\ 
 
 SHAKESPEARE’S 
 
 ^ . 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT; 
 
 OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 WITH 
 
 INTRODUCTION, AND NOTES EXPLANATORY AND CRITICAL 
 
 FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND FAMILIES, 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Rev. henry N. HUDSON, LL.D. 
 
 BOSTON, U.S.A. : 
 
 PUBLISHED BY GINN & COMPANY. 
 1900 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by 
 Henry N. Hudson, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washingtono 
 
 Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A. 
 
 Presswork by Ginn & Co., Boston, U.S.A. 
 

 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 HY should English Literature be taught in oui 
 
 V V schools ? and, What is the best way of teaching it ? 
 These are the questions which I propose to discuss. 
 
 As preliminary to such discussion, it will, I think, be rightly 
 in place to consider, briefly, what our people are aiming to 
 prepare their children for, and what sort of an education it is 
 the proper business of the school to give ; that is to say, 
 what form of mind and character, and what disposition of 
 the faculties, it is meant to impress. 
 
 Now I take it that a vast majority of the pupils in our 
 schools are not to pass their life as students or as authors. 
 Their main business in this world is to gain an honest living 
 
 for themselves and for those dependent on them. And no 
 
 plan of education is just that leaves this prime consideration 
 behind, in quest of any alleged higher aims : for there really 
 are no higher aims ; and all pretence of such is a delusion 
 and a snare. Some men, it is true, do more than gain an 
 honest living ; but this is the best thing that any man does ; 
 as, on the other hand, shining intellectually is the poorest 
 thing that any man does, or can possibly learn to do. Then 
 too most of the pupils in our schools, ninety-nine hundredths 
 of them at the least, are to get their living by hand-work, not 
 ;^by head-work ; and what they need is, to have their heads 
 
 3 
 
 55671 
 
4 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 SO armed and furnished as to guard their hand-work against 
 error and loss, and to guide it to the most productive means 
 and methods. And, for gaining an honest living by hand- 
 work, the largest and best part of their education is not to be 
 had in school ; it must be got somewhere else, or not at all. 
 The right place, the only right place, for learning the trade 
 of a farmer or a mechanic is on the farm or in the shop. 
 For instance, Mr. Edward Burnett’s Deerfoot Farm,” in 
 Southborough, Massachusetts, is, I undertake to say, a better 
 school for learning agriculture than any agricultural col- 
 lege ” is likely to be. There is no practicable, nay, no pos- 
 sible way of acquiring the use of tools but by actually handling 
 them, and working with them. And this rule holds equally 
 true in all the walks of life, — holds as true of the lawyer, the 
 physician, the merchant, as of the shoemaker, the bricklayer, 
 the machinist, the blacksmith. 
 
 On this point, our people generally, at least a very large 
 portion of them, have their notions all wrong side up : their 
 ideas and expectations in the matter are literally preposterous. 
 How the thing came to be so, it were bootless to inquire ; 
 but so it clearly is. Parents, with us, are manifestly sup- 
 posing that it is the business of the school to give their chil- 
 dren all the education needful for gaining an honest living : 
 that their boys and girls ought to come from the school- 
 teachers’ hands fully armed and equipped for engaging, 
 intelligently and successfully, in all sorts of work, whether of 
 head or of hand. And they are evermore complaining and 
 finding fault because this is not done ; that their children, 
 after all, have only learnt how to use books, if indeed they 
 have learnt that, and know no more how to use tools, are no 
 better fitted to make or procure food and clothes, than if 
 they had spent so much time in stark idleness or in sleep. 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 5 
 
 But the fault is in themselves, not in the school ; their expec- 
 tations on this head being altogether unreasonable, and such 
 as the school cannot possibly answer. That, say what you 
 please, is the plain English of the matter ; and it may as well 
 be spoken. 
 
 I repeat that, with very few exceptions, and those mostly 
 applicable to girls, the most and the best that the school can 
 do, or can reasonably be expected to do, is to educate the 
 mind and the heart : as for the education of their children’s 
 hands, parents must, yes, must look for this elsewhere : 
 probably their best way is to take it into their own immediate 
 care, and hold themselves religiously bound to attend to it. 
 Possibly, withal, some parents, as also some who drive the 
 trade of idealizing about education, may need to be taught, 
 or warned, that unless the school have something ready made 
 to its hand, unless the pupil bring to it something inside his 
 skull, it cannot educate his mind : brains it cannot furnish ; 
 though it is often blamed for not doing this too. And, good 
 as vocal intelligence may be, yet, for all the practical ends, 
 and even the dignities, of life, manual intelligence is vastly 
 better : this it is that makes both the artist and the artisan ; 
 and without this the former, however it may prattle and glit- 
 ter, can neither plough the field nor reap the corn, neither 
 tan the leather nor make the shoe, neither shape the brick 
 nor build the wall, neither grind the flour nor bake the 
 bread. 
 
 But I suspect our American parents have become some- 
 what absurdly, and not very innocently, ambitious of having 
 their boys and girls all educated to be gentlemen and ladies ; 
 which is, I take it, the same in effect as having them edu- 
 cated to be good for nothing ; too proud or too lazy to live 
 by hand-work, while they are nowise qualified to live by 
 
6 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 head-work, nor could get any to do, if they were. And so 
 they insist on having their children taught how to do some- 
 thing, perhaps several things, without ever soiling their fingers 
 by actually doing any thing. If they would, in all meekness 
 and simplicity of heart, endeavour to educate their children 
 to be good for something, they would be infinitely more likely 
 to overtake the aim of their sinful and stupid ambition. The 
 man who has been well and rightly educated to earn, and 
 does earn, a fair living by true and solid service, he is a gen- 
 tleman in the only sense in which it is not both a sin and a 
 shame to be called by that title. Any form of honest service, 
 however plain and humble, has manliness in it, and is there- 
 fore a higher style of gentility, and a sounder basis of self- 
 respect, than any, even the proudest, form of mere social 
 ornamentation. The dull boy, who cannot prate science, 
 but can drive a cart as a cart ought to be driven, or the dull 
 girl who cannot finger a piano, but can rightly broil a beef- 
 steak, is, in the eye of all true taste, a far more sightly and 
 attractive object than the most learned and accomplished 
 good-for-nothing in the world. I have seen men calling 
 themselves doctors, who, week after week, month after 
 month, year after year, were going about making sham calls 
 on bogus patients, that so they might either get themselves 
 a practice or make men believe they had got one ; and have 
 thought that the poorest drudge, who honestly ate his bread, 
 or what little he could get, in the sweat of his face, was a 
 prince in comparison with them. An aristocratic idler or 
 trifler or spendthrift or clothes-frame, however strong he may 
 smell of the school and the college, of books and of lingual 
 culture, is no better than a vulgar illiterate loafer ; nor can 
 his smart clothes and his perfumes and his lily hands and his 
 fashionable airs shield him from the just contempt of thought- 
 ful men and sensible women. 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 1 
 
 Now so long as people proceed upon the notion that their 
 children’s main business in this world is to shine, and not to 
 work, and that the school has it in special charge to fit them 
 out at all points for a self-supporting and reputable career in 
 life ; just so long they will continue to expect and demand 
 of the school that which the school cannot give ; to grumble 
 and find fault because it fails to do what they wish ; and to 
 insist on having its methods changed till their preposterous 
 demands are satisfied. On the other hand, the school could 
 do its proper work much better, if people would but come 
 down, or rather come up, to a just conception of what that 
 work is. But it must needs fail, in a greater or less degree, 
 to do that part of education which falls within its legitimate 
 province, while struggling and beating about in a vain en- 
 deavour to combine this with that part which fairly lies out- 
 side of its province. For, in straining to hit the impossible, 
 we are pretty sure to miss the; possible. And all experienced 
 teachers know right well that those parents who faithfully do 
 their own part in the education of their children are most 
 apt to be satisfied with what the school is doing. 
 
 It is, then, desirable that children should learn to think, 
 but it is indispensable that they should learn to work; 
 and I believe it is possible for a large, perhaps the larger, 
 portion of them to be so educated as to find pleasure in 
 both. But the great question is, how to render the desira- 
 ble thing and the indispensable thing mutually helpful and 
 supplementary. For, surely, the two parts of education, the 
 education of the mind and the education of the hand, though 
 quite distinct in idea, and separate in act, are not, or need 
 not be, at all antagonistic. On the contrary, the school can, 
 and should, so do its part as to cooperate with and further 
 that part which lies beyond its province. And it is both the 
 
8 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 office and the aim of a wise benevolence in teachers so to 
 deal with the boys under their care as to make them, if pos- 
 sible, intelligent, thoughtful, sober-minded men, with hearts 
 set and tuned to such services and such pleasures as reason 
 and religion approve ; also, to make them prudent, upright; 
 patriotic citizens, with heads so stocked and tempered as not 
 to be cajoled and driven about in herds ” by greedy, ambi- 
 tious, unprincipled demagogues, and the political gamesters 
 of the day. And here it is to be noted, withal, that any man 
 who gains an honest living for himself, whether lettered or 
 unlettered, is a good citizen in the right sense of the term ; 
 and that human slugs and do-nothings, however book-learned 
 they may be, are not good citizens. 
 
 As for the women, let it suffice that their rights and inter- 
 ests in this matter are coordinate with those of the men ; 
 just that, and no more. Their main business, also, is to get 
 an honest living. And the education that unprepares them 
 or leaves them unprepared for this is the height of folly and 
 of wrong. And I hope the most of them are not going to 
 turn students or authors by profession, nor to aim at eating 
 their bread in the sweat of the brain. For things have al- 
 ready come to that pass with us, that any fool can write a 
 book : the great difficulty is in finding people who know 
 enough and have strength enough not to attempt it. 
 
 And here let me say that the greatest institution in the 
 world is the family ; worth all the others put together, and 
 the foundation of them all. So, again, the greatest art 
 known among men is housekeeping, which is the life of the 
 family. For what are we poor mortals good for, in head, 
 heart, hand, or any thing else, without healthy, eupeptic 
 stomachs ? and how are we to have such stomachs without 
 good cooking? So that I reckon housekeeping to be just 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 9 
 
 the last thing that any lady can afford to be ignorant of. 
 The finest accomplishment too that woman was ever beauti- 
 fied with. This part of woman’s education, also, is to be 
 gained at home ; it cannot be gained anywhere else. As foi 
 those young ladies who are above going into the kitchen, and 
 learning this great art by actually working at it, my advice is, 
 that they forthwith migrate to a world where the home and 
 the family have no place, and where babies are not to be 
 born and nursed. 
 
 Our girls in school, then, should, first of all, be fashioned 
 for intelligent, thoughtful, sober-minded women ; with souls 
 attempered and attuned to the honest and ennobling delec- 
 tations of the fireside ; their heads furnished and disposed 
 to be prudent, skillful, dutiful wives and mothers and house- 
 keepers ; home-loving and home-staying ; formed for steady 
 loves, serene attachments, quiet virtues, and the whole flock 
 of household pieties ; all suited to the office of 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature’s daily food. 
 
 The love of home, and the art of making home lovely, must 
 be mainly acquired in the works and enjoyments of home ; 
 and the best thing that the school can do is to cooperate 
 with the home to that end. 
 
 But the most important item in this account, and that 
 which is the main subject of what I have to say, is yet to 
 come. 
 
 We have reached a stage of civilization and general cul- 
 ture in which both the virtue and the happiness of people 
 depend very much on their intellectual forming and furnish- 
 ing. And as this holds true alike of both sexes, so both will 
 be included alike in the scope of what I have in mind to 
 
lO 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 speak further. Books, of one sort or another, are now, on 
 every hand, a common resort for entertainment and pleasure, 
 and are likely to become more and more so. Wealth has 
 greatly accumulated ; machinery has come to do a large part 
 of our work ; and all sorts of people have more or less of 
 leisure on their hands. This leisure ought not to be spent 
 in idleness, neither will it be. In the vacancy of their hands 
 people’s thoughts will needs be busy either for the better or 
 for the worse : if their minds are not dressed for the abode 
 of the Deity, they will be workshops of the Devil. And 
 reading does in fact bear a large part in filling up such 
 vacant time. 
 
 Now the world is getting full of devils, very potent ones 
 too, in the shape of foolish and bad books. And I am apt 
 to think the foolish devils in that shape even worse than the 
 wicked : for they only begin the work of evil somewhat fur- 
 ther off, so as to come at it the more surely ; and a slow 
 creeping infection is more dangerous than a frank assault. 
 Nothing so bad here as that which eludes or seduces the 
 moral sentinels of the heart. I am not exactly a believer in 
 the old doctrine of total depravity; but I fear it must be 
 confessed that the greater number of people take much more 
 readily to that which is false and bad than to that which is 
 good and true. Certainly what intoxicates and lowers stands 
 a better chance with them than what sobers and elevates. 
 Virtue and wisdom are an up-hill road, where they do not 
 advance without some effort ; folly and vice a down-hill path, 
 where it requires some effort not to advance. And this is 
 c^uite as true in intellectual matters as in moral. Here, to 
 most people, delight in what is false and bad comes sponta- 
 neously ; delight in what is true and good is the slow result 
 of discipline and care, and grows by postponement of im- 
 pulse to law. 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 II 
 
 I suspect it has been taken for granted much too generally, 
 that if people know how to read they will be apt enough to 
 make good use of that knowledge without further concern, 
 A very great mistake ! This faculty is quite as liable to abuse 
 as any other : probably there is none other more sadly abused 
 at this very time ; none that needs to be more carefully 
 fenced about with the safeguards of judgment and taste. 
 Through this faculty crowds of our young people are let into 
 the society of such things as can only degrade and corrupt, 
 and, to a great extent, are positively drawn away from the 
 fellowship of such as would elevate and correct. Most, prob- 
 ably not less than seven-eighths, of the books now read are 
 simply a discipline of debasement ; ministering fierce stimu- 
 lants and provocatives to the lower propensities, and habitu- 
 ating the thoughts to the mud and slime of literary cesspools 
 and slop-cooks. 
 
 I have indeed no faith in the policy or the efficacy of at- 
 tempting to squelch these springs of evil by forcible seques- 
 tration, or to keep people from eating this poor devil-soup 
 by muzzling them. If they will take to it, probably the best 
 way is to let them have it ; perhaps it is best to act some- 
 what on the plan of glutting them with it, in the hope that 
 so they may outgrow it : but something might well be essayed 
 so to fit and prepare them as that they may not take to it, 
 and may even turn away from it with disgust when it comes 
 to them. Surely, at all events, the education that delivers 
 people over to such feeding is a very doubtful good. 
 
 In view of all which, it is clearly of the highest conse- 
 quence, that from their early youth people should have their 
 minds so bent and disposed as to find pleasure in such books 
 as are adapted to purify and raise. I say pleasure^ because 
 we cannot rely, neither ought we, on arguments of right ir 
 
12 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 this matter. Reading even good books without pleasure, 
 and merely from a sense of duty, is of little benefit, and may 
 even do hurt, by breeding insensibly an aversion to what is 
 good, and by investing it with irksome associations. A genial 
 delight in that which is good is what sets the colours of it 
 in the mind : without this, the mind grows at odds with it. 
 People cannot be droned or bored into virtue ; and if evil 
 were made as tedious to them as good often is, I suspect 
 their hearts would soon be weaned from ugliness, and won to 
 a marriage with beauty. And the pith of my argument is, 
 that it is what people take pleasure in that really shapes and 
 determines their characters. So experience has taught me 
 that the characters of students in college are influenced far 
 more by their reading than by their studies. From the books 
 they take to you may judge at once whither their spirits are 
 tending, and what they are inwardly made of, because here 
 they generally go by free choice and pleasure. In brief, they 
 study what they must ; they read what they love ; and their 
 souls are and will be in the keeping of their loves. Even 
 the breath of excellence is apt to be lost, if it be not waited 
 on by delight ; while, to love worthy objects, and in a worthy 
 manner, is the top and crown of earthly good, ay, and of 
 heavenly good also. Considering how clear and evident all 
 this is, that so little is done, even in our highest seats of 
 learning, to form the tastes and guide the reading of students, 
 may well be matter of grief and astonishment. I have long 
 wondered at it, and often sickened over it. 
 
 Now, to fence against the growing pestilence of foolish 
 and bad books, I know of but one way ; and that is by en- 
 deavouring systematically so to familiarize the young with the 
 best and purest mental preparations, and so to prepossess 
 them with the culture of that which is wholesome and good, 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 13 
 
 that they may have an honest, hearty relish for it. The 
 thing is, to plant the mind full of such loves, and so to set 
 and form the intellectual tastes and habits, that the vicious 
 and false will be spontaneously refused, and the healthy and 
 true be freely preferred ; this too, not from any novelty in it, 
 but for the experienced sweetness and beauty of it, and for 
 the quiet joy that goes in company with it. 
 
 Let the efficacy of a very few good books be seasonably 
 steeped into the mind, and then, in the matter of their 
 reading, people will be apt to go right of their own accord ; 
 and assuredly they will never be got to go right except of 
 their own accord. You may thus hope to predispose and 
 attune the faculties of choice to what is noble and sweet, 
 before the springs of choice are vitiated by evil or ignorant 
 conversations. If people have their tastes set betimes to 
 such authors as Spenser and Shakespeare, Addison, Scott, 
 Wordsworth, and Charles Lamb, is it likely that they will 
 stomach such foul stuff as the literary slums and grog-shops 
 of the day are teeming with ? I hope it is not so, and I will 
 not readily believe it can be so. Nor can I see any imprac- 
 ticability, any insuperable difficulty here. Instances of native 
 dulness or perversity there will indeed be, such as no soul- 
 music can penetrate : but that, as a general thing, young 
 minds, yet undeflowered by the sensational flash and fury of 
 vulgar book-makers, will be found proof against the might 
 and sweetness of that which is intellectually beautiful and 
 good, provided they be held in communication with it long 
 enough for its virtue to penetrate them, is what I will not, 
 must not, believe, without a fairer trial than has yet been 
 made. 
 
 In reference to the foregoing points, a well-chosen and 
 well-used course of study in the best English classics seems 
 
14 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 IT 
 
 the most eligible and most effective preparation. Whether 
 to the ends of practical use or of rational pleasure, this can- 
 not but be the right line of early mental culture. The direct 
 aids and inspirations of religion excepted, what better nursery 
 can there be of just thoughts and healthy tastes ? what more 
 apt to train and feed the mind for the common duties, inter- 
 ests, affections, and enjoyments of life ? For the very process 
 here stands in framing and disposing the mind for intercourse 
 with the sayings of the wise, with the gathered treasures of 
 light and joy, and with the meanings and beauties of Nature 
 as seen by the eye, and interpreted by the pen, of genius 
 and wisdom. 
 
 We are getting sadly estranged from right ideas as to the 
 nature and scope of literary workmanship. For literature, in 
 its proper character, is nowise a something standing outside 
 of and apart from the practical service of life ; a sort of moon- 
 shine world, where the working understanding sleeps for the 
 idle fancy to dream. This is no doubt true in regard to most 
 of the books now read ; which are indeed no books, but 
 mere devils and dunces in books’ clothing ; but it is not at 
 all true of books that are books indeed. These draw right 
 into the substance and pith of actual things ; the matter of 
 them is labour’d and distill’d through all the needful uses of 
 our lives ” ; the soul of their purpose is to arm and strength- 
 en the head, and to inspire and direct the hand, for pro- 
 ductive work. That an author brings us face to face with 
 real men and things, and helps us to see them as they are ; 
 that he furnishes us with enablements for conversing ration- 
 ally, and for wrestling effectively, with the problems of living, 
 operative truth ; that he ministers guidance and support for 
 thinking nobly and working bravely in the services, through 
 tlie ])erils, under the difficulties and adversities of our state, 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 IS 
 
 — this is the test and measure of his worth ; this is the sole 
 basis of his claim to rank as a classic. This, to be sure, is 
 not always done directly, neither ought it to be; for the 
 helps that touch our uses more or less indirectly often serve 
 us best, because they call for and naturally prompt our own 
 mental and moral cooperation in turning them to practical 
 account. 
 
 It is such literature that the poet has in view when he 
 tells us, — 
 
 books, we know, 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 
 And books are yours. 
 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 And orient gems which, for a day of need. 
 
 The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs: 
 
 These hoards you can unlock at will. 
 
