe
and loialtie of marriage, and now is the tyme to
manifest the same vnto the worlde, whiche hath
been done before God, and betwene our selues:
knowyng that it is not needefull to keepe secret
that, whiche is neither euill doen, nor hurtfull to
any persone, therefore (as I saied before) Siluio is
my housbande by plited faithe, whom I hope to
obtaine without offence, or displeasure of any one,
trustyng that there is no manne that will so farre
forget hym self as to restraine that whiche God
hath left at libertie for euery wight, or that will
seeke by crueltie to force Ladies to marrie other-
wise then accordyng to their owne likyng.
not then my Siluio to keepe your faith and promise,
whiche you haue made vnto me, and as for the
Feare
182
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
reste: I doubte not thynges will so fall out, as you
shall haue no maner of cause to complaine.
Siluio amased to heare these woordes, for that
Iulina by her speeche semed to confirme that
whiche he moste of all desired to bee quite of,
saied: Who would haue thought that a Ladie of
so greate honour and reputation would her self bee
the Embassadour, of a thyng so preiuditiall, and
vncomely for her estate. What plighted promises
be these which bee spoken of? Altogether ignoraunt
vnto me, whiche if it bee otherwise then I haue
saied, you Sacred Goddes consume me straight with
flashyng flames of fire. But what woordes might
I vse to giue credite to the truthe, and innocencie
of my cause? Ah, Madame Iulina! I desire no
other testimonie then your owne honestie and
vertue, thynking that you will not so muche blem-
ishe the brightnesse of your honour, knowyng that
a woman is or should be the Image of curtesie, con-
tinencie, and shamfastnesse, from the whiche so
sone as she stoopeth, and leaueth the office of her
duetie and modestie, besides the degraduation of
her honour, she thrusteth her self into the pitte of
perpetuall infamie, and as I can not thinke you
would so far forgette your self, by the refusall of a
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
183
noble Duke, to dimme the light of your renowne
and glorie, whiche hitherto you haue maintained,
emongest the beste and noblest Ladies, by suche a
one as I knowe my self to bee, too farre vnworthie
your degree and callying, so most humbly I beseeche
you to confesse a trothe, whereto tendeth those
vowes and promises you speake of? which speeches
bee so obscure vnto me, as I knowe not for my
life how I might vnderstande them.
Iulina somethyng nipped with these speeches,
saied, and what is the matter that now you make
so little accoumpte of your Iulina, that beeyng my
housbande in deede, haue the face to denaie me, to
whom thou art contracted by so many solemne
othes: what arte thou ashamed to haue me to thy
wife? how muche oughtest thou rather to be
ashamed to breake thy promised faithe, and to
haue despised the holie and dreadfull name of
GOD, but that tyme constraineth me to laye open
that, whiche shame rather willeth I should dis-
semble and keepe secret, behold me then here
Siluio whom thou haste gotten with childe, who if
thou bee of suche honestie, as I trust for all this I
shall finde, then the thyng is doen without preiudice,
or any hurte to my conscience, consideryng that
184
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
by the professed faithe, thou diddest accoumpt me
for thy wife, and I receiued thee for my spouse and
loyall housbande, swearying by the almightie God,
that no other then you haue made the conquest and
triumphe of my chastitie, whereof I craue no other
witnesse then yourself, and mine owne conscience.
Siluio, half in a chafe, saied, What lawe is able
to restraine the foolishe indescretion of a woman,
that yeeldeth her self to her owne desires, what
shame is able to bridle or withdrawe her from her
mynd and madnesse, or with what snaffell is it
pos-
sible to holde her backe, from the execution of her
filthinesse? But what abhomination is this, that a
Ladie of suche a house should so forget the great-
nesse of her estate, the aliaunce whereof she is
descended, the nobilitie of her deceased housbande,
and maketh no conscience to shame and slaunder
her self, with suche a one as I am, beyng so farre
vnfit and vnsemely for her degree! But how horrible
it is to heare the name of God so defased, that wee
make no more accompt, but for the maintenaunce
of our mischifes, we fear no whit at all to forsweare
his holy name, as though he were not in all his
dealinges moste righteous true and juste, and will
not onely laie open our leasinges to the worlde, but
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
185
will likewise punishe the same with moste sharpe
and bitter scourges.