 Nor is it the least benefit of such authors that they reconcile 
 and combine utility with pleasure, making each ministrative 
 to the other ; so that the grace of pleasant thoughts becomes 
 the sweeter for their usefulness, and the virtue of working 
 thoughts the more telling for their pleasantness ; the two thus 
 pulling and rejoicing together. For so the right order of 
 mental action is where delight pays tribute to use, and use 
 to delight ; and there is no worse corruption of literature in 
 the long run than where these are divorced, and made to 
 pull in different lines. Such pleasure is itself uplifting, be- 
 cause it goes hand in hand with duty. And as life, with its 
 inevitable wants and cares and toils, is apt to be hard enough 
 at the best with most of us, there is need of all the assuage 
 
i6 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 ments and alleviations that can come from this harmonizing 
 process. Pressed as we are with heavy laws, happy indeed 
 is he 
 
 Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 Next to a good conscience and the aids of Christian faith, 
 there is no stronger support under the burdens of our lot 
 than the companionship of such refreshing and soul-lifting 
 thoughts as spring up by the wayside of duty, from our being 
 at home with the approved interpreters of Nature and truth. 
 This is indeed to carry with us in our working hours a power 
 
 That beautifies the fairest shore, 
 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 
 Now I do not like to hear it said that our school-education 
 can do nothing towards this result. I believe, nay, I am 
 sure, it can do much ; though I have to admit that it has 
 done and is doing far less than it might. I fear it may even 
 be said that our course is rather operating as a hindrance 
 than as a help in this respect. What sort of reading are our 
 schools planting an appetite for? Are they really doing any 
 thing to instruct and form the mental taste, so that the pupils 
 on leaving them may be safely left to choose their reading 
 for themselves ? It is clear in evidence that they are far from 
 educating the young to take pleasure in what is intellectually 
 noble and sweet. The statistics of our public libraries show 
 that some cause is working mightily to prepare them only 
 for delight in what is both morally and intellectually mean 
 and foul. It would not indeed be fair to charge our public 
 schools with positively giving this preparation ; but it is their 
 business to forestall and prevent such a result. If, along with 
 the faculty of reading, they cannot also impart some safe 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 17 
 
 guards of taste and habit against such a result, will the system 
 prove a success ? 
 
 As things now go, English literature is postponed to almost 
 every thing else in our public schools : much as ever it can 
 gain admission at all ; and the most that can be got for it is 
 merely such fag-ends of time as may possibly be spared from 
 other studies. We think it a fine thing to have our children 
 studying Demosthenes and Cicero ; but do not mind having 
 them left almost totally ignorant of Burke and Webster. Yet, 
 in the matter of practical learning, ay, and of liberal learning 
 too, for deep and comprehensive eloquence, for instruction 
 in statesmanship, and in the principles of civil order and 
 social well-being, Burke alone is worth more than all the 
 oratory of Greece and Rome put together ; albeit I am far 
 from meaning to disrepute the latter. And a few of Webster’s 
 speeches, besides their treasure of noble English, — a manly 
 style fitted to manly ears,”— have in them more that would 
 come home to the business and bosoms of our best American 
 intelligence, more that is suited to the ends of a well-in- 
 structed patriotism, than all that we have inherited from the 
 lips of ancient orators. 
 
 So, again, we spare no cost to have our children delving 
 in the suburbs and outskirts of Homer and Virgil ; for not 
 one in fifty of them ever gets beyond these ; yet we take no 
 pains to have them living in the heart of Shakespeare and 
 Wordsworth : while there is in Shakespeare a richer fund of 
 sweetness and light,” more and better food for the intel- 
 lectual soul, a larger provision of such thoughts as should 
 dwell together with the spirit of a man, and be twisted about 
 his heart for ever, than in the collective poetry of the whole 
 ancient heathen world. 
 
 It may indeed be said that these treasures are in a language 
 
i8 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 i 
 
 already known, and so are accessible to people without any 
 special preparation ; and that the school is meant to furnish 
 the keys to such wealth as would else be locked up from 
 them. But our public schools leave the pupils without any 
 taste for those native treasures, or any aptitude to enjoy them : 
 the course there pursued does almost nothing to fit and 
 dispose the pupils for communing with the wisdom and 
 beauty enshrined in our mother-tongue ; while hardly any so 
 master the Greek and Latin as to hold communion with the 
 intellectual virtue which they enshrine. Few, very few, after 
 all, can be trained to love Homer ; while there are, I must 
 think, comparatively few who cannot be trained to love 
 Shakespeare ; and the main thing is to plant that love. The 
 point, then, is just here : Our schools are neither giving the 
 pupils the key to the wisdom of Homer, nor disposing them 
 to use the key to the wisdom of Shakespeare. And so the 
 result is that, instead of bathing in the deep, clear streams 
 of thought, ancient or modern, they have no taste but for 
 waddling or wallowing in the shallow, turbid puddles of the 
 time ; — 
 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 It is a notorious fact that among our highly-educated peo« 
 pie, the graduates of our colleges, really good English scholars 
 are extremely rare. I suspect it is not too much to say that 
 among our instructors there are at least twenty competent to 
 teach Greek and Latin, where there is one competent to 
 teach English literature. Very few indeed of them are really 
 at home in the great masters of our native tongue, so as to 
 make them matter of fruitful exercise in the class-room. 
 They know not how to come at them, or to shape their 
 course in teaching them. Their minds are so engrossed 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 19 
 
 with the verbal part of learning, that, unless they have a husk 
 of words to stick in, as in studying a foreign tongue, they 
 can hardly find where to stick at all. 
 
 This habit, I suppose, comes mainly as a tradition from a 
 former age ; a habit which, though begun upon good causes, 
 has been kept up long after those causes were done away. 
 The prevailing ideas herein got fixed at a time when there 
 was no well-formed English literature in being; when the 
 language itself was raw and rude ; and when the world’s 
 whole stock of intellectual wealth was enshrined in other 
 tongues. The custom thus settled from necessity is contin^ 
 ued to this day, when the English tongue, besides its own 
 vast fund of original treasure, has had the blood of all the 
 best human thought transfused into its veins, and when its 
 walks have grown rich and delectable with the spoils of every 
 earlier fruitage of genius and learning. 
 
 Three centuries ago Chaucer was the only really good Eng- 
 lish author ; he was then two hundred years old ; and the 
 language had changed so much since his time, that reading 
 him was almost like studying a foreign tongue. So much 
 was this the case, that Bacon thought the English was going 
 to bankrupt all books entrusted to its keeping : he therefore 
 took care to have most of his own works translated into 
 Latin ; and now our greatest regret touching him is, that we 
 have not all those works in his own noble English. Before 
 his time, the language changed more in fifty years than it has 
 done in all the three hundred years since. This is no doubt 
 because the mighty workmen of that age, himself among 
 them, did so much to bolt off change,” by the vast treasures 
 of thought and wisdom which they found or made the lan- 
 guage capable of expressing. The work then so gloriously 
 begun has been going on ever since, though not always with 
 
20 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 the same grand results ; until now the English is commonly 
 held to be one of the richest and noblest tongues ever 
 spoken, and the English literature is, in compass and variety 
 of intellectual wealth, unsurpassed by any in the world. 
 
 How strange it is, then, that, with such immense riches at 
 hand in our vernacular, we should so much postpone them 
 to the springs that were resorted to before those riches grew 
 into being ! Because Homer and Sophocles had to be 
 studied before Shakespeare wrote, why should Shakespeare 
 still be ignored in our liberal education, when his mighty 
 works have dwarfed Homer and Sophocles into infants? 
 There might indeed be some reason in this, if he had been 
 in any sort the offspring of those Greek masters : but he was 
 blessedly ignorant of them ; which may partly account for his 
 having so much surpassed them. He did not conceive him- 
 self bound to think and write as they did ; and this seems 
 to have been one cause why he thought and wrote better 
 than they did. I really can see no reason for insisting on 
 learning from them rather than from him, except that learn- 
 ing from him is vastly easier. 
 
 Nevertheless I am far from thinking that the Greek and 
 Latin ought to be disused or made little of in our course of 
 libei'al learning. On the contrary, I would, of the two, have 
 them studied in college even more thoroughly than they 
 commonly are ; and this, not only because of their unequalled 
 use in mental training and discipline, and as a preparation 
 for solid merit and success in the learned professions, but 
 also because a knowledge of them is so largely fundamental 
 to a practical mastery of our own tongue. And here I am 
 moved to note what seems to me a change for the worse 
 within the last forty years. P'orty years ago, besides that the 
 Greek and Latin were made more of in college, at least 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 21 
 
 relatively, than they are now, the students had both more 
 time for English studies, and also more of judicious prompt- 
 ing and guidance in their reading. But, of late, there has 
 been so much crowding-in of modern languages and recent 
 branches of science, that students have a good deal less time 
 than formerly for cultivating English literature by themselves. 
 In short, our colleges, it seems to me, did much more, forty 
 years ago, towards setting and forming right literary and 
 intellectual tastes than they are doing now. I believe they 
 are now turning out fewer English scholars, and that these 
 are not so well grounded and cultured in the riches of our 
 native tongue. The fashion indeed has been growing upon 
 us of educating the mouth much more than the mind ; which 
 seems to be one cause why we are having so many more 
 talkers and writers than thinkers. An unappeasable itch of 
 popularity is eating out the old love of solid learning, and 
 the old relish for the haunts of the Muses. 
 
 It may have been observed, that in this argument I dis- 
 tinguish somewhat broadly between a liberal and a practical 
 education. Our colleges ought to give, and, I suppose, aim 
 at giving the former ; while the latter is all that our public 
 schools can justly be expected to give. And a large majority 
 of the pupils, as I said before, are to gain their living by 
 hand-work, not by head-work. But then we want them 
 made capable of solid profit and of honest delight in the 
 conversation of books ; for this, as things now are, is essen- 
 tial both to their moral health and also to their highest 
 success in work ; to say nothing of their duties and interests 
 as citizens of a republican State. And, to this end, what can 
 be more practical, in the just sense of the term, than planting 
 and nursing in them right intellectual tastes, so that their 
 reading shall take to such books as are really wholesome and 
 improving ? 
 
22 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 On the general subject, however, I have to remark further, 
 that our education, as it seems to me, is greatly overworking 
 the study of language, especially in the modern languages. 
 From the way our young people are hurried into French 
 and German, one would suppose there were no English 
 authors worth knowing, nor any thought in the English tongue 
 worth learning. So we cram them with words, and educate 
 them into ignorance of things, and then exult in their being 
 able to “speak no sense in several languages.” Surely a 
 portion of the time might be as innocently spent in learning 
 something worth speaking in plain mother-English. When 
 we add that, with all this wear and tear of brain, the pupils, 
 ten to one, stick in the crust of words, and never get through 
 into the marrow of thought, so as to be at home in it, our 
 course can hardly be deemed the perfection of wisdom. 
 
 Our custom herein seems to involve some flagrant defect 
 or error in our philosophy of education. The true process 
 of education is to set and keep the mind in living inter- 
 course with things : the works and ways of God in Nature 
 are our true educators. And the right office of language is 
 to serve as the medium of such intercourse. And so the 
 secret of a good style in writing is, that words be used purely 
 in their representative character, and not at all for their own 
 sake. This is well illustrated in Shakespeare, who in his 
 earlier plays used language partly for its own sake ; but in 
 his later plays all traces of such use disappear : here he uses 
 it purely in its representative character. This it is, in great 
 part, that makes his style so much at once the delight and 
 the despair of those who now undertake to write the English 
 tongue. And in other writers excellence of style is measured 
 by approximation to this standard. This it is that so highly 
 distinguishes Webster’s style, — the best yet written on this 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 23 
 
 continent. His language is so transparent, that in reading 
 him one seldom thinks of it, and can hardly see it. In fact, 
 the proper character of his style is perfect, consummate 
 manliness ; in which quality I make bold to affirm that he 
 has no superior in the whole range of English authorship. 
 And in his Autobiography the great man touches the secret 
 as to how this came about. “ While in college,” says he, 
 “ I delivered two or three occasional addresses, which were 
 published. I trust they are forgotten ; they were in very bad 
 taste. I had not then learned that all true power in writing 
 is in the idea, not in the style ; an error into which the Ars 
 rhetorica, as it is usually taught, may easily lead stronger 
 heads than mine.” 
 
 Hence it follows that language should be used and studied 
 mainly in its representative character ; that is, as a medium 
 for conversing with things ; and that studying it merely or 
 even mainly for its own sake is a plain inversion of the 
 right order. For words are of no use but as they bring us 
 acquainted with the facts, objects, and relations of Nature 
 in the world about us. The actual things and ideas which 
 they stand for, or are the signs of, are what we ought to 
 know and have commerce with. In our vernacular, words 
 are, for the most part, naturally and unconsciously used in 
 this way ; except where a perverse system has got us into a 
 habit of using them for their own sake ; which is indeed the 
 common bane of American authorship, making our style so 
 intensely self-conscious, that an instructed taste soon tires 
 of it. But, in studying a foreign tongue, the language itself 
 is and has to be the object of thought. Probably not one in 
 fifty of our college graduates learns to use the Greek and 
 Latin freely as a medium of converse with things. Theit 
 whole mental force is spent on the words themselves ; or, if 
 
24 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 they go beyond these to the things signified, it is to help 
 their understanding of the words. 
 
 I freely admit that language, even our own, ought to be, 
 to some extent, an object of study ; but only to the end 
 of perfecting our use and mastery of it as a medium. So 
 that the true end of mental action is missed, where language 
 is advanced into an ultimate object of study ; which is prac- 
 tically making the end subordinate to the means. Here, 
 however, I am anxious not to be misunderstood, and lest I 
 may seem to strain the point too far ; for I know full well 
 that in such a cause nothing is to be gained by breaches of 
 fairness and candour. It is a question of relative measure 
 and proportion. And I mean that our education treats lan- 
 guage quite too much as an object of thought, and quite too 
 little as a medium. Our students, it seems to me, are alto- 
 gether too much brought up in *^the alms-basket of words” j 
 and of too many of them it may not unfairly be said, “ They 
 have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the 
 scraps.” 
 
 I have said that our custom in this matter stands partly as 
 a tradition from a long-past age when there was no English 
 literature in being. But this does not wholly explain it. The 
 thing proceeds in great part from a perverse vanity of going 
 abroad and sporting foreign gear, unmindful of the good 
 that lies nearer home. Hence boys and girls, especially the 
 latter, are hurried into studying foreign languages before 
 they have learnt to spell correctly or to read intelligibly in 
 their own. I say girls especially, because, since the women 
 set out to equal, perhaps to eclipse, the men in brain-power, 
 a mighty ambition has invaded them to be flourishing their 
 lingual intellectuality in our faces. Besides, the fashion now 
 is to educate young women for any place rather than for 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 25 
 
 home. Most of them hope some time to spend six months 
 travelling in Europe ; and they think far more of preparing 
 for that holiday than for all the working-day honours and 
 services of life. And I fear it must be said withal, that we 
 are the most apish people on the planet. I wish we may 
 not prove ^‘the servum pecus of a Gallic breed.” Be that as 
 it may, parents among us apparently hold it a much grander 
 thing to have their children chopping Racine and Voltaire 
 than conversing with the treasures of wisdom and beauty in 
 our own tongue ; as if smattering French words were better 
 than understanding English and American things. 
 
 Thus our school education is growing to be very much a 
 positive dispreparation for the proper cares, duties, interests, 
 and delectations of life. The further a thing draws from any 
 useful service or common occasion, the more pride there is 
 in studying it. Whatever will serve best to prank up the 
 mind for flaunting out its life away from home, that seems to 
 be our first concern. To this end, we prefer something out 
 of the common way ; something that can be turned to no 
 account, save to beguile a frivolous and fashionable leisure, 
 or to mark people off from ordinary humanity, and wrap 
 them up in the poor conceit of an aristocratic style. In 
 short, we look upon the honest study of our honest mother- 
 English as a vulgar thing ; and it pleases us to forget that 
 this squeamish turning-up of the nose at what is near and 
 common is just the vulgarest thing in the world. Surely we 
 cannot too soon wake up to the plain truth, that real honour 
 and elevation, as well as solid profit, are to grow by convers- 
 ing with the things that live and work about us, and by giv- 
 ing our studious hours to those masters of English thought 
 from whom we may learn to read, soberly, modestly, and 
 with clear intelligence, a lew pages in the book of life. 
 
26 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 The chief argument in support of the prevailing custom is, 
 that the study of languages, especially the Greek and Latin, 
 is highly serviceable as a mental gymnastic. No doubt it is 
 so. But the study, as it is managed with us, may be not un- 
 fairly charged with inverting the true relative importance of 
 mental gymnastic and mental diet. Formerly the Greek and 
 Latin were held to be enough ; but now, by adding three or 
 four modern languages, we are making the linguistic element 
 altogether too prominent. We thus give the mind little time 
 for feeding, little matter to feed upon ; and so keep it exer- 
 cising when it ought to be feeding : for so the study of words 
 has much exercise and little food. Now such an excess 
 of activity is not favourable to healthy growth. Substituting 
 stimulants for nourishment is as bad for the mind as for the 
 body. Supply the mind with wholesome natural food ; do 
 all you can to tempt and awaken the appetite ; and then 
 trust somewhat to nature. True, some minds, do your best, 
 will not eat ; but, if they do not eat, then they ought not to 
 act. For dulness, let me tell you, is not so bad as disease ; 
 and, from straining so hard to stimulate and force the mind 
 into action without eating, nothing but disease can result. 
 Depend upon it, there is something wrong with us here : 
 food and exercise are not rightly proportioned in our method. 
 In keeping the young mind so much on a stretch of activity, 
 as if the mere exercise of its powers were to be sought for its 
 own sake, we are at war with nature. And a feverish, rest- 
 less, mischievous activity of mind is the natural consequence 
 of such a course ; unless, which is sometimes the case, the 
 mental forces get dried into stiffness from mere heat of gym- 
 nastic stress. 
 
 We are now having quite too much of this diseased men- 
 tal activity. Perhaps our greatest danger lies in a want of 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 27 
 
 mental repose. The chronic nervous intensity thus generated 
 is eating the life out of us, and crushing the nobler energies 
 of duty and virtue, ay, and of sound intelligence too. For, 
 while we are thus overworking the mind, the muscular and 
 nutritive systems of course suffer ; so that, first we know, the 
 mind itself gives out ; and people go foolish or crazy from 
 having been educated all into nerves. Composure is the 
 right pulse of mental health, as it is also of moral ; and “ a 
 heart that watches and receives ” will gather more of wis- 
 dom than a head perpetually on the jump. We need “the 
 harvest of a quiet eye,” that feeds on the proportions of 
 truth as she beams from the works of Nature and from the 
 pages of Nature’s high-priests. But now we must be in a 
 giddy whirl of brain-excitement, else we are miserable, and 
 think our mental faculties are in peril of stagnation. Of in- 
 tellectual athletes we have more than enough; men, and 
 women too, who think to renovate the world, and to immor- 
 talize themselves, by being in a continual rapture and tumult 
 of brain-exercise ; minds hopelesly disorbed from the calm- 
 ness of reason, and held in a fever of activity from sheer lack 
 of strength to sit still. It was such minds that Bacon had in 
 view when he described man in a certain state as being “ a 
 busy, mischievous, wretched thing, no better than a kind of 
 vermin.” To be intellectual, to write books, to do wonders 
 in mental pyrotechny, is not the chief end of man, nor can 
 we make it so. This is indeed what we seem to be aiming 
 at, but we shall fail ; Nature will prove too strong for us here : 
 and, if we persist, she will just smash us up, and replace us 
 with a people not so tormentedly smart. It is to the meek, 
 not the brilliant, that the possession of the Earth is promised. 
 
 My conclusion from the whole is, that, next to the elemen- 
 tary branches, and some parts of science, such as geography. 
 
28 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 astronomy, and what is called natural philosophy, standard 
 authors in English literature ought to have a place in our 
 school education. Nor am I sure but that, instead of thus 
 postponing the latter to science, it were still better to put 
 them on an equal footing with it. For they draw quite as 
 much into the practical currents of our American life as any 
 studies properly scientific do ; and, which is of yet higher 
 regard, they have it in them to be much more effective in 
 shaping the character. For they are the right school of har- 
 monious culture as distinguished from mere formal knowl- 
 edge ; that is, they are a discipline of humanity : and to 
 have the soul rightly alive to the difference between the noble 
 and the base is better than understanding the laws of chem- 
 ical affinity. 
 
 As to the best way of teaching English literature, I may 
 speak the more briefly on this, inasmuch as a good deal to 
 the point has been, I hope not obscurely, implied in the re- 
 marks already made. 
 
 In the first place, I am clear that only a few of the very best 
 and fittest authors should be used ; and that these should be 
 used long enough, and in large enough portions, for the pu- 
 pils to get really at home with them, and for the grace and 
 efficacy of them to become thoroughly steeped into the mind. 
 Bacon tells us that some books are to be tasted, others to 
 be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.” 
 Of course it is only the latter that I deem worthy to be used 
 in school. And I lay special stress on the pupil’s coming at 
 an author in such a way, and staying with him so long, as to 
 study him with honest love and delight. This is what sets 
 and fixes the taste. And this is a thing that cannot be extem- 
 porized : the process necessarily takes considerable time. 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 29 
 
 For wise men’s thoughts are a presence to live in, to feed 
 upon, and to grow into the likeness of. And the benefit of 
 a right good book all depends upon this, that its virtue just 
 soak into the mind, and there become a living, generative 
 force. 
 
 Do you say that this shuts off from pupils the spur and 
 charm of novelty? Yes, that it does, else I would not urge 
 it. What I want first of all is to shut off the flashy, fugitive 
 charm of novelty, so as to secure the solid, enduring charm 
 of truth and beauty ; for these are what it does the soul good 
 to be charmed with, and to tie up in the society of, the 
 charm of a “ concord that elevates and stills ” ; while the 
 charm of novelty is but as “ the crackling of thorns under a 
 pot,” — not the right music for soul-sweetening. “ A thing 
 of beauty is a joy for ever.” And they know nothing of the 
 genesis of the human affections, who have not learned that 
 these thrive best in the society of old familiar faces. To be 
 running and rambling over a great many books, tasting a lit- 
 tle here, a little there, and tying up with none, is good for 
 nothing in school ; nay, worse than nothing. Such a process 
 of “ unceasing change ” is also a discipline of perpetual 
 emptiness.” It is as if a man should turn free-lover, and take 
 to himself a new wife every week ; in which case I suppose 
 he would soon become indifferent to them all, and conclude 
 one woman to be just about as good as another. The 
 household affections do not grow in that way. And the 
 right method in the culture of the mind is to take a few 
 choice books, and weave about them 
 
 the fix’d delights of house and home, 
 Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot roam. 
 
 Again : In teaching English literature, I think it is not best 
 
30 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 to proceed much, if at all, by recitations, but by what may 
 be called exercises ; the pupils reading the author under the 
 direction, correction, and explanation of the teacher. The 
 thing is to have the pupils, with the teacher’s help and guid- 
 ance, commune with the author while in class, and quietly 
 drink in the sense and spirit of his workmanship. Such 
 communing together of teacher and pupils with the mind of 
 a good book cannot but be highly fruitful to them both : an 
 interplay of fine sympathies and inspirations will soon spring 
 up between them, and pleasant surprises of truth and good 
 will be stealing over them. The process indeed can hardly 
 fail to become a real sacrament of the heart between them ; 
 for they will here find how one touch of nature makes the 
 whole world kin.” 
 
 Nor would I attempt to work into these exercises any thing 
 of grammar or rhetoric or philology, any further than this 
 may be clearly needful or conducive to a full and fair under- 
 standing of the matter read. To use a standard author 
 mainly as a theme or text for carrying on studies in philol- 
 ogy, is in my account just putting the cart before the horse. 
 Here the end is or should be to make the pupils understand 
 and relish what the author delivers ; and whatever of philo- 
 logical exercise comes in should be held strictly subordinate 
 to this. 
 
 With my classes in Shakespeare and Wordsworth, as also 
 in Burke and Webster, I am never at all satisfied, unless I 
 see the pupils freely taking pleasure in the workmanship. 
 For such delight in a good book is to me a sure token and 
 proof that its virtue is striking in and going to the spot. 
 Rather say, it is a pledge, nay, it is the very pulsation, of 
 sympathy and vital magnetism between the mind within and 
 the object without. And without this blessed infection 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 31 
 
 beaming in the face and sparkling in the eyes, even the 
 honest striving of duty on the pupil’s part rather discourages 
 me. So, unless I can get the pupils to be happy in such 
 communion, I am unhappy myself; and this, I suppose, 
 because it is naturally unpleasant to see people standing in 
 the presence and repeating the words of that which is good, 
 and tasting no sweetness therein. For “ what is noble should 
 be sweet ” ; and ought, if possible, to be bound up with none 
 but pleasant associations ; that so delight and love may hold 
 the mind in perpetual communion with the springs of health 
 and joy. And if I can plant in young minds a genuine relish 
 for the authors I have named, then I feel tolerably confident 
 that the devils now swarming about us in the shape of bad 
 books will stand little chance with them ; for I know right 
 well that those authors have kept legions of such devils off 
 from me. 
 
 From all which it follows, next, that, in teaching English 
 literature, I would have nothing to do with any works in 
 formal rhetoric, or with any general outlines, or any rapid 
 and wide surveys, or any of the school reading-books now 
 in use, which are made up of mere chips from a multitude 
 of authors, and so can have little effect but to generate a 
 rambling and desultory habit of mind. To illustrate my 
 meaning, it may not be amiss to observe, that some years 
 ago I knew of a program being set forth officially, which em- 
 braced little bits from a whole rabble of American authors, 
 most of them still living ; but not a single sentence from 
 Daniel Webster ; who, it seems to me, is perhaps the only 
 American author that ought to have been included in the list. 
 This program was drawn up for a course in English literature 
 to be used in the public schools. Instead of such a mis- 
 cellaneous collection of splinters, my thought was then, and 
 
32 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 is now, Give us a good large block of Webster ; enough for 
 at least two exercises a week through half a year. This 
 would afford a fair chance of making the pupils really at 
 home with one tall and genuine roll of intellectual manhood ; 
 which done, they would then have something to guide and 
 prompt them into the society of other kindred rolls : whereas, 
 with the plan proposed, there is no chance of getting them 
 at home with any intellectual manhood at all ; nay, rather, it 
 
 is just the way to keep them without any intellectual home, 
 
 a nomadic tribe of literary puddle-sippers. 
 
 As for the matter of rhetoric, all that can be of much use 
 in this is, I think, best learned in the concrete, and by famil- 
 iarizing the mind with standard models of excellence. For 
 the right use of speech goes by habit, not by rule. And if 
 people should happen to use their vernacular clearly and 
 handsomely without knowing why, where is the harm of it ? 
 Is not that enough? What more do you want? If you 
 would learn to speak and write the English tongue correctly, 
 tastefully, persuasively, leave the rhetorics behind, and give 
 your days and nights to the masters of English style. This 
 will tend to keep you from all affectation of ''fine writing,” 
 than which literature has nothing more empty and vapid. 
 Besides, it is only after the mind has grown largely and 
 closely conversant with standard authors, that studying rhe- 
 torical rules and forms can be of much practical use, how- 
 ever it may do for showing off in recitation. And I c.m in 
 doubt whether it were not better omitted even then : for such 
 study, in so far as it is trusted in for forming a good style, 
 can hardly work any thing but damage in that respect ; and 
 this because it naturally sets one to imitating other men’s 
 verbal felicities ; which is simply a pestilent vice of style. 
 Therewithal the study is but too apt to possess the student, 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 33 
 
 perhaps unconsciously, with the notion that men are to 
 “ laugh by precept only, and shed tears by rule ” ; a sort of 
 laughter and tears from which I shall beg to be excused. 
 On this point, my first, second, and third counsel is, — 
 
 the live current quaff, 
 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 
 
 In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 
 Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. 
 
 Against the course I have been marking out, the objection 
 is sometimes urged that it would cut pupils off from contem- 
 porary authors. It would do so indeed, and I like it the 
 better for that. I have already implied that no literary 
 workmanship, short of the best there is to be had, ought to 
 be drawn upon for use in school. For the natural alliance 
 of taste and morals is much closer than most people suppose. 
 In fact, taste is, in my account, a kind of intellectual con- 
 science : downright, perfect honesty is the first principal of 
 it ; solidity is its prime law ; and all sorts of pretence, affec- 
 tation, and sham are its aversion : so that it amounts to about 
 the same thing as the perfect manliness which I find in Web- 
 ster’s style. — Now, for the due approval of excellence in 
 literary art, a longer time than the individual life is commonly 
 required. Of the popular writers now living, probably not 
 one in five hundred will be heard of thirty years hence. I 
 have myself outlived two generations of just such immortal 
 writers, — whole regiments of them. Of course there are 
 fashions in literature, as in other things. These are apt to be 
 bad enough at the best, — bad enough anywhere ; but the 
 school is just the last place, except the church, where they 
 ought to be encouraged. Be assured that, in the long run, 
 it will not pay to have our children in school making 
 acquaintance with the fashionable writers of the day. For, 
 
34 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 long before the pupils now in school reach maturity, another 
 set of writers will be in popular vogue ; their tenure to be 
 equally transient in turn. 
 
 Unquestionably the right way in this matter is, to start the 
 young with such authors as have been tested and approved 
 by a large collective judgment. For it is not what pleases at 
 first, but what pleases permanently, that the human mind 
 cares to keep alive. What has thus withstood the wear of 
 time carries solid proof of having strength and virtue in it. 
 For example, poetry that has no holiness in it may be, for it 
 often has been, vastly popular in its day ; but it has and can 
 have no lasting hold on the heart of man. True, there may 
 be good books written in our day ; I think there are : but 
 there needs a longer trial than one generation to certify us 
 of the fact, so as to warrant us in adopting an author for 
 standard use. And that a new book seems to us good, may 
 be in virtue of some superficial prepossession which a larger 
 trial will utterly explode. We need better assurance than 
 that. 
 
 It is indeed sometimes urged that, if the young be thus 
 trained up with old authors, they will be in danger of falling 
 behind the age. But it is not so. The surest way of coming 
 at such a result is by pre-engaging them with the literary 
 freaks and fashions and popularities of the day. To hold 
 them aloof from such flitting popularities, to steep their minds 
 in the efficacy of such books as have always been, and are 
 likely to be, above the fashion of the day, — this is the true 
 course for setting them in advance of the time ; and, unless 
 they be set in advance of it, they will certainly fail to keep 
 abreast with it. For the wisdom that has had the long and 
 strong apj)roval of the past, is most likely to be the wisdom 
 of the future ; and the way to keep pace with the age is by 
 
ENGLISH IN SCHOOLS. 
 
 35 
 
 dwelling with its wisdom, not with its folly. In fact, a taste 
 for the shifting literary fashions and popularities of the hour 
 springs from shallowness and leads to shallowness. And to 
 knit your pupils up close with old standards, is the best 
 thing you can do for them, both mentally and morally. 
 
 And I confess I like to see the young growing enthusiastic 
 over the treasured wisdom and eloquence of their fore* 
 fathers. This is a natural and wholesome inspiration, and 
 such as the soul can hardly drink-in or catch without being 
 lifted and expanded by it. Worth much for the knowledge 
 it furthers, it is worth far more for the manhood it quickens. 
 And I think none the worse of it, that it may do somewhat 
 towards chastising down the miserable conceit now so rife 
 amongst us, that light never really dawned on the world till 
 about that glorious time when our eyes were first opened, 
 and we began to shed our wisdom abroad. To be sure, the 
 atmosphere of the past now stands impeached as being a 
 very dull and sleepy atmosphere : nevertheless I rather like 
 it, and think I have often found much health and comfort in 
 breathing it. Some old writer tells us that '' no man having 
 drunk old wine straightway desireth the new ; for he saith 
 the old is better.” I am much of the same opinion. In 
 short, old wine, old books, old friends, old songs, ''the 
 precious music of the heart,” are the wine, the books, the 
 friends, the songs for me ! 
 
 Besides, we have quite enough of the present outside of 
 the school ; and one of our greatest needs at this very time 
 is more of inspiration from the past. Living too much in the 
 present is not good either for the mind or for the heart : 
 its tendency is to steep the soul in the transient popularities 
 of the hour, and to vulgarize the whole man. Not that the 
 present age is worse than former ages ; it may even be better 
 
36 
 
 GENERAL PREFACE. 
 
 as a whole : but what is bad or worthless in an age gener- 
 ally dies with the age : so that only the great and good of 
 the past touches us ; while of the present we are most touched 
 by that which is little and mean. The shriekings and jab- 
 berings of an age’s folly almost always drown, for the time 
 being, the eloquence of its wisdom : but the eloquence lives 
 and speaks after the jabberings have gone silent, God’s air 
 refusing to propagate them. So let our youth now and then 
 breathe and listen an hour or two in the old intellectual 
 fatherland, where all the foul noises have long since died 
 away, leaving the pure music to sound up full and clear. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Date of Composition. 
 
 WELFTH NIGHT ; or, What You Will, was never 
 
 1 printed, that we know of, till in the folio of 162^. In 
 default of positive information, the play was for a long time 
 set down as among the last- written of, the Poet’s dramas. 
 This opinion was based upon such slight indications, gath- 
 ered from the work itself, as could have no weight but in the 
 absence of other proofs. No contemporary notice of the 
 play was discovered till the year 1828, when Collier, delving 
 among the musty records of antiquity” stored away in the 
 Museum, lighted upon a manuscript Diary, written, as was 
 afterwards ascertained, by one John Manningham, a barrister 
 who was entered at the Middle temple in 1597. Under 
 date of February 2d, 1602, the author notes, ''At our feast 
 we had a play called Twelfth Night, or What You Will' 
 much like The Comedy of Errors, or Menechmi in Plautus, 
 but most like and near to that in the Italian called InganniC 
 The writer then goes on to state such particulars of the 
 action, as fully identify the play which he saw with the one 
 now under consideration. It seems that the benchers and 
 members of the several Inns-of-Court were wont to enrich 
 their convivialities with a course of wit and poetry. And the 
 forecited notice ascertains that Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night 
 
 
4 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 was performed before the members of the Middle Temple 
 on the old Church festival of the Purification, formerly called 
 Candlemas; — an important link in the course of festivities 
 that used to continue from Christmas to Shrovetide. We 
 thus learn that one of the Poet’s sweetest plays was enjoyed 
 by a gathering of his learned and studious contemporaries, 
 at a time when this annual jubilee had rendered their minds 
 congenial and apt, and when Christians have so much causp 
 to be happy and gentle and kind, and therefore to cherish 
 the convivial delectations whence kindness and happiness 
 naturally grow. 
 
 As to the date of the composition, we have little difficulty 
 in fixing this somewhere between the time when the play was 
 acted at the Temple and the year 1598. In iii. 2, when 
 Malvolio is at the height of his ludicrous beatitude, Maria 
 says of him, '' He does smile his face into more lines than are 
 in the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies.” In 
 1598 was published the second edition of Hakluyt’s Voyages, 
 with a map exactly answering to Maria’s description. This 
 was the first map of the world in which the Eastern Islands 
 were included. So that the allusion can hardly be to any 
 thing else ; and the words 7 iew map would seem to infer that 
 the passage was written not long after the appearance of the 
 map in question. 
 
 Again : In iii. i, the Clown says to Viola, But, indeed, 
 words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them.” This 
 may be fairly understood as referring to an order issued by 
 the Privy Council in June, 1600, and laying very severe re- 
 strictions upon stage performances. This order prescribes 
 that there shall be about the city two houses and no more, 
 allowed to serve for the use of common stage plays ” ; that 
 ‘‘ the two several companies of players, assigned unto the 
 
rNTRODUCTION. 
 
 5 
 
 two houses allowed, may play each of them in their several 
 houses twice a-week, and no oftener ” ; and that “ they shall 
 forbear altogether in the time of Lent, and likewise at such 
 time and times as any extraordinary sickness or infection of 
 disease shall appear to be in or about the city.” The order 
 was directed to the principal magistrates of the city and 
 suburbs, “ strictly charging them to see to the execution of 
 the same ” ; and it is plain, that if rigidly enforced it would 
 have amounted almost to a total suppression of play-houses, 
 as the expenses of such establishments could hardly have 
 been met, in the face of so great drawbacks. 
 
 Therewithal it is to be noted that the Puritans were spe- 
 cially forward and zealous in urging the complaints which put 
 the Privy Council upon issuing this stringent process ; and 
 it will hardly be questioned that the character of Malvolio 
 was partly meant as a satire on that remarkable people. 
 That the Poet should be somewhat provoked at their action 
 in bringing about such tight restraints upon the freedom of 
 his art, was certainly natural enough. Nor is it a small ad- 
 dition to their many claims on our gratitude, that their apt- 
 ness to “ think, because they were virtuous, there should be 
 no more cakes and ale,” had the effect of calling forth so 
 rich and withal so good-natured a piece of retaliation. Per- 
 haps it should be remarked further, that the order in ques- 
 tion, though solicited by the authorities of the city, was not 
 enforced ; for even at that early date those magistrates had 
 hit upon the method of stimulating the complaints of dis- 
 ' contented citizens till orders were taken for removing the 
 alleged grievances, and then of letting such orders sleep, 
 lest the enforcing of them should hush those complaints, and 
 thus take away all pretext for keeping up the agitation. 
 
6 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Originals of the Story, 
 
 The story upon which the more serious parts of Twelfth 
 Night were founded appears to have been a general favour- 
 ite before and during Shakespeare’s time. It is met with in 
 various forms and under various names in the Italian, 
 French, and English literature of that period. The earliest 
 form of it known to us is in Bandello’s collection of novels. 
 From the Italian of Bandello it was transferred, with certain 
 changes and abridgments, into the French of Belleforest, and 
 makes one in his collection of Tragical Histories, From 
 one or the other of these sources the tale was borrowed 
 again by Barnabe Rich, and set forth as The History of 
 Apolonius and Silla ; making the second in his collection of 
 tales entitled Fai'ewell to the Military Profession, which was 
 first printed in 1581. 
 
 Until the discovery of Manningham’s Diary, Shakespeare 
 was not supposed to have gone beyond these sources, and it 
 was thought something uncertain to which of these he was 
 most indebted for the raw material of his play. It is now 
 held doubtful whether he drew from either of them. The 
 passage I have quoted from that Diary notes a close resem- 
 blance of Twelfth Night Vo an Italian play ‘^called InganniT 
 This has had the effect of directing attention to the Italian 
 theatre in quest of his originals. Two comedies bearing the 
 title of GP Inganni have been found, both of them framed 
 upon the novel of Bandello, and both in print before the 
 date of Twelfth Night. These, as also the three forms of 
 the tale mentioned above, all agree in having a brother and 
 sister, the latter in male attire, and the two bearing so close 
 a resemblance in person and dress as to be indistinguish- 
 able ; upon which circumstance some of the leading inci- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 7 
 
 dents are made to turn. In one of the Italian plays, the 
 sister is represented as assuming the name of Cesare ; which 
 is so like Cesario, the name adopted by Viola in her dis- 
 guise, that the one may well be thought to have suggested 
 the other. Beyond this point, Twelfth Night shows no clear 
 connection with either of those plays. 
 
 But there is a third Italian comedy, also lately brought to 
 light, entitled GV Ingannati^ which is said to have been 
 first printed in 1537. Here the traces of indebtedness are 
 much clearer and more numerous. I must content myself 1 Sa 
 with abridging the Rev. Joseph Hunter’s statement of the j 
 matter. In the Italian play, a brother and sister, named ' ^ | 
 
 Fabritio and Lelia, are separated at the sacking of Rome in 
 
 1527. Lelia is carried to Modena, where a gentleman re- 
 sides, named Flamineo, to whom she was formerly attached. 
 She disguises herself as a boy, and enters his service. Fla- 
 
 mineo, having forgotten his Lelia, is making suit to Isabella, a 
 lady of Modena. The disguised Lelia is employed by him 
 
 I 
 
 in his love-suit to Isabella, who remains utterly deaf to his 
 passion, but falls desperately in love with the messenger. 
 In the third Act the brother Fabritio arrives at Modena, and 
 his close resemblance to Lelia in her male attire gives rise to 
 some ludicrous mistakes. At one time, a servant of Isa- 
 bella’s meets him in the street, and takes him to her house, 
 supposing him to be the messenger ; just as Sebastian is 
 taken for Viola, and led to the house of Olivia. In due 
 time, the needful recognitions take place, whereupon Isabella 
 easily transfers her affection to Fabritio, and Flamineo’s 
 ' heart no less easily ties up with the loving and faithful Lelia. 
 
 In her disguise, Lelia takes the name of Fabio ; hence, most 
 1 / likely, the name of P'abian, who figures as one of Olivia’s 
 servants. The Italian play has also a subordinate character 
 
8 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 called Pasquella, to whom Maria corresponds ; and another 
 named Malevolti, of which Malvolio is a happy adaptation. 
 All which fully establishes the connection between the Italian 
 comedy and the English. But it does not follow necessarily 
 that the foreign original was used by Shakespeare ; so much 
 of the lighter literature of his time having perished, that we 
 cannot affirm with any certainty what importations from 
 Italy may or may not have been accessible to him in his 
 native tongue. 
 
 As for the more comic portions of Twelfth Night, — those 
 in which Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and the 
 Clown figure so delectably, — we have no reason for believ- 
 ing that any part of them was borrowed; there being no 
 hints or traces of any thing like them in the previous ver- 
 sions of the story, or in any other book or writing known to 
 us. And it is to be observed, moreover, that the Poet’s bor- 
 rowings, in this instance as in others, relate only to the plot 
 of the work, the poetry and character being all his own ; 
 and that, here as elsewhere, he used what he took merely as 
 the canvas whereon to pencil out and express the breathing 
 creatures of his mind. So that the whole workmanship is 
 just as original, in the only right sense of that term, as if the 
 story and incidents had been altogether the children of his 
 own invention : and he but followed his usual custom of so 
 ordering his work as to secure whatever benefit might accrue 
 from a sort of pre-established harmony between his subject 
 and the popular mind. 
 