Iulina not able to indure hym to proceede any
farther in his Sermon, was alreadie surprised with
a vehement greefe, began bitterly to crie out, vtter-
yng these speeches followyng:
Alas, is it possible that the soueraigne iustice of
God, can abide a mischiefe so greate and cursed,
why maie I not now suffer death, rather then the
infamie whiche I see to wander before myne eyes.
Oh happie and more then right happie had I bin,
if inconstant fortune had not deuised this treason,
wherein I am surprised and caught, am I thus
become to be intangled with snares, and in the
handes of hym, who inioying the spoyles of my
honour, will openly depriue me of my fame, by
makyng me a common fable to all posteritie in
tyme to come. Ah Traitour and discourtious
wretche, is this the recompence of the honest and
firme amitie which I have borne thee, wherin I
haue deserued this discourtesie, by louing thee
more then thou art able to deserue? Is it I,
arrant theefe is it I, vppon whom thou thinkest
to worke thy mischiues? doest thou think me
no better worthe, but that thou maiest prodigally
186
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
waste my honour at thy pleasure? didest thou dare
to adventure vppon me, hauing thy conscience
wounded with so deadly a treason: ah vnhappie
and aboue all other most vnhappie, that haue so
charely preserued myne honour, and now am made
a praie to satisfie a yong mans lust, that hath
coueted nothyng but the spoyle of my chastitie and
good name.
Here withall the teares so gushed doune her
cheekes, that she was not able to open her mouth
to vse any farther speeche.
The Duke who stoode by all this while, and
heard this whole discourse, was wonderfully moued
with compassion towardes Iulina, knowyng that
from her infancie she had euer so honourably vsed
her self, that there was no man able to detect her
of any misdemeanour, otherwise then beseemed a
Ladie of her estate, wherefore beyng fully resolued
that Siluio his man had committed this villanie
against her, in a greate furie drawyng his Rapier,
he saied vnto Siluio:
How canst thou (arrant theefe) shewe thy self
so cruell and carelesse to suche as doe thee honour?
hast thou so little regard of suche a noble Ladie,
as humbleth her self to such a villaine as thou art,
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
187
who without any respecte either of her renowme
or noble estate, canst be content to seeke the
wracke and vtter ruine of her honour? but frame
thy self to make such satisfaction as she requireth,
although I knowe vnworthie wretche, that thou
art not able to make her the least parte of
amendes, or I sweare that thou shalt not escape the
death which I will minister to thee with myne
owne handes, and therefore aduise thee well what
thou doest.
Siluio hauyng heard this sharpe sentence, fell
doune on his knees before the Duke crauyng for
mercie, desiryng that he might be suffered to
speake with the Ladie Iulina aparte, promising to
satisfie her accordyng to her owne contentation.
Well (quoth the Duke) I take thy worde, and
there with all I aduise thee that thou performe
thy promis, or otherwise I protest before God, I
will make thee suche an example to the worlde,
that all Traitours shall tremble for feare, how they
dooe seeke the dishonouryng of Ladies.
But now Iulina had conceived so greate greefe
against Siluio, that there was muche a dooe to per-
swade her to talke with hym, but remembryng her
owne case, desirous to heare what excuse he could
188
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
make, in the ende she agreed, and beyng brought
into a place seuerally by them selues, Siluio be-
ganne with a piteous voice to saie as followeth :
I know not Madame, of whom I might make
complaint, whether of you or of my self, or rather
of Fortune, whiche hath conducted and brought vs
both into so greate aduersitie, I see that you receiue
greate wrong, and I am condemned againste all
right, you in perill to abide the brute of spightful
tongues, and I in daunger to loose the thing that I
moste desire; and although I could alledge many
reasons to proue my saiynges true, yet I referre
my self to the experience and bountie of your minde.