 Qualities of Style. 
 
 I am quite at a loss to conceive why Twelfth Night should 
 ever have been referred to the Poet’s latest period of author- 
 shij). The play naturally falls, by the internal notes of style. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 9 
 
 i temper, and poetic grain, into the middle period of his pro- 
 !ductive years. It has no such marks of vast but immature 
 powers as are often met with in his earlier plays ; nor, on the 
 other hand, any of '' that intense idiosyncrasy of thought and 
 expression, — that unparallelled fusion of the intellectual 
 with the passionate,” — which distinguishes his later ones. 
 Every thing is cajjga. and quiet^with an air of unrufHed 
 serenity and composure about it, as if the Poet had pur- 
 posely taken to such matter as he could easily mould into 
 
 graceful and entertaining forms ; thus exhibiting none of 
 that crushing muscularity of mind to which the hardest ma- 
 terials afterwards or elsewhere became as limber and pliant 
 as clay in the hands of a potter. Yet the play has a marked 
 sev erity of tas^ ; the style, though by no means so great as 
 in some others, is singularly faultless ; the grac es o f wit and 
 poetry are distilled into it with indescribable delicacy, as if 
 they came from a hand at once the most plentiful and the 
 most sparing : in short, the work is everywhere replete with 
 ''the modest charm of not too much” ; its beauty, like that 
 of the heroine, being of the still,, deep, retiring sort, which it 
 takes one long to find, for ever to exhaust, and which can be 
 fully caught only by the reflective imagination in " the quiet 
 and still air of delightful studies.” Thus all thing” 
 posed in most happy keeping with each other, and 
 
 in the blandest proportion of Art ; so as to illustrate how 
 
 Grace, laughter, and discourse may meet, 
 And yet the beauty not go less ; 
 
 For what is noble should be sweet. 
 
 
lO 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Sir Toby Belch. 
 
 If the characters of this play are generally less interesting 
 in themselves than some we meet with elsewhere in the Poet’s 
 works, the defect is pretty well made up by the felicitous 
 grouping of them. Their very diversities of temper and pur- 
 pose are made to act as so many mutual affinities ; and this/ 
 too in a manner so spontaneous that we see not how they 
 could possibly act otherwise. For brc^^comic—effect, the 
 cluster of which S ir Toby i s jhe centfe^'airb'f them drawn 
 in clear j^et delicate colours — is inferior only to the unpar- 
 alleled^ assemblage that makes rich the air of Eastcheap. Of 
 Sir Toby himself — that most whimsical, madcap, frolicsome 
 old topj£iv.§Q Ml of antics and fond of sprees, with a plentiful 
 s tock of wit, which is kept in motion by an equally plentiful 
 lack of money — it is enough to say, with Verplanck, that 
 he certainly comes out of the same associations where the 
 Poet saw Falstaff hold his revels ” ; and that, though ''not 
 Sir John, nor a fainter sketch of him, yet he has an o^d sort 
 of a family likeness to him.” Sir Toby has a decided pen- 
 chant iox practical jokes ; though rather because he takes a 
 sort of disinterested pleasure in them, than because he loves 
 to see himself in the process of engineering them through : for 
 he has not a particle of ill-nature in him. Though by no 
 means a coward himself, he nevertheless enjoys the exposure 
 of cowardice in others ; yet this again is not so much because 
 such exposure feeds his self-esteem, as because he delights 
 in the gamFTor its own saKe, and for the nimble pastime it 
 yields to his faculties : that is, his impulses seem to rest in it 
 cus an ultimate object, or a part of what is to him the sutmnum 
 bonuni of ^ife. And it is much the same with his addiction | 
 to vinous revelry, and to the moister kind of minstrelsy ; an 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 r I 
 
 addiction that proceeds in part from his^keen gij§tj2£iiuu,_Bnd 
 I ' he happ mess he finds in making sport for others as well as 
 for himself : he will drink till the world turns £Ound, but not 
 unless others are at hand to enjoy the turning along with 
 him. 
 
 Sir Andrew the Fatuous. 
 
 Sir Andrew Aguecheek, the spirin g, lackadaisical, self- 
 satisfied echo and sequel. ofiSir -Toby, fitly serves the double 
 purpose of a butt and a foil^ t o the la tt e r, at once drawing 
 him out and setting him off. ) Ludicrously proud of the most 
 petty, childish irregularities, which, however, his natural fatu- 
 ity keeps him from acting, and barely suffers him to affect, 
 on this point he reminds us of that impressive imbecility^ 
 Abraham Slender ; yet not in such sort as to encroach at all 
 on Slender’s province. There can scarcely be found a richer 
 piece of diversion than Sir Toby’s practice in dandling Sir 
 Andrew out of his money, and paying him off with the odd 
 hope of gaining Olivia’s hand. And the funniest of it is, 
 that while Sir Toby understands him thoroughly he has not 
 himself the slighest suspicion or inkling of what he is ; he . 
 being as confident of his own wit as others are of his want 
 of it. Nor are we here touched with any revulsions of moral: 
 feeling, such as might disturb our enjoyment of their fellow- 
 ship ; on the contrary, we sympathize with Sir Toby’s sport, 
 without any reluctances of virtue or conscience. To our 
 sense of the matter, he neither has nor ought to have 
 any scruples or compunctions about the game he is hunting. 
 For, in truth, his dealing with Sir Andrew is all in the way of 
 f^ir jexchange. He gives as much pleasure as he gets. If he 
 is cheating Sir Andrew out of his money, he is also cheating 
 him into the proper felicity of his nature, and thus paying 
 
12 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 him with the equivalent best suited to his capacity. It suffice *5 
 that, in being stuffed with the preposterous delusion abof " 
 Olivia, Sir Andrew is rendered supremely happy at the time ^ 
 while he manifestly has not force enough to remember it with 
 any twinges of shame or self-reproach. And we feel that, 
 while clawing his fatuous crotchets and playing out his 
 absurdities. Sir Toby is really doing Sir Andrew no wrong, 
 since the latter is then most himself, is in his happiest mood, 
 and in the most natural freedom of his indigenous gifts and 
 graces. All which quite precludes any division of our sym- 
 pathies, and just makes our comic enjoyment of their inter- 
 course simply perfect. 
 
 ^Malvolio the Pure. 
 
 Malvolio, the s elf-love-si ck Steward, has hardly had justice 
 done him, his bad qualities being indeed of just the kind 
 to defeat the recognition of his good ones. He represents 
 a perpetual class of people, whose leading characteristic is 
 moral demonstrativeness, and who are never satisfied with a 
 law that leaves thSrTfree to do right, unless it also give 
 them the power to keep others from doing wrong. To 
 quote again from Verplanck, Malvolio embodies ^^a con- 
 ception as true as it is original and droll ; and its truth may 
 still be frequently attested by comparison with real Malvo- 
 lios, to be found everywhere from humble domestic life up 
 to the high places of learning, of the State, and even of 
 the Church.” From the central idea of the character it 
 follows in course that the man has too. much,.conscience to 
 mind his own business, and is too pure to tolerate mirth in 
 ojdiQrs, because too much swollen and stiffened with self-love 
 to be merr y liims elf. His liighest exhilaration is when he 
 contemplates the image of his self-imputed virtues : he live^ , 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 13 
 
 10 entranced with the beauty of his own inward parts, that 
 he would fain hold himself the wrong side out, to the end 
 that all the world may duly appreciate and admire him. 
 Naturally, too, the more he hangs over his own moral beauty, 
 the more pharisaical and sanctimonious he becomes in his 
 opinion and treatment of others. For the glass which mag- 
 fies to his view whatever of good there may be in himself, 
 also serves him as an inverted telescope to minify the good 
 of those about him ; and, which is more, the self-same spirit 
 that prompts him to invert the instrument upon other men’s 
 virtues, naturally moves him to turn the big end upon their 
 faults and the small end upon his own. Of course, there- 
 fore, he is never without food for censure and reproof save 
 when he is alone with himself, where, to be sure, his intense 
 consciousness of virtue just breathes around him the air of 
 Paradise.” Thus his continual frothing over with righteous 
 indignation all proceeds from the yeast of pride and self- 
 importance working mightily within him. Mapa, whose 
 keen eye and sure tongue seldom fail to hit the wTiite of the 
 mark, describes him as not being any thing constantly, but 
 a time-pleaser.” And it is remarkable that the emphasized 
 moral rigidity of such men is commonly but the outside of a 
 mind secretly intent on the service of the time, and caring 
 little for any thing but to trim its sails to the winds of self-_ 
 interest and self-ady^ncement. Yet Malvolio is really a man 
 ^•f no little talent and accomplishment, as he is also one of 
 marked s kill fidelity, and rectitude in his calling ; so that he 
 would be a right-worthy person all round, but for his inordf 
 nate craving 
 
 to be dress’d in an opinion 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ; 
 
 As who should say, I am Sir Oracle, 
 
 A ltd when / ope my lips, let no dog bark. 
 
14 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 This overweening moral coxcombry is not indeed to be rec ^ 
 oned among the worst of crimes ; but perhaps there is no 
 other one fault so generally or so justly offensive, and there- 
 fore none so apt to provoke the merciless retaliations of 
 mockery and practical wit. 
 
 Maria the Gull-Catcher. 
 
 Maria, the little structure packed so close with mental 
 spicery, has read Malvolio through and through ; she knows 
 him without and within ; and she never speaks of him, but 
 that her speech touches the very pith of the theme ; as when 
 she describes him to be one 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 who look on him love him.’* Her 
 quaint stratagem of the letter has and is meant to have the 
 effect of disclosing to others what her keener insight has long 
 since discovered ; and its working lifts her into a model of 
 arch, roguish mischievousness, with wit to plan and art to 
 execute whatsoever falls within the scope of such a charac- 
 ter. Her native sagacity has taught her how to touch him in 
 just the right spots to bring out the reserved or latent notes 
 of his character. Her diagnosis of his inward state is indeed 
 perfect ; and when she makes the letter instruct him, — Be 
 opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants ; let thy tongue 
 twang arguments of State ; put thyself into the trick of singu- 
 larity,” — her arrows are so aimed as to cleave the pin of his 
 most characteristic predispositions. 
 
 The scenes where the waggish troop, headed by this 
 noble gull-catcher ” and most excellent devil of wit^ 
 bewitch Malvolio into ‘^a contemplative idiot,” practisini 
 upon his vanity and conceit till he seems ready ^o burs' 
 
 V 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IS 
 
 with an ecstasy of self-consequence, and they laugh them- 
 selves into stitches ” over him, are almost painfully divert- 
 ing. It is indeed sport to see him ^‘jet under his advanced 
 plumes ” ; and during this part of the operation our hearts 
 freely keep time with theirs who are tickling out his buds 
 into full-blown thoughts : at length, however, when he is 
 under treatment as a madman, our delight in his exposure 
 passes over into commiseration of his distress, and we feel 
 a degree of resentment towards his ingenious persecutors. 
 The Poet, no doubt, meant to push the joke upon him so far 
 as to throw our sympathies over on his side, and make us 
 take his part. For his character is such that perhaps nothing 
 but excessive reprisals on his vanity and conceit could make 
 us do justice to his real worth. 
 
 Fabian and the Clown. 
 
 The shrewd, mirth-loving Fabian, who in greedy silence 
 devours up fun, tasting it too far down towards his knees to 
 give any audible sign of the satisfaction it yields him, is an 
 apt and willing agent in putting the stratagem through. If 
 he does nothing towards inventing or cooking up the repast, 
 he is at least a happy and genial partaker of the banquet that 
 others have prepared. — Feste, the jester, completes this illus- 
 trious group of laughing and laughter-moving personages. 
 Though not, perhaps, quite so wise a fellow as Touchstone, 
 of As- You-Like-It memory, nor endowed with so fluent and 
 racy a fund of humour, he nevertheless has enough of both 
 to meet all the demands of his situation. If, on the one^ 
 hand, he never launches the ball of fun, neither, on the other, 
 does he ever fail to do his part towards keeping it rolling, 
 n the whole, he has a sufficiently facile and apposite gift at 
 esting out philosophy, and moralizing the scenes where he 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 I6 
 
 i 
 
 moves ; and whatever he has in that line is perfectly original 
 with him. It strikes me, withal, as a rather noteworthy cir- 
 cumstance that both the comedy and the romance of the 
 play meet together in him, as in their natural home. He is 
 indeed a right jolly fellow ; no note of mirth springs up but 
 he has answering susceptibilities for it to light upon ; but he 
 also has at the same time a delicate vein of tender pathos in 
 him ; as appears by the touchingly-plaintive song he sings, 
 which, by the way, is one of 
 
 The very sweetest Fancy culls or frames, 
 
 Where tenderness of heart is strong and deep. 
 
 I am not supposing this to be the measure of his lyrical in- 
 vention, for the song probably is not of his making ; but the 
 selection marks at least the setting of his taste, or rather the 
 tuning of his soul, and thus discovers a choice reserve of 
 feeling laid up in his breast. 
 
 The Comic Proceedings. 
 
 Such are the scenes, such the characters that enliven 
 Olivia’s mansion during the play: Olivia herself, calm, 
 cheerful, of ''smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,” hover- 
 ing about them ; sometimes unbending, never losing her 
 dignity among them ; often checking, oftener enjoying their 
 merry-makings, and occasionally emerging from her seclusion 
 to be plagued by the Duke’s message and bewitched by his 
 messenger : and Viola, always perfect in her part, yet always 
 shrinking from it, appearing among them from time to time 
 on her embassies of love ; sometimes a partaker, sometimes 
 a provoker, sometimes the victim of their mischievous sport. 
 
 All this array of comicalities, exhilarating as it is in itseli 
 is rendered doubly so by the frequent changes and playings- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 17 
 
 in of poetry breathed from the sweetest spots of romance, 
 and which gives a very echo to the seat where Love is 
 throned ” ; ideas and images of beauty creeping and stealing 
 over the mind with footsteps so soft and delicate that we 
 scarce know what touches us, — the motions of one that had 
 learned to tread 
 
 As if the wind, not he, did walk, 
 
 Nor press’d a flower, nor bow’d a stalk. 
 
 Upon this portion of the play Hazlitt has some spirited re- 
 marks : We have a friendship for Sir Toby ; we patronize 
 Sir Andrew ; we have an understanding with the Clown, a 
 sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries ; we feel a 
 regard for Malvolio, and sympathize with his gravity, his 
 smiles, his cross-garters, his yellow stockings, and imprison- 
 ment : but there is something that excites in us a stronger 
 feeling than all this.’’ 
 
 ^ Olivia the Countess. 
 
 Olivia is a considerable instance how much a fair and 
 candid setting-forth may do to render an ordinary person 
 attractive, and shows that for the homebred comforts and 
 fireside tenour of life such persons after all are apt to be the 
 best. Nor, though something commonplace in her make- 
 up, such as the average of cultivated womanhood is always 
 found to be, is she without bright and penetrative thoughts, 
 whenever the occasion calls for them. Her reply to the 
 Steward, when, by way of scorching the Clown, he ‘‘mar- 
 vels that her ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal,” 
 gives the true texture of her mind and moral frame : “ O, 
 you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a dis- 
 tempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free 
 
i8 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 disposition, is to take those things for biid- bolts that yon 
 deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an allowed 
 Fool, though he do nothing but rail ; nor no railing in a 
 knawn discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.^’ 
 Practical wisdom enough to make the course of any house- 
 hold run smooth ! The instincts of a happy, placid temper 
 have taught Olivia that there is as little of Christian virtue 
 as of natural benignity in stinging away the spirit of kindness 
 with a tongue of acid and acrimonious pietism. Her firm 
 and healthy pulse beats in sympathy with the sportiveness in 
 which the proper decorum of her station may not permit her 
 to bear an active part. And she is too considerate, withal, 
 not to look with indulgence on the pleasantries that are partly 
 meant to divert her thoughts, and air off a too vivid remem- 
 brance of her recent sorrows. Besides, she has gathered, 
 even under the discipline of her own afflictions, that as, on 
 the one hand, what Nature makes us mourn she bids us 
 heal,” so, on the other, the free hilarities of wit and humour, 
 even though there be something of nonsense mixed up with 
 them, are a part of that bland philosophy of life ” which 
 helps to knit us up in the unions of charity and peace ; that 
 they promote cheerfulness of temper, smooth down the lines 
 of care, sweeten away the asperities of the mind, make the 
 eye sparkling and lustrous ; and, in short, do much of the 
 very best stitching in the embroidered web of friendship and* 
 fair society. So that she finds abundant motive in reason, 
 with no impediment in religion, to refrain from spoiling the ^ 
 merry passages of her friends and servants by looking black 
 
 or sour upon them. 
 
 Olivia is manifestly somewhat inclined to have her own 
 way. But then it must also be acknowledged that her way 
 is pretty apt to be right. This wilfulness, or something that 
 
 n 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 19 
 
 borders upon it, is shown alike in her impracticability to the 
 Duke’s solicitations, and in her pertinacity in soliciting his ^ 
 messenger. And it were well worth the while to know, if we 
 could, how one so perverse in certain spots can manage not- 
 withstanding to be so agreeable as a whole. Then too, if it 
 seems rather naughty in her that she does not give the Duke 
 a better chance to try his power upon her, she gets pretty 
 well paid in falling a victim to the eloquence which her 
 obstinacy stirs up. Nor is it altogether certain whether her 
 conduct springs from a pride that will not listen where her 
 fancy is not taken, or from an unambitious modesty that 
 prefers not to match above her degree.” Her ‘^ beauty 
 truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and 
 cunning hand laid on,” saves the credit of the fancy-smitten 
 Duke in such an urgency of suit as might else breed some 
 question of his manliness ; while her winning infirmity, as ex- 
 pressed in the tender violence with which she hastens on a 
 contract and eternal bond of love ” with the astonished 
 and bewildered Sebastian, that her most jealous and too 
 doubtful soul may live at peace,” shows how well the stern- 
 ness of the brain may be tempered into amiability by the 
 meekness of womanhood. 
 
 Manifold indeed are the attractions which the Poet has 
 shed upon his heroes and heroines ; yet perhaps the learned 
 spirit of the man is more wisely apparent in the home-keep- 
 ing virtues and unobtrusive beauty of his average characters. 
 And surely the contemplation of Olivia may well suggest the 
 question, whether the former be not sometimes too admirable 
 to be so instructive as those whose graces walk more in the 
 light of common day. At all events, the latter may best 
 admonish us, 
 
 • How Verse may build a princely throne 
 On humble truth. 
 
20 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 ^ Orsino the Duke. 
 
 Similar thoughts might aptly enough be suggested by the 
 Duke, who, without any very splendid or striking qualities, 
 manages somehow to be a highly agreeable and interesting 
 person. His character is merely that of an accomplished 
 gentleman, enraptured at the touch of music, and the sport 
 of thick-thronging fancies. It is plain that Olivia has only 
 enchanted his imagination, not won his heart ; though he is 
 not himself aware that such is the case. This fancy-sickness 
 — for it appears to be nothing else — naturally renders him 
 somewhat capricious and fantastical, unstaid and skittish in 
 his motions ’’ ; and, but for the exquisite poetry which it 
 inspiies him to utter, would rather excite our mirth than 
 enlist our sympathy. To use an illustration from another 
 play, Olivia is not so much his Juliet as his Rosaline ; and 
 perhaps a secret persuasion to that effect is the real cause of 
 her rejecting his suit. Accordingly, when he sees her placed 
 beyond his hope, he has no more trouble about her ; but 
 turns, and builds a true affection where, during the preoc- 
 cupancy of his imagination, so many sweet and tender ap- 
 peals have been made to his heart. 
 
 In Shakespeare’s delineations as in nature, we may com- 
 monly note that love, in proportion as it is deep and genu- 
 ine, is also inward and reserved. To be voluble, to be fond 
 of spreading itself in discourse, or of airing itself in the 
 fineries of speech, seems indeed quite against the instinct 
 of that passion ; and its best eloquence is when it ties up 
 the tongue, and steals out in other modes of expression, the 
 flushing of the cheeks and the mute devotion of the eyes. 
 In its purest forms, it is apt to be a secret even unto itself, 
 the subjects of it knowing indeed that something ails them, 
 
 \ 
 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 21 
 
 but not knowing exactly what. So that the most effective 
 love-making is involuntary and unconscious. And I suspect 
 that, as a general thing, if the true lover’s passion be not 
 returned before it is spoken, it stands little chance of being 
 returned at all. 
 
 Now, in Orsino’s case, the passion, or whatever else it 
 may be, is too much without to be thoroughly sound within. 
 Like Malvolio’s virtue, it is too glass-gazing> too much en- 
 amoured of its own image, and renders him too apprehensive 
 that it will be the death of him, if disappointed of its object. 
 Accordingly he talks too much about it, and his talking 
 about it is too ingenious withal ; it makes his tongue run 
 glib and fine with the most charming divisions of poetic 
 imagery and sentiment ; all which shrewdly infers that he 
 lacks the genuine thing, and has mistaken something else 
 for it. Yet, when we hear him dropping such riches as this, 
 
 O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, 
 
 Methought she purged the air of pestilence ! 
 
 and this, 
 
 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 kill’d the flock of all affections else 
 That live in her ! 
 
 we can hardly help wishing that such were indeed the true 
 vernacular of that passion. But it is not so, and on the 
 whole it is much better than so : for love, that which is rightly 
 so called, uses a diviner language even than that ; and this 
 it does when, taking the form of religion, it sweetly and silently 
 embodies itself in deeds. And this is the love that Southey 
 had in mind when he wrote. 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die. 
 
22 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 The Heroine. 
 
 In Viola, divers things that were else not a little scattered 
 are thoroughly composed ; her character being the unifying 
 power that draws all the parts into true dramatic consistency, 
 Love-taught herself, it was for her to teach both Orsino and 
 Olivia how to bve : indeed she plays into all the other parts, 
 causing them to embrace and cohere within the compass of 
 her circulation. And yet, like some subtile agency, working 
 most where we perceive it least, she does all this without 
 rendering herself a special prominence in the play. 
 
 It is observable that the Poet has left it uncertain whether 
 Viola was in love with the Duke before assuming her disguise, 
 or whether her heart was won afterwards by reading ''the 
 book even of his secret soul ” while wooing another. Nor 
 does it much matter whether her passion were the motive or 
 the consequence of her disguise, since in either case such a 
 man as Olivia describes him t ." be might well find his way to 
 tougher hearts than Viola’s. But her love has none of the 
 skittishness and unrest which mark the Duke’s passion for 
 Olivia : complicated out of all the elements of her being, it 
 is strong without violence ; never mars the innate modesty 
 of her character ; is deep as life, tender as infancy, pure, 
 peaceful, and unchangeable as truth. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson ^ — who, with the best right to know what 
 belongs to woman, unites a rare talent for taking others along 
 with her, and letting them see the choice things which her ap- 
 prehensive eye discerns, and who, in respect of Shakespeare’s 
 heroines, has left little for others to do but quote her words — 
 remarks that "in Viola a sweet consciousness of her feminin 
 nature is for ever breaking through her masquerade : she plays 
 her part well, but never forgets, nor allows us to forget, that 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 23 
 
 she is playing a part.” And, sure enough, every thing about 
 her save her dress ‘^is semblative a woman’s part ” : she has 
 none of the assumption of a pert, saucy, waggish manhood, 
 which so delights us in Rosalind in As You Like It ; but she 
 has that which, if not better in itself, is more becoming in 
 her, — ^^the inward and spiritual grace of modesty ” pervading 
 all she does and says. Even in her railleries with the comic 
 characters there is all the while an instinctive drawing-back 
 of female delicacy, touching our sympathies, and causing us 
 to feel most deeply what she is, when those with whoiti she 
 is playing least suspect her to be other than she seems. And 
 the same is true concerning her passion, of which she never 
 so speaks as to compromise in the least the delicacies and 
 proprieties of her sex; yet she lets fall many things from 
 which the Duke easily gathers the drift and quality of her 
 feelings directly he learns what she is. But the great charm 
 of her character lies in a moral rectitude so perfect and so 
 pure as to be a secret unto itself ; a clear, serene composure 
 of truth, mingling so freely and smoothly with the issues of 
 life, that while, and perhaps even because she is herself un- 
 conscious of it, she is never once tempted to abuse or to shirk 
 her trust, though it be to play the attorney in a cause that 
 makes so much against herself. In this respect she presents 
 an instructive contrast to Malvolio, who has much virtue in- 
 deed, yet not so much but that the counter-pullings have 
 rendered him intensely conscious of it, and so drawn him 
 into the vice, at once hateful and ridiculous, of moral pride. 
 The virtue that fosters conceit and censoriousness is like a 
 dyspeptic stomach, the owner of which is made all too sen- 
 sible of it by the conversion of his food to wind, — a wind 
 that puffs him up. On the other hand, a virtue that breathes 
 so freely as not to be aware of its breathing is the right moral 
 
24 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT, 
 
 analogue of a thoroughly eupeptic state ; as the healthy 
 know not of their health, but only the sick.” 
 
 Sundry critics have censured, some of them pretty sharply, 
 the improbability involved in the circumstance of Viola and 
 Sebastian resembling each other so closely as to be mistaken 
 the one for the other. Even so just and liberal a critic as 
 Hallam has stumbled at this circumstance, so much so as 
 quite to disconcert his judgment of the play. The improba- 
 bility is indeed palpable enough ; yet I have to confess that 
 it has never troubled me, any more than certain things not 
 less improbable in As You Like It, But even if it had, still 
 I should not hold it any just ground for faulting the Poet, in- 
 asmuch as the circumstance was an accepted article in the 
 literary faith of his time. But indeed this censure proceeds 
 from that old heresy which supposes the proper effect of a 
 work of art to depend on the imagined reality of the matter 
 presented ; that is, which substitutes the delusions of insan- 
 ity for the half-voluntary illusions of a rational and refining 
 pleasure, 
 
 Sebastian. 
 
 Of Sebastian himself the less need be said, forasmuch as 
 the leading traits of his character, in my conception of it, 
 have been substantially evolved in what I have said of his 
 sister. For the two are really as much alike in the inward 
 texture of their souls as in their visible persons; at least 
 their mutual resemblance in the former respect is as close 
 as were compatible with proper manliness in the one, and 
 proper womanliness in the other. Personal bravery, for 
 example, is as characteristic of him as modesty is of her. 
 In simplicity, in gentleness, in rectitude, in delicacy of 
 mind, and in all the particulars of what may be termed com' 
 

 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 plexional harmony and healthiness of nature, — in these 
 they are as much twins as in birth and feature. Therewithal 
 they are both alike free from any notes of a pampered self- 
 consciousness, Yet in all these points a nice discrimina- 
 tion of the masculine and feminine proprieties is everywhere 
 maintained. In a word, there is no confusion of sex in the 
 delineation of them : as like as they are, without and within, 
 the man and the woman are nevertheless perfectly differen- 
 tiated in all the essential attributes of each. 
 
 The conditions of the plot did not require nor even 
 permit Sebastian to be often or much in sight. We have 
 indeed but little from him, but that little is intensely charged 
 with significance ; in fact, I hardly know of another instance 
 in Shakespeare where so much of character is accomplished 
 in so few words. The scene where he is first met with con- 
 sists merely of a brief dialogue between him and Antonio, 
 the man who a little before has recovered him from the 
 perils of shipwreck. He there has neither time nor heart 
 for any thing but gratitude to his deliverer, and sorrow at the 
 supposed death of his sister : yet his expression of these is 
 so ordered as to infer all the parts of a thorough gentleman ; 
 the efficacies of a generous nature, of good breeding, of 
 liberal culture, and of high principle, all concurring in one 
 result, and thus filling up the right idea of politeness as 
 benevolence guided by intelligence.^’ 
 
 \i 
 
 General Characteristics. 
 
 The society delineated in this play is singularly varied 
 and composite ; the names of the persons being a mixture 
 of Spanish, Italian, and English. Though the scene is laid 
 in Illyria, the period of the action is undefined, and the 
 manners and costumes are left in the freedom of whatever 
 
26 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 time we may choose antecedent to that of the composition, 
 provided we do not exceed the proper limits of imaginative 
 reason. 
 
 This variety in the grouping of the persons, whether so 
 intended or not, very well accords with the spirit in which, 
 or the occasion for which, the title indicates the play to have 
 been written. Twelfth Day, anciently so called as being the 
 twelfth after Christmas, is the day whereon the Church has 
 always kept the feast of- The Epiphany, or the Manifesta- 
 tion of Christ to the Gentiles.” So that, in preparing a 
 Twelfth-Night entertainment, the idea of fitness might aptly 
 suggest, that national lines and distinctions should be lost in 
 the paramount ties of a common Religion; and that people 
 the most diverse in kindred and tongue should draw to- 
 gether in the sentiment of one Lord, one Faith, one Bap- 
 tism ” ; their social mirth thus relishing of universal Brother- 
 hood. 
 
 The general scope and plan of Twelfth Nighty as a work 
 of art^ is hinted in its second title ; all the comic elements 
 being, as it were, thrown out simultaneously, and held in a 
 sort of equipoise ; so that the readers are left to fix the pre- 
 ponderance where it best suits their several bent or state of 
 mind, and each, within certain limits and conditions, may 
 take the work in what sense he wilL For, where no special 
 prominence is given to any one thing, there is the wider 
 scope for individual aptitude or preference, and the greater 
 freedom for each to select for virtual prominence such parts 
 as will best knit in with what is uppermost in his thoughts. 
 
 The significance of the title is further traceable in a pecu- 
 liar spontaneousness running through the play. Replete as 
 it is with humours and oddities, they all seem to spring up 
 of their own accord ; the comic characters being free alike 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 27 
 
 from disguises and pretensions, and seeking merely to let 
 off their inward redundancy ; caring nothing at all whether 
 everybody or nobody sees them, so they may have their 
 whim, out, and giving utterance to folly and nonsense simply 
 because they cannot help it. Thus their very deformities 
 have a certain grace, since they are genuine and of Nature’s 
 planting : absurdity and whimsicality are indigenous to the 
 soil, and shoot up in free, happy luxuriance, from the life 
 that is in them. And by thus setting the characters out in 
 their happiest aspects, the Poet contrives to make them sim- 
 ply ludicrous and diverting, instead of putting upon them the 
 constructions of wit or spleen, and thereby making them 
 ridiculous or contemptible. Hence it is that we so readily 
 enter into a sort of fellowship with them ; their foibles and 
 follies being shown up in such a spirit of good-humour, that 
 the subjects themselves would rather join with us in laugh- ^ 
 ing than be angered or hurt at the exhibition. Moreover \ 
 the high and the low are here seen moving in free and ■ 
 familiar intercourse, without any apparent consciousness of 
 their respective ranks : the humours and comicalities of the 
 play keep running and frisking in among the serious parts, to 
 their mutual advantage ; the connection between them being 
 of a kind to be felt, not described. 
 
 Thus the piece overflows with the genial, free-and-easy 
 spirit of a m^rry Twelfth Night. Chance, caprice, and in- j 
 trigue, it is true, are brought together in about equal por- 
 I tions ; and their meeting and crossing and mutual tripping 
 cause a deal of perplexity and confusion, defeating the hopes 
 of some, suspending those of others : yet here, as is often the 
 case in actual life, from this conflict of opposites order and 
 happiness spring up as the final result : if what we call acci- 
 dent thwart one cherished purpose, it draws on something 
 
28 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 better, blighting a full-blown expectation now, to help the 
 blossoming of a nobler one hereafter : and it so happens in 
 the end that all the persons but two either have what they 
 will, or else grow willing to have what comes to their hands. 
 
 Such, I believe, as nearly as I know how to deliver it, is 
 the impression I hold of this charming play ; an impression 
 that has survived, rather say, has kept growing deeper and 
 deeper through many years of study, and after many, many 
 an hour spent in quiet communion with its scenes and char- 
 acters. In no one of his dramas, to my sense, does the 
 Poet appear to have been in a healthier or happier frame of 
 mind, more free from the fascination of the darker problems 
 of humanity, more at peace with himself and all the world, 
 or with Nature playing more kindly and genially at his heart, 
 and from thence diffusing her benedictions through his whole 
 establishment. So that, judging from this transpiration of 
 his inner poetic life, I should conclude him to have had 
 abundant cause for saying. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 And her divine employment ; — 
 
 The blameless Muse who trains her sons 
 For hope and calm enjoyment. 
 
 I 
 
 
 
' ' r. \ 
 
 ^ OvJ2. fnjJj^vA^ 
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 Scene I. — An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace, 
 
 Enter the Duke, Lords, and Curio ; Musicians 
 
 Duke, If musi c be t he 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 : i 
 
 1 The sense of dying, as here used, is technically expressed by dimmu- 
 endo. 
 
 TWELFT 
 
 HT; 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 
 Orsino, Duke of Illyria. 
 
 Sebastian, a young Gentleman. 
 
 '•^ Antonio, a Sea Captain, Friend tgu 
 Sebastian. 
 
 A Sea Captain, triend to Viola, 
 
 Valentine, 
 
 Curio, 
 
 I Gentlemen attend!] 
 I on the Duke, 
 
 n« u: 
 
 Sir Toby B^lch, .Uncle of Olivia. 
 
 
 Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
 Malvolio, Steward to Olivia. ‘ 
 ^Fabian, 
 
 A Clown, 
 
 • Servants to Olivia. 
 
 Olivia, a Countess. 
 Viola, Sister to Sebastian. 
 Olivia’s Woman. 
 
 Lords, a Priest, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other 
 
 Scene, a City in Illyria ; and the Sea-coast near it. 
 
 29 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT I 
 
 
 'I 
 
 O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south, 
 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 
 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, nought enters there, 
 
 Of what validity 2 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 lord ? 
 
 Duke, What, Curio? 
 
 Cur, 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 turn’d 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 piease my lord, I might not be admitted \ 
 
 But from her handmaid do return this answer : 
 yX. 
 
 2 Validity is worth, value. So in All's Well, v. 3 : “ Behold this ring, 
 whose high respect and rich validity did lack a parallel.” 
 
 3 Fancy is continually used by old writers for love. There is a play on 
 the word here. 
 
 4 Shakespeare seems to think men cautioned against too great familiar- 
 ity with forbidden beauty by the fable of Actaeon, who saw Diana naked, and 
 was torn to pieces by his hounds ; as a man indulging his eyes or his imagi- 
 
 .T nation with a view of a woman he cannot gain, has his heart torn with 
 \ incessant longing. 
 
WHAT YOU ^ILL. 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The element ^ itself, till seven years hence, 
 
 Shall not behold her face at ample view ; 
 
 But, like a cloistress, she wih "Id walk. 
 
 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 kill’d the flock of all affections else 
 That live in her ; when liver, brain, and heart, 
 
 These sovereign thrones, her sweet perfections, 
 
 Are all supplied and fill’d 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. 
 
 Vio. And what should I do in Illyria ? 
 
 Illyria, lady. 
 
 \ 
 
 5 Element here means the sky. So in 2 Henry /F., iv. 3 : “ And I, in the 
 
 clear sky of fame, o’ershine you as much as the full Moon doth the cinders 
 of the element, which show like pins’ heads to her ” ; cmders meaning, of 
 course, the stars. 
 
 6 To season is to preserve. In All's Well, i. i, tears are said to be “ the 
 H:;ost brine a maiden can season her praise in.” 
 
 The liver, brain, and heart were regarded as the special seats of passion, 
 judgment, and affection, and so were put respectively for their supposed 
 occupants. — One self king is equivalent to one and the same king. The 
 Poet often uses self^K'Ca. the force of salfsamc. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR 
 
 ACT t 
 
 i, Perchance he is not drown’d : what think you, sailors? 
 
 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 our ship did split. 
 
 When you, and this poor number saved with you. 
 
 Hung on our driving boat,^ I saw your brother, 
 
 I Most provident in peril, bind himself — 
 
 \ Courage and hope both teaching him the pi actice — 
 i To a strong mast that lived upon the sea ; 
 i Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back,^ 
 
 I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves 
 So long as I could see. 
 
 S? Vio, For saying so, there’s gold : 
 
 Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, 
 
 AVhereto thy speech serves for authority. 
 
 The like of him. Know’st thou this country? 
 
 U Cap, Ay, madam, well ; for I was bred and born 
 
 1 Viola first uses perchance in the sense of perhaps ; the Captain in that 
 
 ■of by chance, accident, ox good luck. 
 
 2 “ Driving boat ” means, I suppose, boat driven before the storm, 
 
 3 Arion’s feat is worthily described in Wordsworth’s poem On the Power 
 
 of sound: 
 
 Thy skill, Arion, 
 
 Could humanize the creaures of the sea, 
 
 Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves, 
 Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
 Steals from the deck o’er willing waves. 
 
 And listening dolphins gather round. 
 
 Self-cast, as with a desperate course. 
 
 Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
 A proud one docile as a managed horse; 
 
 And singing, while the accordant hand 
 Sweeps his harp, the master rides. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Not three hours* tmvel from this very place. 
 
 Vio. Who goveras here? 
 
 Cap, A noblL duke, in nature as in name."* 
 
 Vio, Whclt is his name ? 
 
 Cap, Orsino. 
 
 Vio Drsino ! I have heard my father name him : 
 
 He was a baichelor then. ^ 
 
 Cap, And so is now, or was so vi^^^iate^ 
 
 For but a month ago I went from hence, * 
 
 And then ’twp,s 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 con^any 
 And sight of men. 
 
 Vio, O, that I served that lady, 
 
 And might not be deliver’d to the world. 
 
 Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, 
 
 Wnat my estate is ! ^ 
 
 Cap. That were hard to compass ; 
 
 Because she will admit no kind of suit. 
 
 No, not the Duke’s. 
 
 4 An allusion, no doubt, to the great and well-known Italian family of 
 Orsini, from whom the name Orsino is borrowed. 
 
 5 Viola is herself a nobleman’s daughter; and she here wishes that her 
 birth and quality — her estate — may be kept secret from the world, till she 
 has a ripe occasion for making known who she is. Certain later passages 
 in the play seem to infer that she has already fallen in love with Diike'tfrsino 
 from the descriptions she has had of him. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, i 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 [ an : 
 
 Vw. There is a fair behaviour in thee, clpt 
 And though that nature with a beauteous v/all 
 Doth oft close-in pollution, yet of thee 
 I well believe thou hast a mind that suits 
 With this thy fair and outward character. 
 
 I pr’ythee, — 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 PO 
 When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes' not see. 
 
 Via. I thank thee : lead me on. 
 
 Scene III. — ^ Room in Olivia’s House. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 
 
 Sir To. What a plague means my niece, tp take the death 
 of her brother thus? I a m sure care’s an enemy_t o_lifg. 
 
 Mar. By my troth, Sir T^y,you must come in earlier o’ 
 
 6 This plan of 'Viola’s was not pursued, as it would have been intonsist- 
 
 ent with the plot of the play. She was presented as a not as an 
 
 eunuch. 
 
 7 “ Will approve me worth his service”; that is, ” will that / izw 
 
 worth,” &c. I'his use of to allow for to approve is very common in old 
 English; and Shakespeare has it repeatedly. So in Kifzg Lear, ii. 4 : “O 
 Heavens, if your sweet sway allow obedience.” i 
 
 
.SCENE III, 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL, 
 
 nights : your cousin/ my lady, takes great exceptions to 
 your ill hours. 
 
 Str To. Why, let her except before excepted.® 
 
 Mar. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the mod- „ 
 
 est 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 thay 
 you brought in one night here to be her wooer. 
 
 Sir To. Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek ? , 
 
 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. Av. but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats : 
 
 Sir To. Fie, that you’ll say sb ! he plays o’ the viol-dey . 
 gamboys,^ and speaks three or four languages word for word \ 
 
 without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. 
 
 1 Cousin used, not only for what we so designate, but also fox nephew. 
 
 niece ^ grandchild^ and, indeed, kindred in general. 
 
 2 The Poet here shows his familiarity with the technical language of the 
 Law ; Sir Toby being" made to run a whimsical play upon the old legal ^ 
 phrase, “ those things being excepted which were before excepted.” 
 
 3 Sir Toby purposely misunderstands confine, taking it for refine. 
 
 4 The use of tall for bold, valiant, stout, was common in Shakespeare’s 
 time, and occurs several times in his works. Sir Toby is evidently ban- 
 tering with the word, Sir Andrew being equally deficient in spirit and in 
 stature. 
 
 5 Viol-de-gamloys appears to be a Tobyism for viol da gamba, an instru- 
 ment much like the violoncello : so called because it was held between the 
 
36 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT L 
 
 Mar, He hatli, indeed, all most 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 quar- 
 relling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly 
 have the gift of a grave. 
 
 Sir To, By this hand, they are scoundrels and substrac- 
 tors® 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 coistreP 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 An- 
 drew Agueface. 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek. d 
 
 S' 
 
 Sir And, Sir Toby Belch ; how now, Sir Toby Belch ! 
 
 legs ; gamba being Italian for leg. According to Gifford, the instrument 
 “ was an indispensable piece of furniture in every fashionable house, where 
 it hung up in the best chamber, much as the guitar does in Spain, and the 
 violin in Italy, to be played on at will, and to fill up the void of conversa- 
 tion. Whoever pretended to fashion affected an acquaintance with this 
 instrument.” 
 
 6 Maria plays upon natural, which, in one of its senses, meant a fool. See 
 As You Like It, page 15, note 3. — There is also an equivoque in all most^ 
 one of the senses being almost. 
 