And here with all loosing his garmentes, saiyng:
Loe Madame, behold here the partie whom you
haue chalenged to bee the father of your childe, see
I am a woman the daughter of a noble Duke, who
onely for the loue of him, whom you so lightly haue
shaken of, haue forsaken my father, abandoned my
Countrie, and in maner as you see am become a
seruing man, satisfiyng my self, but with the onely
sight of my Apolonius, and now Madame, if my
passion were not vehement, & my tormentes with-
out comparison, I would wish that fained greefes
might be laughed to scorne, & my desembled paines
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
189
to be rewarded with floutes. But my loue beyng
pure, my trauaile continuall, & my greefes endlesse,
I trust Madame you will not onely excuse me of
crime, but also pitie my destresse, the which I pro-
test I would still haue kept secrete, if my fortune
would so haue permitted.
Iulina did now thinke her self to be in a worse
case than euer she was before, for now she knewe
not whom to chalenge to be the father of her child,
wherfore, when she had told the duke the very
certantie of the discou[r]se, which Siluio had made
vnto her, she departed unto her owne house, with
suche greefe and sorrowe, that she purposed neuer
to come out of her owne doores againe aliue, to be
a wonder and mocking stocke to y° worlde.
But ye duke more amased to heare this straunge
discourse of Siluio, came vnto him, whom when he
had vewed with better consideration, perceiued in
deede that it was Silla, the daughter of Duke
Pontus, and imbrasing her in his armes, he saied :
Oh the braunche of all vertue and the flowre of
curtesie it self, pardon me I beseche you of all
suche discourtesies, as I haue ignorantlie committed
towardes you desiring you that without farther
memorie of auncient greefes, you will accept of me,
190
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
who is more ioyfull and better contented with your
presence then if the whole worlde were at my com-
maundement. Where hath there euer bin founde
suche liberalitie in a Louer, which hauyng been
trained vp and nourished emongest the delicacies
and banquettes of the Courte, accompanied with
traines of many faire and noble ladies liuing in
pleasure, and in the middest of delightes, would so
prodigallie aduenture your self, neither fearing
mishapps, nor misliking to take suche paines, as I
knowe you haue not been accustomed vnto. O
liberalitie neuer heard of before! O facte that can
neuer bee sufficiently rewarded! O true Loue
moste pure and vnfained: here with all sendyng
for the moste artificiall woorkmen, he prouided for
her sundrie sutes of sumpteous apparell, and the
Marriage daie appoincted, which was celebrated
with greate triumphe through the whole Citie of
Constantinople, euery one prasing the noblenesse
of the Duke, but so many as did behold the excel-
lent beautie of Silla, gaue her the praise aboue all
the rest of the Ladies in the troupe.
The matter seemed so wonderfull and straunge
that the brute was spreade throughout all the
partes of Gretia, in so muche that it came to the

APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
191
hearyng of Siluio, who as you haue heard, re-
mained in those partes to enquire of his sister, he
beyng the gladdest manne in the worlde, hasted to
Constantinople, where comming to his sister he
was ioyfullie receiued, and moste louynglie wel-
comed, and entertained of the Duke, his brother
in Lawe. After he had remained there twoo or
three daies, the Duke reuealed unto Siluio, the
whole discourse how it happened, betweene his
sister and the Ladie Iulina, and how his sister was
chalenged: Siluio blushyng with these woordes,
was striken with greate remorse to make Iulina
amendes; vnderstanding her to bee a noble Ladie,
and was left defamed to the worlde through
his default, he therefore bewraied the whole
circumstaunce to the Duke, whereof the Duke
beyng verie ioyfull, immediatlie repaired with
Siluio to the house of Iulina, whom they found in
her chamber, in great lamentation & mourning.
To whom the Duke saide, take courage Madam
for beholde here a gentilman, that will not sticke,
bothe to father your childe and to take you for his
wife, no inferiour persone, but the sonne and heire
of a noble Duke, worthie of your estate and
dignitie.

192
૬
APOLONIUS AND SILLA.
Iulina seyng Siluio in place, did know very well
that he was the father of her childe, and was so
ravished with ioye, that she knewe not whether
she were awake, or in some dreame. Siluio im-
bracyng her in his armes, crauyng forgiuenesse of
all that was past: concluded with her the mariage
daie, which was presently accomplished with great
ioye and contentation to all parties: and thus
Siluio hauying attained a noble wife, and Silla his
sister her desired houseband, they passed the
residue of their daies with suche delight, as those
that haue accomplished the perfection of their
felicities.
815AA
71
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