 7 Gust is taste, from the Italian gusto ; not much used now, though its 
 sense lives in disgust. 
 
 8 Sub str actors is another Toby ism for detractors. 
 
 0 Holinshed classes coistrels among the unwarlike followers of an army. 
 It was thus used as a term of contempt. 
 
 A large top was formerly kept in each village for the peasantry to 
 amuse themselves with in frosty weather. ” He sleeps like a town-top,” is an 
 old proverb. 
 
 Meaning, ” Put on a Castilian face ” ; that is, grave, solemn looks. 
 
tiCENE III. 
 
 Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew ! 
 
 — Sir And. Bks$. y.QU, fair shrew. 
 
 Mar. And you too, sir. 
 
 Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.i^ 
 
 ^ Sir And. Wbat’s^at ? 
 
 Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid. 
 
 ^Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Mar. My name is Mary, sir. 
 
 »> 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^a^st t 
 
 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. 
 
 H’-' 
 
 I'.l’ 
 
 12 Sir Toby speaks more learnedly than intelligibly here, using accost in 
 its original sense. The word is from the French accoster, to come side by 
 side, or to approach. Accost is seldom used thus, which accounts for Sir 
 Andrew’s 'mistake. 
 
 13 Part for depart. A frequent usage. 
 
 14 The buttery was formerly a place for all sorts of gastric refreshments, 
 and a dry hand was considered a symptom of debility. — The relevancy of 
 “ thought is free ” may be not very apparent. Perhaps the following from 
 Lyly’s Euphues, 1581 , will illustrate it: “ None, quoth she, can judge of wit 
 
 
38 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT /. 
 
 Sir And, Wherefore, sweet-heart? what’s your meta- 
 phor? ^ 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Mar. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends : marry, 
 now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit 
 
 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 sometimes 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. Ul’ll ride 
 home to-morrow. Sir Toby. \\ 
 
 Sir To. Fourquoi, my dear knight ? 
 
 Sir And. What is pourqiioi ? do or not do ? I would I 
 had bestowed that time in the tongu esJ:hat I have in fencing, 
 dancing, and bear-baiting : O, ImdTTut followed the Arts ! 
 
 Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of 
 hair.i® 
 
 but they that have it. Why, then, quoth he, dost thou think me a fool ? 
 
 Thought is free, my lord, quoth she.” 
 
 So in The Haven of Health, 1584: “ Galen affirmeth that biefe maketh 
 grosse bloude and engendreth melancholie, especially if it is much eaten, 
 and if such as doe eat it be of a melancholy complexion." 
 
 Sir Toby is quibbling between tongues and tongs, the latter meaning, 
 of course, the well-known instrument for curling the hair. The two words 
 were often written, and probably sounded, alike, or nearly so. So in the in- 
 troduction to The Faerie Queene : " O, helpe thou my weake wit, and 
 
YoA: 
 
 SCEm III. WHAT YG®: WILL. 39 
 
 Sir And, Why, would that hive mended rr}’ i lair. ^ 
 
 ^ir To, Past question ; lor toou '^see’st it will not curl by 
 nature. , 
 
 ^ Sir And, But it becomes me /ei! ^^ogh, does’t not?^^"^ 
 
 Sir To, Excellent; it hangL like ;liax^^a distaff; and I 
 hope to see a housewife take thee^. : oif 
 
 ^'^Sir And, Faith, I’ll home to-mai'ow, fir 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 wooes 
 her. 
 
 Sir To, She’ll none o’ the Count : she’ll not match above 
 her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit ; I have he'ird 
 her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t,i® 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 kickshawses,^^ knight? 
 
 Sir And, As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under 
 the degree of my betters ; and yet I will not compare with 
 a nobleman. 
 
 Sir To, What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight ? 
 
 ' Sir And, Faith, I can cut a caper. 
 
 I sharpen my dull tongy Here the word rhymes with long and wrong. For 
 I this explanation, which is not more ingenious than apt and just, I am in- 
 debted to a private letter from Mr. Joseph Crosby. 
 
 1"^ The titles Duke and Count are used indifferently of Orsino. The rea- 
 son of this, if there be any, is not apparent. The Poet of course understood 
 he difference between a duke and a count, well enough. White suggests 
 ‘t in a revisal of the play he may have concluded to change the title, and 
 ■en, for some cause, left the change incomplete. 
 
 18 Equivalent to “ there is hope in it.” It was a phrase of the time. 
 
 A Tobyism, probably, for kickshaws^ an old word for trifles or knlck 
 ^acks; said to be a corruption of the French quelq-ue chose. 
 
40 
 
 TWELFTH ^IGHT ; OR, 
 
 TWELFTH ^IGHT ; OR, AC'T I. 
 
 Sir To. *nd I can cut the mutton to’t.®* f 
 
 Sir And. Ana I think 1 have the back-trick simjjly as 
 l^strong as any man in y'yrift. 
 
 To, Wherefo^^ t^y^se things hid? wherefore have 
 these gifts a curjp=i^ before '-m ? are they like to take dust, 
 like Mistress Mall’s picture.*^^! church 
 
 in a galliard, and come home in a coranto?^^ My very walk 
 should be a jig.. Vhat dost thou mean? is it a world to 
 hide virtues m ? I did think, by the excellent constitution 
 of thy leg, it was form’d under the star of a galliard. 
 
 Sir And. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a 
 flame-colour’d 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 
 
 20 A double pun is probably intended here ; the meaning being, “ If you 
 can do the man’s part in a galliard, I can do the woman's.” Mutton was 
 sometimes used as a slang term for a woman. 
 
 21 Mistress Mall was a very celebrated character of the Poet’s time, who 
 played many parts (not on the stage) in male attire. Her real name was 
 Mary Frith, though commonly known as Moll Cutpurse. In i6io a book 
 was entered at the Stationers, called The Madde Prankes of Merry Moll of 
 the Bankside, with her Walks in Man's Apparel, and to what purpose ]oh\i 
 Day. Middleton and Dekker wrote a comedy entitled The Roaring Girl, 
 of which she was the heroine. Portraits were commonly curtained to keep 
 off the dust. 
 
 22 Galliard and coranto are names of dances : the galliard, a lively, stir- 
 ring dance, from a Spanish word signifying cheerful, gay ; the coranto, a 
 quick dance for two persbns, described as “ traversing and running,! as our 
 country dance, but having twice as much in a strain.” 
 
 28 “A flamc-colour’d stock" is a pretty emphatic sort of stocking. — ‘‘ 
 different well ” is tolerably A frequent usage. 
 
 24 Alluding to the medical astrology of the almanacs. Both the knig^ 
 are wrong; the zodiacal sign Taurus having reference to the neck 
 throat. The point soems to be that Sir Poby is poking fun at Sir Apdn ^ 
 conceit of agility : ” I can cut a caper,” 
 
Scene V. — A Room in Olivia’s House, 
 Enter Maria and the Clown. 
 
 Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will 
 not b^n my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of 
 thy se : my lady will hang thee for thy absence. 
 
 Cto, Let her hang me : he that is well hang’d in this 
 world needs to fear no colours. ^ 
 
 Mar, Make that good. 
 
 Ctp, He shall see none to fear. 
 
 Afar, A good lenten answer.^ I can tell thee where that 
 sayirig was born, of, I fear no colours, 
 
 Clo, Where, good Mistress Mary ? 
 
 Afar, In the wars ; and that may you be bold to say in 
 
 your foolery. 
 
 (flo. Well, God give them wisdom that have it ; and those 
 are fools, let them use their talents. 
 
 Yet you wlH^hang’d for being so long absent ; 
 or, > to be turn’d away, — is not that as good as a hanging to 
 yovi? 
 
 jClo, Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage ; and, 
 fojv turning away, let Summer bear it out. 
 
 
 Mar, You are resolute, then? 
 fClo, Not so, neither ; but I am resolved on two points. 
 
 oth the origin of this phrase and the meaning attached to it, notwith- 
 ng Maria’s explanation, are still obscure. Colours is still used ioxjlag ; 
 >robably it is here to be taken in a figurative sense for enemy. 
 
 Probably a short or spare answer ; like the diet used in Lent. Lenten 
 ,ght be applied to any thing that marked the season of Lent. Thus Tay- 
 r the water-poet speaks of “ a lenten top,” which people amused them- 
 
r 
 
 Fact i. 
 
 Mar. That, ii' one break, the other will hold ; or, if both 
 
 ' I 
 
 break, your gaskins fall.^ i 
 
 C/a. 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. 
 
 Clo. Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into good foo.mg ! 
 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 and Malvolio. 
 
 \ 
 
 God bless thee, lady ! 
 
 OH. Take the Fool away. 
 
 Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. 
 
 OH. Go to, you’re a dry Fool; I’ll no more of you : 
 sides, you grow dishonest. 
 
 Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel 
 will amend : for, give the dry Fool drink, then is the Fool ijiot 
 dry ; bid the dishonest man mend himself ; if he mend, h| is 
 no longer dishonest ; if he cannot, let the botcher mend h’lpi. 
 Any thing that’s mended is but patch’d : virtue that trad'-s- 
 gresses is but patch’d with sin ; and sin that amends is lf|ut 
 jiatch’d with virtue : if that this simple syllogism will 
 so ; if it will not, what remedy ? As there is no true *^*^^^*^ 
 
 8 Maria quibbles upon points. Gaskins was the name of a man s n^ J 
 garment, large hose, or trousers ; and the points were the tags or r 
 i.vhich, being tied, held them up. 
 
 4 Quinapalus is an Imaginary author. To invent or to com names 
 j^iorities for the nonje, seems to be a part of tKis Clown’s In 
 
ENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 45 
 
 but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. — The lady bade take away 
 the Fool ; therefore, I say again, take her away. 
 
 OH, Sir, I bade them take away you. 
 
 Clo, Misprision in the highest degree ! Lady, cucullus non 
 facit inonachuni that’s as much as to say, I wear not mot- 
 ley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you 
 a fool. 
 
 Oli, Can you do it? 
 
 Clo, Dexteriously, good madonna. 
 
 OH. Make your proof. 
 
 C/o. I must catechize you for it, madonna : good my 
 mouse of virtue, answer me. 
 
 OH. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll bide your 
 proof. 
 
 C/o. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou ? 
 
 OH. Good Fool, for my brother’s death. 
 
 C/o. I think his soul is in Hell, madonna. 
 
 OH. I know his soul is in Heaven, Fool. 
 
 Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s 
 soul being in Heaven. — Take away the fool, gentlemen. 
 
 OH. What think you of this Fool, Malvolio? doth he not 
 mend ? 
 
 Mai. 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 
 ^o fool. 
 
 5 A common proverb ; literally, “ a hood does not make a monk. 
 \hakespeare hai. it elsewhere. 
 
46 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR^ 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 on. How say you to that, Malvolio ? 
 
 MaL I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a bar- 
 ren rascal : I saw him put down the other day with an ordi- 
 nary 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 gagg’d. I protest, I take 
 those wise men, that crow so at these set kind of Fools, to 
 be no better than the Fools’ zanies.® 
 
 on, O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with 
 a distemper’d appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of 
 free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that 
 you deem cannon-bullets : there is no slander in an allow’d 
 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 
 speak’st well of Fools ! 
 
 6 The zany in Shakespeare’s day was the attenuated mime of the mimic. 
 He was the servant or attendant of the professional clown, who accompanied 
 him on the stage or in the ring, attempting to imitate his tricks, and adding 
 to the general merriment by his ludicrous failures and comic imbecility. It 
 is this characteristic, not merely of mimicry, but of weak and abortive mim- 
 icry, that gives its distinctive meaning to the word, and colours it with a 
 special tinge of contempt. This feature of the early stage has descended to 
 our own times, and may still be found in the performances of the circus. 
 We have ourselves seen the clown and the zany in the ring together; the 
 clown doing clever tricks, the zany provoking immense laughter by his ludi- 
 crous failures in attempting to imitate them. — Edinburgh Review, July, 
 1869. 
 
 7 Bird-bolts were short thick arrows with obtuse ends, used for shooting 
 young rooks and other birds. 
 
 8 An allow'd Fool was the domestic or court Fool, like Touchstone in 
 As You Like It ; that is, the jester by profession, who dressed in motley 
 with whom folly was an art ; and whose functions are so admirably set forth 
 by Jaques in the play just mentioned, ii. 7. 
 
 y The Clown means, that unless Olivia lied she could not “ speak well of 
 Fools”; therefore he prays Mercury to endue her with Lasing. Least 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL, 
 
 47 
 
 Re-enter Maria. 
 
 Mar, Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman 
 much desires to speak with you. 
 
 Oli, From the Count Orsino, is it? 
 
 Mar. I know not, madam : ’tis a fair young man, and 
 well attended. 
 
 on. Who of my people hold him in delay ? 
 
 Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. 
 
 OH. Fetch him off, I pray you ; he speaks nothing but 
 madman : fie on him ! [ Exit Maria.] — Go you, Mal- 
 
 volio : 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 
 materP 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch. 
 
 OH. By mine honour, half drunk. — What is he at the 
 gate, cousin? 
 
 Sir To. A gentleman. 
 
 OH. A gentleman ! what gentleman ? 
 
 Sir To. ’Tis a gentleman here — a plague o’ these pickle- 
 herring ! — How now, sot ! 
 
 was about the same as our fibbing. As Mercury was the God of cheats and 
 liars, the Clown aptly invokes his aid. 
 
 1*^ The membrane that covers the brain ; put for the brain itself. 
 
 H Pickled herrings seem to have been a common relish in drunken 
 sprees. Gabriel Harvey says of Robert Greene, the profligate dramatist, 
 that he died “ of a surfett of pickle herringe and Rennishe wine.” 
 
 12 Sot is used by the Poet for fool; as in The Merry Wives Dr. Caius 
 says, “ Have you make-a de sot of us? ” 
 
48 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OK, 
 
 ACT 1. 
 
 C/c?, Good Sir Toby ! — 
 
 on. Cousin^oi^n, how liave you come so early by this 
 
 Sir To. Leeiiery ! I defy lechery. There’s one at the 
 gate. 
 
 OH, Ay, marry, what is he ? 
 
 Sir To, Let him be the Devil, an he will, I care not : 
 give me faith, say 1. Well, it’s all one. \_Exit, 
 
 OH, What’s a drunken man like. Fool? 
 
 Clo, Like a drown’d man, a fool, and a madman : one 
 draught above heat makes him a fool ; the second mads 
 him ; and a third drowns him. 
 
 Oh, Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o’ my 
 coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, — he’s drown’d : 
 go, look after him. 
 
 Clo, He is but mad yet, madonna; and the Fool shall 
 look to the madman. Exit 
 
 ^ Re-enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai, 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 : I told him you were asleep ; he seems to have a fore- 
 knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with 
 you. What is to be said to him, lady ? he’s fortified against 
 any denial. 
 
 Oh, Tell him he shall not speak with me. 
 
 Mai. ’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. 
 
 18 To dej^wa.s often used for to renounce, or abjure. 
 
 1^ I he Sheriffs formerly had painted posts set up at their doofT^ which 
 proclamations and placards were affixed. 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT \'OU WILL. 
 
 49 
 
 OIL What kind o’ man is he? 
 
 Mai. Why, of man kind. 
 
 OIL What manner of man ? 
 
 Mai. Of very ill manner ; he’ll speak with you, will you 
 or no. 
 
 OH. Of what personage and years is he ? 
 
 Mai. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough 
 for a boy ; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling 
 when ’tis almost an apple ; ’tis with him e’en standing 
 water, between boy and man. He is very well-favour’d, and 
 he speaks very shrewishly ; one would think his mother s 
 
 milk were scarce out of him. 
 
 Oli. Let him appoach : call in my gentlewoman. 
 
 Mai. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. \_Exit. 
 
 Re-ente7' Maria. 
 
 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 1 
 never saw her ; I would be loth to cast away my speech ; 
 for, besides that it is excellently well penn’d, I have taken 
 
 16 A codling, according to Gifford, means an involucrum or kell, and 
 was used by our old writers for that early stage of vegetation, when the fruit, 
 after shaking off the blossom, begins to assume a globular and determinate 
 shape. The original of squash was used of such young vegetables as were 
 
 eaten in the state of immaturity. 
 
 16 Shrewishly is sharply, tartly: like a shrew. So, of old. shrewdannant 
 keen or biting. 
 
ACT I. 
 
 5*^ twelfth night ; or, 
 
 great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no 
 scorn : I am very comptible i’ even to the least sinister usage. 
 Oh, Whence came you, sir? 
 
 Vto. I can say little more than I have studied, and that 
 question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me mod- 
 est assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may 
 proceed in my speech. 
 
 OH. 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 ? 
 
 Oh. If I do not usurp myself, I am. 
 
 Vto. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; 
 or what is yours to bestow is hot 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. 
 
 Oh. Come to what is important in’t : I forgive you the 
 praise. 
 
 Vto. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical. 
 Oh. It IS the more like to be feigned ; I pray you, keep 
 It in. I heard you were saucy at my gates ; and allow’d 
 your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If 
 you be mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief; ’tis 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. 
 
 Via. No, good swabber ; I am to hull here >8 a little longer. 
 Some mollification for your giant,i8 sweet lady. 
 
 ^ H Comptible IS susceptible, or sensitive. The proper meaning of the word 
 IS accountable. ° 
 
 18 To hull\s a nautical term, probably meaning to haul in sails and lay- 
 to without coming to anchor. Swabber is also a nautical term, used of one 
 who attends to the swabbing or eleaning of the deek. « 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 51 
 
 on. Tell me your mind. 
 
 Vio. I am a messenger.^® _ 
 
 on. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, 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. 
 
 on. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would 
 
 you? . , ^ , , , 
 
 Vio. The rudeness that hath appear’d m me have I learn d 
 
 from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are 
 as secret as maidenhood : to your ears, divinity , to any 
 
 other’s, profanation. , . ■ v 
 
 on. Give us the place alone ; we will hear this divinity. 
 
 l^Exit Maria.] — Now, sir, what is your text? 
 
 Vio. Most sweet lady,— 
 
 on. A comfortable 21 doctrine, and much may be said of 
 if. Where lies your text? 
 
 Vio. In Orsino’s bosom. 
 
 on. In his bosom ! In what chapter of his bosom? 
 
 Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. 
 on. O, I have read it ; it is heresy. Have you no more 
 
 to say ? 
 
 Vio. Good madam, let me see your face. 
 on. Have you any commission from your lord to nego- 
 tiate with my face? You are now out of your text ; but we 
 
 19 Ladies in romance are guarded by giants. Viola, seeing the waiting- 
 maid so eager to oppose her message, entreats Olivia to pacify her gian , 
 alluding; ironically, to the small stature of Maria. • j u + 
 
 “la-s being a messenger implies that it is not her own mmd. but 
 
 that of the sender, that she is to tell. 
 
 21 Comfortable for comforting; the passive form with the active sense. 
 Often so, both in this and in many other words. 
 
52 
 
 act l 
 
 twelfth night ; or , 
 
 will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. Look you 
 sir, such a one I was this present ; 29 is’t not well done ? 
 
 TT. „ „ \ Unveiling. 
 
 Uw. Excellently done, if God did all. 
 
 Oil. Tis in grain, sir ; ’twill endure wind and weather^^ 
 yto. Tis 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 you will lead these graces to the grave. 
 
 And leave the world no copy. 
 
 Oh. 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 labell’d to my will : as, item, two 
 lips, indifferent red; 23 item, two gray eyes,24 with lids to 
 them ; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you 
 sent hither to ’praise me? 25 
 
 Via. I see you what you are, — you are too proud ; 
 
 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 crown’d 
 The nonpareil of beauty ! 
 
 How does he love me ? 
 
 Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears,26 
 
 22 It is ,0 be borne in mind that the idea of a picture is continued- the ' ‘ 
 
 moment ^ 
 
 Indifferent tolerably Ki. See page 40, note 23. 
 
 Blue eyes were called gray in the Poet's time. See As You Tike It 
 page 92, note 45. ^ ’ 
 
 25 1 o appraise me. or set a value upon me ; referring to the inventory she 
 has just given of her graces. ^ 
 
 Shakespeare 
 
 in tlm ey{''^ "or the fruitful xiv^x 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. 
 
 OH. 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, learn’d, 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 love. 
 
 In your denial I would find no sense ; 
 
 I would not understand it. 
 
 Why, what would you? 
 
 Vi-o. Make me a willow cabin atp^our gate, 
 
 And call upon my soul within the house ; 
 
 Write loyal cantons of contemned love. 
 
 And sing them loud even in the dead of night ; 
 
 Holla your name to the reverberate hills. 
 
 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 parentage . 
 Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well : 
 
 I am a gentleman. 
 
 Qll Get you to your lord ; 
 
 I cannot love him : let him send no more ; 
 
 27 Meaning, perhaps, well spoken of, well voiced in the public mouth ; or 
 it marmean well refuted for knowledge in the languages, which was 
 esteemed a great accomplishment in the Poet s time. 
 
 28 Cantons is the old English word for cantos. 
 
 29 A Shakespearian expression for echo. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OK, 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 nless, perchance, you come to me again, 
 
 T o tell me how he takes it. Fare you well : 
 
 I thank you for your pains : spend this i^cjiie^ 
 
 Vto. 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. Fll be sworn thou art ; 
 
 Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit. 
 
 Do give thee fivefold blazon. — Not too fast ; — 
 
 Soft, soft ! — 
 
 , Unless the master were the man.s® — How now ! 
 
 I Even so quickly may one catch the plague ? 
 iMethinks 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 ! 
 
 Re-enter Malvolio. 
 
 Here, madam, at your service. 
 
 Oh. Run after that same peevish®' messenger, 
 
 The County’s man : he left this ring behind him, 
 
 Would I or not : tell him Fll none of it. 
 
 Desire him not to flatter with his lord, 
 
 *» Soft/ was m frequent use, as here, for stay! not too fast! Olivia 
 means, apparently, that her passion is going ahead too fast, unless Orsino ' 
 were its object, who is Viola’s ma.^ter. 
 
 31 Poemshvf&s commonly used for foolish or childish; hence, perhaps, 
 the meaning it now bears of fretful. It may have either meaning here or 
 both. ° ’ 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 55 
 
 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. \^ExiL 
 
 OH. I do I know not what ; and fear to find 
 Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.^^ 
 
 Fate , show thy force : ourselves we do not owe ; 
 
 What is decreed must be, — and be this so ! ^\Exit. 
 
 i 
 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Scene I. — The Sea- coast. 
 
 . / Enter Antonio and Smastian. ' 
 
 ZMji, JUaMjl. . 'Lw.^ 
 
 Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go 
 
 with you ^ 
 
 Seb. By your patience, no 
 me 
 yours 
 
 — \> 
 
 i g'j I 
 
 My stars shine darkly over 
 
 the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper ^ 
 
 ; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I maym^J^^ 
 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. 
 
 Seh. No, sooth, sir : my determinate voyage is mere ex- 
 
 32 She fears that her eyes have* formed so flattering an idea of Cesario, 
 that she will not have the strength of mind to resist the impression. 
 
 33 We are not our own masters ; we cannot govern ourselves. Owe for 
 own, possess, or /lave ; as usual. 
 
56 
 
 TWELFTFI NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT IT. 
 
 travagancy.i But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of 
 modesty, that you will not extort from me what 1 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 Messaline whom I know you have heard of. 
 He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour : 
 if the Heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended !' 
 but you, sir, alter’d that ; for some hour before you took me 
 from the breach of the sea was my sister drown’d. 
 
 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 an estimable wonder, over-far believe 
 that,^ yet thus far I will boldly publish her, — she bore a mind 
 that envy could not but call fair. She is drown’d already, sir, 
 with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance 
 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. 
 
 1 “ The purpose of my voyage ends with the voyage itself,” or, ” I am 
 travelling merely for the sake of travel,” Extravagancy is used in the Latin 
 sense of going at large ; as in Hamlet, i. i : ” Th’ extravagant and erring 
 spirit hies to his confine.” 
 
 2 Willing in the sense of choosing, wishing, <ox preferring. 
 
 8 To declare or unfold myself. Sebastian holds himself the more bound 
 to give the information, inasmuch as Antonio’s delicacy keeps him from 
 asking, or from being inquisitive. 
 
 4 The meaning is, ” Though I could not, when compared with a person 
 of such admirable beauty, over-far believe that I resembled her.” 
 
 ^ This may refer to what is thus delivered by Sir Walter Scott \n The 
 Pirate When Mordaunt has rescued Cleveland from the sea, and is trying 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 57 
 
 Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, 
 kill him whom you have recover’d 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 
 <!:ount Orsino’s Court : farewell. \^Exit. 
 
 Ant, The gentleness of all the gods go with thee ! 
 i have many enemies in Orsino’s Court, 
 
 Else would I very shortly see thee there : 
 
 But, come what may, I do adore thee so. 
 
 That danger shall seem sport, and I vv^ill go. \Exit 
 
 Scene II. — A Street. 
 
 Enter Maly olio following. 
 
 Mai. Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia? 
 
 Vio. Even now, sir ; on a moderate pace I have since 
 arrived but hither. 
 
 Mai. 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 despe- 
 rate 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.^ 
 
 to revive him, Bryce the pedler says to him, — “Are you mad? you, that 
 have so long lived in Zetland, to risk the saving of a drowning man ? Wot 
 ye not, if you bring him to life again, he will be sure to do you some capital 
 injury?” Sir Walter suggests in a note that this inhuman maxim was 
 .probably held by the islanders of the Orkneys, as an excuse for leaving all 
 to perish alone who were shipwrecked upon their coasts, to the end that 
 there might be nothing to hinder the plundering of their goods ; which of 
 course cpuld not well be, if ^'Uy of the owners survived. 
 
 i "Receive it so” is afuder stand it so. Take is still used in the same way 
 
 ! 
 
58 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Vio. She took no ring of me : I’ll none of it. 
 
 Mai. Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her 
 will is, it should be so return’d : if it be worth stooping for, 
 there it lies in your eye ; if not, be it his that finds it. 
 
 \_Exit, 
 
 Vio. I left no ring with her : what means this lady ? 
 Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm’d 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 ’tis, — 
 
 Poor lady, she were better love a dream. 
 
 Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness. 
 
 Wherein the pregnant ^ enemy does much. 
 
 How easy is it for the proper- false ^ 
 
 In woman’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 ; 
 
 2 Her eyes were so charmed that she lost the right use of her tongue, and 
 let it run as if it were divided from her judgment. 
 
 3 Pregnant is quick-witted^ cunning. 
 
 4 Proper is here used in the sense of handsome : the meaning of the pas- 
 sage being, “ How easy it is for handsome deceivers to print their forms in 
 the waxen hearts of women.” Such compounds as proper-false are no) 
 unusual in Shakespeare. Beauteous-evil occurs in this play. 
 
 5 Such evidently refers to frailty in the preceding line ; the sense being, 
 " Since we are made of frailty, we must needs be frail.” 
 
 6 Fad^i^e, meaning yf/or suit^ was a polite v ord in Shakespeare’s time, and 
 moved, witliout question, in the best circles. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 
 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 t’ untie ! 
 
 
 Scene III. — A Room in Olivia’s Hotm. 
 
 Enter Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
 
 Sir To. -i^p^‘3^ Sir Andrew : not to be a-bed after 
 midnight is to be up betimes : and diluculo surgere,^ thou 
 
 know’st, — 
 
 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 unfill’d 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 con- 
 sists of eating and drinking. 
 
 Sir To. Thou’rt a scholar ; let us therefore eat and drink. 
 — Maria, I say ! a stoup^ of wine ! 
 
 7 Viola calls herself monster from the fact of her being, in a manner, both 
 
 woman and man. . , 
 
 1 Diluculo surgere, saluberrimum est. This adage is in Lily s Grammar, 
 It means, “ To rise betimes is very wholesome.” 
 
 2 The four elements referred to are earth, water, air, and fire; the right 
 S mixing of which was suposed to be the condition of health in body and 
 
 mind. 
 
 3 Stoup is an old word for cup ; often used by the Poet. 
 
6o 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II, 
 
 Sir And, Here comes the Fool, i’ faith. 
 Enter the 
 
 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 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 Pi- 
 grogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queu- 
 bus : ’twas very good, i’faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy 
 leman : ^ 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 donej 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 — 
 
 4 Alluding to an old common sign representing two fools or loggerheads, 
 under which was inscribed, “ We three loggerheads be”; the point of the 
 joke being, of course, that the spectator was the third. 
 
 5 Breast was often used for voice in the Poet’s time. Thus we have the 
 phrase, ” singing men well-breasted:' This use of the word grew from the 
 form of the breast having much to do with the quality of the voice. 
 
 ® Leman is mistress or sweetheart. 
 
 Impetticoat, or impocket, gratuity. Some have complained seriously 
 that they could not understand the Clown in this scene ; which is shre^ 
 j)roof they did not understand the Poet ! 
 
 8 The testril or testern was originally a French coin, of sixpence v 
 thereabouts ; so called from having a teste or head stamped upon it. 
 
SCiiNE III. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Clo, Would you have a love-song, or a song of goc 
 Sit" 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 comings 
 That can sing both high and low: 
 
 Trip no further^ pretty sweeting; 
 
 Journeys end in lovers' meetings 
 EiVery wise man' s son doth knoWm 
 
 Sir And, Excellent good, i’ faith. 
 
 Sir To, Good, good. 
 
 Clo. What is love ? 'tis 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. ^ 
 
 9 That is, a civil and virtuous song ; so described in The Mad Pranks of 
 Robin Goodfellow, 
 
 11 This song probably was not written by Shakespeare. Chappell, m 
 his Popular Music of the Olden Time, says the tune is in Queen Elizabeth's 
 Virginal Book, arranged by Byrd. He also says it was printed in 1599 ; and 
 from this he concludes “ either that Shakespeare's Twelfth Night was writ- 
 ten in or before that year, or that in accordance with the then prevailing 
 custom, O mistress mine was an old song, introduced into the play.” Dyce 
 •links " the latter supposition is doubtless the true one. 
 
 t Sweet-and-twenty appears to have been an old term of endearment. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion, 
 shall we make the welkin dance indeed? 12 shall we 
 rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out 
 of one weaver ? ^3 shall we do that^ oD ^ ' 
 
 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 shall be 
 constrained in’t to call thee knave, knight. 
 
 Sir And, ’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to 
 call me knave. Begin, Fool : it begins. Hold thy peace. 
 
 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 call’d up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn 
 you out of doors, never trust me. 
 
 Sir To. My lady’s a Cataian,!^ we are politicians; Mal- 
 volio s a Peg-a- Ramsey, and Three merry . men be we. Am 
 not I consanguineous ? am I not of her blood ? Tilly- vally, 
 |^^^yii?^[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 
 
 12 Drink till the sky seems to turn round. 
 
 13 Shakespeare represents weavers as much given to harmony in his 
 time. Sir Toby meant that the catch should be so harmonious that it would' 
 hale the soul out of a weaver thrice over. 
 
 14 This word generally signified a sharper. Sir Toby is too drunk fo^ 
 precision, and uses it merely as a term of reproach. 
 
 13 An interjection of contempt, equivalent to fiddle-faddle. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 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 you make an alehouse of my lady’s 
 house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without 
 any mitigation or remorse of voice ? Is there no respect of 
 place, persons, nor time, in you ? 
 
 Sir T We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Snick- 
 up ! iaA cUlo ^ < : A 
 
 MaL Sir Toby, I must be round 20 with you. My lady 
 bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kins- 
 
 nan, she’s nothing allied to your disorders, 
 xate yourself and your misdemeanours. 
 
 If you can sep- 
 you are welcome to 
 
 16 This is not the interjectional O, but the elided preposition on or of, 
 
 17 With Sir Toby as wine goes in music comes out, and fresh songs keep 
 bubbling up in his memory as he waxes mellower. A similar thing occurs 
 in 2 Henry IV., where Master Silence grows merry and musical amidst h' 
 cups in “ the sweet of the night.” Of the ballads referred to by Sir T 
 O' the twelfth day of December is entirely lost. Percy has one stanza o 
 dwelt a man in Babylon, which he describes as “ a poor dull per 
 and very long.” Three merry men be we seems to have been the 
 several old songs, one of which was called Robin Hood an 
 Peg-a-Ramsey, or Peggy Ramsey, was an old popular tune w 
 ballads fitted to it. Thou kiiave was a catch which, sa” 
 
 ” appears to be so contrived that each of the sin'’ 
 in turn.” 
 
 ^ 18 Coziers is botchers, whether botching 
 
 19 Snick-Mp was an exclamation of c 
 yourself,” or ” go and be hanged.” 
 
 29 Round is downright ox plain-spoke 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 house ; if not, an it would please you to take leave of 
 her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. 
 
 Sir To. [Sings.] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs 
 begone?^ - ' 
 
 Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby. 
 
 Clo. [Sings.] His eyes do show his days are almost done. 
 Mai. Is’t even so ? 
 
 Sir To. [Sings.] But I will never die. 1 ' ' ' ' 
 
 Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie. .y*(j 
 
 Mai. This is much credit to you. 
 
 Sir To. [Sings.] Shall I bid him go ? 
 
 Clo. [Sings.] What an if you do ? \ \ 
 
 Sir To. [Sings.] Shall I bid him go, and spare not? 
 
 Clo. [Sings.] 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 3 and ginger shall be hot i’ the 
 mouthy j! 
 
 I'W’rtl’ the rub your chain 
 
 with crumbs.®P^2'X st^p M’kria ! 
 
 Mai. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at any 
 
 ■ is the first line of an old ballad, entitled Corydoris Farewell to 
 was inserted in Percy's Reliques from an ancient miscellany, 
 "nlden Garland of Princely Delights. The musical dialogue 
 en Sir Toby and the Clown is adapted to their purpose 
 zas of the ballad. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 65 
 
 thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this 
 uncivil rule : she shall know of it, by this hand. 
 
 Mar. Go shake your ears.^^ 
 
 Sir And. ’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a 
 man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to 
 break promise with him, and make a fool of him. q, , f aJ^, 
 
 Sir To. Do/^ knight : I’ll write thee a challen^ ; or r|' 
 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 lady, she is much 
 out of quiet. For Monsjeur Malvolio, let me alone with him -. 
 if I do not gull him mto a nayword,^'* and make him a com- 
 mon recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight 
 in my bed : know I can do it. 
 
 Sir '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 rea- 
 son good enough. 
 
 Mar. The Devil a Pilritifa that h^ is, or any thing con- 
 stantly, but a time-pleaser ; an affection’d ass,^® that cons 
 State without book, and utters it by great swaths ; the best 
 
 23 “ Shake your ears ” is probably used as a metaphor implying that Mal- 
 volio has long ears ; in other words, that he is an ass. 
 
 24 Nay-word here means by-word or laughing-stock. So defined in an old 
 dictionary. Elsewhere the Poet has it in the sense of watch-word. 
 
 25 Possess for inform; a very frequent usage. See The Merchant, page 
 97, note 12. 
 
 26 An affected ass. Affection was often used for affectation. 
 
 27 By great parcels or heaps. Swaths are the rows of grass left by the 
 scythe of the mower. Maria means that he is full o^- political strut, and 
 spouts arguments of State by rote. 
 
66 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 persuaded of himself, so cramm’d, as he thinks, with excel- 
 lencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all that look on 
 him love him ; and on that vice in him will my revenge find 
 notable cause to work. 
 
 Sir To. What wilt thou do ? 
 
 Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of 
 love ; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his 
 leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, fore- 
 head, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly 
 personated : I can write very like my lady, your niece ; on 
 a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. 
 '^Sh.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. 
 
 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 construc- 
 tion of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. 
 Farewell. , 
 
 Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea.^^ : , \^Exit Maria. ^ 
 
 Sir And. Before me, she’s a good wench. 
 
 Sir To. She’s a beagle,^^ true-bred, and one that adores 
 me : what o’ that ? 
 
 .4 
 
 28 Penthesilea was Queen of the Amazons, and killed by Achilles in the 
 Trojan War; politely. 
 
 2'*^ A beagle was a small hound, and a keen hunter ; applied to Maria 
 from her l^revity of person and sharpness of wit. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 67 
 
 Sir And. I was adored once too. 
 
 Sir To. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for 
 more money. 
 
 Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way 
 out. 
 
 Sir To. Send for money, knight ; if thou hast her not i’ 
 the end, call me cut.^® 
 
 Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you 
 will. 
 
 Sir To. Come, come ; I’ll go burn some sack;3i >tis too 
 late to go to bed now : come, knisfht ; come, knight. ^ Exeunt, n 
 
 Scene IV. — An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace.'^ 
 Enter the Duke, Viola, Curio, and others. 
 
 Duke. Give me some music : — now, good morrow, friends. — 
 Now, good Cesari9, but that piece of song. 
 
 That old aniT^itique 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. 
 
 30 tut was a common contraction of curtail. One of the carriers’ horses 
 in Henry IV. is called Cut. 
 
 31 Sack is an old term for sherry wine, which appears to have been Sir 
 Toby’s favourite beverage, as it was also Falstaff’s. The phrase “ 
 sack ” occurs twice in The Merry Wives ; perhaps a preparation of sack 
 and other ingredients finished for the mouth, as flip used to be, by thrusting 
 
 a rei-hot iron into it. 
 
 1 This is commonly explained as meaning repeated terms, or the repeti- 
 tion of poetical and musical phrases. Some think terms refers to a sort of 
 lyrical embroidery made by running culled expressions together, and so 
 lacking the plainness and simplicity that goes to the heart. Old and an- 
 tique, two lines before, is not a pleonasm, antique carrying a sense of quaint- 
 ness as well as of age. 
 
68 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Come, but one verse. 
 
 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. Go seek him out : — and play the tune the while. — 
 
 . \_Exit Curio. Music. 
 
 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, *7 ■ ' ' 
 
 XJnstaid and skittish in all motions else. 
 
 Save in the constant image of the creature 
 ^ That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune? 
 
 fzo. It gives a very echo to the seat 
 \ Where Love is throned. 
 
 Thou dost speak masterly : 
 
 My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye 
 Hath stay’d upon some favour ^ that it loves : 
 
 Hath it not, boy? 
 
 A little, by your favour. 
 
 Duke, What kind of woman is’t? 
 
 Of your complexion. 
 Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’faith ? 
 — . -Vto, About your years, my lord. 
 
 Duke. Too old, by Heaven : let still the woman take 
 An elder than herself ; so wears she to him. 
 
 So sways she level in her husband’s heart : . ' > 
 
 For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, ^ : 
 
 Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, c ' ’ ' ! 
 
 ‘■2 Favour iox feature. Viola in her reply plays apon the word. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 69 
 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won. 
 Than women’s are. 
 
 Vw. I think it well, my lord. 
 
 I think it well, my lord. 
 
 Duke, Then let thy love be younger than thyself, ^ ^ ^ 
 Or thy affection cannot hold the bent j 
 For women are as roses, whose fair flower, 
 
 ;Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. 
 
 And so they are : alas, that they are so, — 
 
 To die, even when they to perfection grow ! 
 
 Re-enter Curio with the Clown. 
 
 Duke, O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. — 
 Mark it, Cesario ; ’it is old and plain : 
 
 The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, 
 
 And the free^ maids that weave their thread with bones, 
 
 Do use to chant it : it is silly sooth,^ 
 
 And dallies with the innocence of love. 
 
 Like the old age.^ 
 
 Clo, Are you ready, sir? 
 
 I Duke, Ay ; pr’ythee, sing. \Mustc, 
 
 Song. 
 
 Clo. Come away, come away, death, 
 
 **7"" And in sad cypress^ let me be laid ; 
 
 Fly away, fly away, breath ; 
 
 3 Free appears to have been often used in the sense of pure or chaste. 
 So, in The Winter's Tale, ii. 3, Hermione is described as “ a gracious inno- 
 cent soul, more free than he is jealous.” It may, however, mean frank, 
 unsuspecting ; the proper style of a plain and guileless heart. 
 
 4 Silly sooth is simple truth. 
 
 5 The old age is the ages past, times of simplicity. 
 
 6 Cypress wood was thought to be the fittest for coffins. — Come away 
 here means come on, or come, simply. Repeatedly so. 
 
70 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 / am slam hy a fair cruel maid. 
 
 My shroud of ivhite, stuck all with yew ^ 
 
 Oy prepare it ! 
 
 My part of death, no one so true 
 • Did share it? 
 
 Not a flower, not a flower sweet. 
 
 On my black cojfin let there be strown ; 
 
 Not a friend, not a friend greet 
 
 My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown : 
 
 A thousand thousand sighs to save, 
 
 Lay me, O, ivhere 
 
 Sad true-love never find my grave. 
 
 To weep there / 
 
 Duke. There for thy pains. 
 
 Clo. No pains, sir ; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 
 
 Duke. I’ll pay thy pleasure, then. 
 
 Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or 
 another. 
 
 Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.® W 
 
 Clo. Now the melancholy god protect thee; and tn? 
 tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind 
 is a very opal ! ^ I would have men of such constancy put 
 
 7 Death is a part in the drama of life, which all have to undergo or to 
 act ; and the thought here seems to be, that, “ of all the actors who have 
 shared in this common lot, I am the truest,” or, ” no one has been so true 
 as I.” 
 
 8 Probably the Duke’s polite way of requesting the Clown to leave. Some, 
 however, think the text corrupt ; and so indeed it may be. 
 
 ^ The opal is a gem that varies its hues, as it is viewed in different lights, 
 like what is sometimes called changeable silk, that is, taffeta. “ The melan- 
 choly god” is Saturn; hence the word saturnine^ which means sad or 
 gloomy. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 to sea, 
 
 intent' e very where ; for that’s it that always makes a 
 voyage of nothing. Farewell. 
 
 Duke, Let all the rest give place. - 
 
 \_Exeunt Curio and Attendanl 
 Once more, Cesario^ 
 Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty : 
 
 Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, 
 
 Prizes not quantity of dirty lands ; 
 
 The parts that Fortune hath bestow’d upon her, 
 
 /ell her, I hold as giddily as Fortune 
 |dut ’tis that miracle and queen of gems. 
 
 That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. 
 
 'Vio, But if she cannot love you, sir? 
 
 Duke, I cannot be so answer’d. 
 
 Vio, Sooth, but you must. 
 
 Say that some lady — as, perhaps, there is — 
 
 |Hath for your love as great a pang of heart 
 \.s you have for Olivia : you cannot love her ; 
 
 \Vovi tell her so ; must she not, then, be answer’d? 
 
 Duke. There is no woman’s sides 
 ICan 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.^® 
 lAlas, their love may be call’d appetite, — 
 
 I No motion of the liver, but the palate, — 
 
 Retention here evidently has the sense of capacity. A rather singular 
 fuse of the word; but the Poet has it so again in his I22d Sonnet: “That 
 [ poor retention could not hold so much.” — “ So big, to hold ” is “ so big, as 
 I to hold ” ; an ellipsis occurring very often. 
 
 ^ i The liver was thought to be the special seat of love and courage. See 
 I page 31, note 7. 
 
ACT IT 
 
 Fsue 
 
 rmine iWuas hungry as the sea, 
 can digest as much :j^ake no compare 
 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 rtween that love a woman can bear me 
 tnd 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 ? 
 
 A- blank, my lord. She never told her love, 
 
 I But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud. 
 
 Feed on her damask cheek : she pined in thought ; 
 
 ' I And, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
 
 I She sat, like Patience on a monument, 
 
 Bmiling 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’m all the daughters of my father’s House, . 
 And all the brothers too ; — and yet I know not. 
 
 
 12 The meaning is, “ she wasted away through grief.” So in HamletJ 
 soliloquy : ” The native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale caj 
 of thought ” ; that is, the pale complexion of grief. And in Julius 
 ii. I ; “ If he love Caesar, all that he can do is to himself; take thought ani 
 die for Caesar ” ; where take thought and die means ” grieve himself tl 
 death.” So, again, in St. Matthew, vi. 25 : “ Take no thought for your lifej 
 what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink ; ” &c. 
 
 18 She sat smiling at grief as the image of Patience sits on a monument. | 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 73 
 
 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^om Belch, And rew AGU EgagEK, a ndY mim. 
 
 Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. 
 
 Fab. Nay, I’ll come : if I lose a scruple of this sport, let 
 me be boil’d to death with melancholy.i 
 
 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-baiting here. 
 
 14 Denay is an old forfn of denial ; used here for the rhyme. 
 
 1 Melancholy must be used here to signify a form of madness or lunacy ; 
 something such as Milton has in view, in Paradise Lost, x. i.. 485 : “ De- 
 moniac frenzy, moping melancholy, and moon-struck madness.” Shake- 
 speare repeatedly supposes the brains of crazy people to be in a boiling or 
 highly feverish state ; as in A Midsummer, v. i : “ Lovers and madmen 
 have such seething brains.” 
 
 2 Sheep-biter, says Dyce, was ” a cant term for a thief.' But I do not 
 well see how it should be applied to Malvolio in that sense. In Measure 
 for Measure, v. i, Lucio says to the Duke, who is disguised as a Friar, 
 ” Show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you ! show your sheep-biting 
 face.” Here sheep-biting, as also sheep-biter in the text, seems to have the 
 sense of morose, censorious, fault-finding, or given to biting unoffending 
 persons with harsh language. In Chapman’s May-Day, iii. i, a lecherous, 
 intriguing old rogue, named Lorenzo, has a sharp trick played upon him 
 by his nephew Lodovico, who speaks of him as follows : ” Alas, poor uncle, 
 I have monstrously abused him ; and yet marvellous worthy, for he dis- 
 parageth the whole blood of us ; and I wish all such old sheep-biters might 
 dip their fingers in such sauce to their mutton,” 
 
'v/4 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 act II. 
 
 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 metal of India ! ^ 
 
 .,^ M ar. Get ye all three into the box-tree : Malvolio’s com- 
 ing 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 ! 
 [^T/ie men hide themselves — Lie thou there; \_Throws 
 down a letteril\ for here comes the trout that must be caught 
 with tickling. \^Exit, 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai, Tis but fortune ; all is fortune. Maria once told 
 me sTie did affect me : and I have heard herself come thus 
 near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my com- 
 plexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect 
 than any one else that follows her. What should I think 
 on’t ? . 
 
 Sir To, Here’s an overweening rogue ! 
 
 2t vvom the 
 
 3 I can hardly imagine what this means, having never met wftlT the 
 phrase anywhere else, that I remember. What it is to be flogged black and 
 blue I have ample cause to know : but to be fooled black and blue, what is 
 it ? Is it to mock one, till he turns black in the face from anger and vexa- 
 tion ? The best I can do with it is by quoting from one of Mr. Mantalini’s 
 speeches in Nicholas Nickleby : “ What a demnition long time have you 
 kept me ringing at this confounded old cracked tea-kettle of a bell, every 
 tinkle of which is enough to throw a strong man into blue convulsions^ upon 
 my life and soul, oh demmit.” 
 
 4 “ Metal of India" probably means precious girl, or heart of gold, /• 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 75 
 
 Fab. O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock 
 of him : how he jets under his advanced plumes 1^ 
 
 Sir And. ’Slight,® I could so beat the rogue ! 
 
 Sir To. Peace, I say. 
 
 Mai. To be Count Malvolio : — 
 
 Sir To. Ah, rogue ! 
 
 Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 
 
 Sir To. Peace, peace ! 
 
 Mai. —there is example for’t; the lady of the strachy^ 
 married the yeoman of the wardrobe. aJ/P''! r 
 
 Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel ! — cJy- 
 
 Fab. O, peace ! now he’s deeply in : look how imagina- 
 tion blows him.® 
 
 Mai. Having been three months married to her, sitting in 
 my state, — 
 
 Sir To. O, for a stone-bow,® to hit him in the eye ! 
 
 i To jet is to strut with pride. So in Cymbeline, iii. 3 : “The gates of 
 monarchs are arch'd so higli, that giants may /W through, and kegp their 
 impious turbans on, without good morrow to the Sun.” — Advanced plumes 
 is raised or uplifted feathers. 
 
 6 'Slight! is a disguised oath, for God's light! 
 
 7 Payne Knight conjectured that strachy was a corruption of the Italian 
 stratico, a word derived from the low Latin strategus, or straticus, and often 
 used for the governor of a city or province. But Mr. A. E. Brae offers, I think, 
 a more probable explanation : “ Florio, in his Italian Dictionary, has a woid 
 very like in sound to this strachy : ‘ Str atis co, the train or long garment of 
 state worn by a princess.’ And when it is considered that there is a sort of 
 appositeness in making the lady who wears the train condescend to marry 
 the man who had charge of it, it offers, I think, a very probable interpreta- 
 tion of Malvolio’s meaning.” He also quotes from Camden’s Remains an 
 epitaph showing that yeoman of the wardrobe ” was a well known office 
 in the households of high-born ladies ; “ Her lyes Richard Hobbs, Yeoman 
 of the roabes to our late sovereigne Queene Mary.” 
 
 8 Puffs him up. So in Bacon’s Advancement of Learning : ” Knowledge 
 bloweth up, but charity buildeth up.” 
 
 ^ A bow for hurling stones. 
 
Twelfth night ; or, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 
 Ma/. — calling my officers about me, in my branch’d 
 velvet gown ; having come from a day-bed, where I have left 
 Olivia sleeping ; — 
 
 Si’r To. Fire and brimstone ! 
 
 Fab. O, peace, peace ! 
 
 Mai. — and then to have the humour of state ; and, after 
 a demure travel of regard, — telling them 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. 
 
 Mai. — Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make 
 out for him : I frown the while ; and perchance wind up my 
 X watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches ; 
 curtsies there to me : — 
 
 Sir To. Shall this fellow live ? 
 
 Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us by th’ ears, 
 yet peace. 
 
 Mai. — I e:?^tend 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 ? 
 
 Mai. — saying. Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me 
 on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech ; — 
 
 Sir To. What, what? 
 
 Mai. — you must amend your drunkenness. — 
 
 Sir To. Out, scab ! 
 
 This seems to be a Malvolian phrase for a stern and awful gaze oi' 
 stare, with an air of dignified contempt. 
 
 Curtsy was used, to denote acts of civility and reverence by either sex. 
 An austere regard of control ” probably means such a look of stern- 
 ness as would awe down or repress any approaches of familiarity. 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 77 
 
 Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews oi our plot. 
 Mai. — Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with 
 a foolish knight, — 
 
 Sir And. That’s me, I warrant you. 
 
 Mai. — one Sir Andrew. 
 
 Sir And. I knew ’twas I; for many do call me fool. 
 
 Mai. What employment have we here ? 
 
 {Taking up the letter. 
 
 (' ’^Fab. Now is the woo^ock near the gin.i^ 
 
 Sir To. O, peace ! and the spirit of humours intimate 
 reading aloud to him ! 
 
 Mai. By my life, this is my lady’s hand : these be her 
 very C’s, her LPs, and her Ts; and thus makes she her great 
 Ts. It is, in contempt of question, her hand. 
 
 Sir And. Her Cs, her ITs, and her Ts: why that? 
 
 Mai. [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 seaH tis, 
 my lady. To whom should this 
 Fab. This wins him, liver and 
 
 Mai. [Reads.] /ove knows I love : but who ? 
 
 Lips, do not move; no man must know. 
 
 Mo man must know. What follows ? the numbers alter d ! 
 No man must know. If this should be thee, Malvolio ! 
 
 
 13 The woodcock was thought to be the stupidest of birds ; and gin was 
 but another word for trap ox snare. 
 
 14 “ May the self-love-sick humour that possesses him prompt him to read 
 the letter aloud! ” Sir Toby wants to hear the contents, and also to see 
 Malvolio smack his lips over the “ dish of poison.” 
 
 15 Referring, no doubt, to the different versification of what follows. The 
 use of numbers for verse is quite common ; as in Milton’s ” harmonious 
 numbers^ and Pope’s ‘‘ I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. 
 
78 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT n. 
 
 Sir To, Marry, hang thee, brock ! 
 
 Mai. [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. 
 
 Mai. M, O, A, I, doth sway my life, — Y\d.y, but first, let 
 me see, let me see, let me see. 
 
 Fab, What dish o’ poison has she dress’d him ! 
 
 Sir To. And with what wing the staniel checks at it ! 
 
 Mai. 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 
 and the end, what should that alphabetical position 
 portend? if I could make that resemble something in me, — 
 Softly !—J/, O, A, I , — 
 
 Sir To. O, ay, make up that : — he is now at a cold scent.^o 
 
 Fab. Sowter will cry upon’t, for all this, though it be as 
 rank as a fox.^i 
 
 16 Brock is badger^ and was used as a term of contempt. 
 
 17 An exclamative speech. We should say “ What a dish,” &c. See 
 Julius C(ssar, page 65, note 14. 
 
 18 The staniel is a species of hawk, which inhabits old buildings and 
 rocks. To check, says Latham in his Book of Falconry, is, ” when crows, 
 rooks, pies, or other birds coming in view of the hawk, she forsaketh her 
 natural flight to fly at them.” 
 
 1 ^ To any one in his senses, or whose capacity is not out of form. 
 
 26 A cold scent is a trail that has grown so faint as not to be traceable by 
 the smell, or hardly so. 
 
 21 Sowter is used here as the name of a hound. — The Poet sometimes 
 has though in a causal, not a concessive, sense ; that is, as equivalent to 
 because, for , since, or hiasmuch as.. In such cases, his meaning naturally 
 appears to us just the opposite of what it really is. So, here, though it be 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 79 
 
 Mai iI/-Malvolio ; J/,-why, that begins my name. 
 m. M not I sn, ho would work it ou.k the cu. . ex- 
 
 ,hu"u„d.r probation .d should Mow. bn. 0 does. 
 Fab. And 0 shall end, I hope. 
 
 ^ir To. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry 0 . 
 
 MnJ And then / comes behind. 
 
 f1 Ay. tut you had any eye behind you. yon ought see 
 rimtrartion at vour heels than fortunes before you. 
 
 ^^Mal. M, O, A, I; this simulations'* is not as the former : 
 
 and yet, to’ crush this a little, it would ^ 
 
 one of these letters are in my name. Soft! here toliow 
 
 prose. 
 
 TReads 1 If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars 
 7am above thee • but be not afraid of greatness : some are 
 
 born great, some achieve greatness, and 
 
 * > I Thv Fates otien their hands ; let thy blood 
 
 re r»re r.yser/. ^rr^w 
 
 ftl re fc. e«r r/,y ^««e 
 
 opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants , let y g 
 
 r •/ Vc The lode of the passage requires it to be 
 
 stands'for since or because iti . snuffs all round till he 
 
 so understood; upon't/' and starts off 
 
 recovers it and then “P .. technical phrase for it ; and 
 
 afresh in the pursuit. Givi g _ ^ports- 
 
 Mr. Joseph Crosby writes me that it opens in concert.” 
 
 men and also to the rest of * . breach in the continuity of 
 
8 o 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 trST'T * '■-■f 
 
 y ■ she thus advises thee that sighs for thee / 
 
 a^sM tLr;T 
 
 time s fingers. Farewell. She thatwnuU njf 
 
 thee, would alter services with 
 
 ^ The Fortunate- Unhappy. 
 
 Daylight and champain discover not morer^e this is open 
 I wdl be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle c 
 viseS t J acquaintance, I will be point-de- 
 
 cu a-a ’ • commend my yellow stockings of late 
 
 shed, dpra.se my leg being cross-garter’d ; and in this^e 
 
 and my stars be praised ! — Here is vet n!. f • * ^ ^ 
 
 n?epd«1 7’^ "cre IS yet a postscript. 
 
 L J<eads.] Thou canst not choose but know who I am It 
 
 thou entertain’ st my love let ft ^ 
 
 ny love, let it appear in thy smiling: thy 
 
 use. were .hen in 
 
 them coxcombical. probably arose from thinking 
 
 affording a free prosnect 
 
 comingt: P-ise in afl .Kes and be- 
 
 A., 
 
 or stout-tempered, ^ ^ overbear* 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, 
 dear my sweet, I pr'ythee. 
 
 God, I thank Thee. — I will smile; I will do every thing 
 
 \_Exit, 
 
 that thou wilt have me. 
 
 Fab, I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of 
 thousands to be paid from the Sophy .^9 
 
 Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device, — 
 
 Sir And. So could I too. 
 
 To. —and ask no other dowry with her but such an- 
 other 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. 
 
 M^. Nay, but say true ; does it work upon him ? 
 
 Sir To. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. 
 
 Mar. If you will, then, see the fruits of the sport, mark 
 
 29 Sophy was the Persian title of majesty. At the time this play was 
 written, Sir Robert Shirley had lately returned as ambassador from the 
 Sophy. Sir Robert boasted of the great rewards he had received, and cut a 
 big dash in London. 
 
 80 Tray-trip was probably a game of dice ; though some hold it to have 
 been the game of draughts. So in an old satire called Machiavel s Dog : 
 “ But, leaving cards, let’s go to dice awhile; to passage, hazard, 
 
 or mum-chance.” — Play my freedom means play for my freedom; that is, 
 stake it. 
 
o2 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 his first approach before my lady : he will come to her in 
 yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors; and cross- 
 garter’d, 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,3i thou most excellent devil 
 of wit ! 
 
 Sir And. I’ll make one too. {^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Olivia’s Garden. 
 
 Enter Viola, and the Clown with a tabor. 
 
 Vto. Save thee, friend, and thy music 1 dost thou live by 
 thy tabor ?i 
 
 Clo. No, sir, I live by the church. 
 
 Vto. 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. 
 
 Vto. So thou mayst say, the king lives by a beggar, if a 
 beggar dwell near him ; or, the church stands by thy tabor, 
 if thy tabor stand by thy church. 
 
 Tartar is the old Tartarus or Hades., Note the sympathy of Tartar 
 and devil. 
 
 1 It seems that the “ allowed Fool ” had a prescriptive right to the tabor 
 as his musical instrument. 'I'arleton, the famous stage jester, is represented 
 as armed with one, in a cut prefixed to his Je.sts, i6ii. 
 
 2 Churchman was in common use for clergyman. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 83 
 
 Clo, You have said,^ sir. To see this age ! A sentence 
 is but a cheveril glove to a good wit : ^ how quickly the wrong 
 side may be turn’d outward ! 
 
 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 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 
 
 s This form of assent or affirmation, now obsolete, occurs in the Bible ; 
 as in our Lord’s answer to Pilate, St. Mark, xv. 2 : “ Thou sayest it.” 
 
 4 A cheveril glove is a kid glove. The term was used much as India 
 rubber is now. So in one of Ray’s proverbs : ” He hath a conscience like a 
 cheveril' s skin.” 
 
 6 This probably alludes to an order of the Privy Council, in June, 1600, 
 laying very severe restrictions on the Poet’s art. The order, besides that it 
 allowed only two houses to be used for stage-plays in the city and suburbs, 
 interdicted those two from playing at all during Lent, or in any time of great 
 ^iekness, and also limited them to twice a week at all other times. If rigidly 
 enforced it would have amounted almost to a total suppression of play- 
 houses. As the penalty was imprisonment, it might well be said that words 
 were disgraced by bonds. 
 
84 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT ;ii. 
 
 will keep no fool, sir, till she be married ; and fools are as like 
 husbands as pilchards are to herrings,® — the husband’s the big- 
 ger : I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. 
 
 Vio, I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. \ y ^ ^ 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Clo, Would not a pair of these breed,^ sir? 
 
 Vio, Yes, being kept together, and put to use. 
 
 Clo, I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring 
 a Cressida to this Troilus. , 
 
 Vio, I understand you, sir : ’tis well begged. 
 
 \_Gives another piece of money, 
 
 Clo, The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a 
 beggar : Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I 
 
 6 Pilchards are said to differ from herrings only in that they can be fried 
 in their own fat, whereas herrings have not fat enough for that purpose. 
 
 7 But is here equivalent to if not. See The Merchant^ ii. 5 , note 19 . 
 
 8 Pass for make a pass, thrust, or sally, of wit, 
 
 9 The Fool is quirkishly asking for a 7nate to the piece of money Viola 
 has given him. 
 
 This famous jilt-heroine is thus addressed in Henryson's Testament of 
 Cresseid : “Great penurye shalt thou suffer, and as a beggar dye,” And 
 again : 
 
 Thou shalt go begging from hous to hoiis, 
 With cuppe and clapper like a Lazarous. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 85 
 
 will construe to them whence you come ; who you are, and 
 what youTwould, are out of my welkin, — I might say ele- 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 ment,i‘ but the word is over- worn. 
 
 Vio. This fe llow’s wise enough jojlay 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 ; . 
 
 Not, like the haggard, check at every feather 
 That comes before his eye.i^ 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’s folly, shown, quite taints their 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
 
 Sir To. Save you, gentleman ! 
 
 Vio. And you, sir. 
 
 , Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur. , 
 
 ^■Vio. Etvousaussi; votre serviteur. 
 
 Sir And. I hope, sir, you are ; and I am yours. 
 
 Sir To. Will you encounter the house ? my niece is desir- 
 ous 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. 
 
 11 Element VI3.S constantly in the mouths of those who affected fine talk, 
 ing in the Poet's time. The intellectual exquisites thus run it into cant. 
 Perhaps the word was as much overworked as idea and intuition are m our 
 
 12 A haggard is a wild or untrained hawk, which flies, checks, at all birds, 
 or birds of every feather, indiscriminately. See Much Ado. page 67, note 2. 
 
 18 To taint, as here used, is to impeach, attaint, or bring into an attainder. 
 Wit. also, was used in the sense of wisdom, being in fact from the same 
 
 original. . 
 
 14 List was often used for limit or boundary ; as, in the well-known lan- 
 guage of the tilting-ground, for barrier. 
 
86 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT ITT. 
 
 Sir To, Tasters your legs, sir ; put them to motion. 
 
 Vio, My legs do better understand me, sir, than I under- 
 stand 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-accomplishM lady, the heavens rain odours 
 on you ! 
 
 ^ Sir And, {^AsideS\ 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. [Aside.] Odours, pregnant, and vouchsafed : 
 I’ll get ’em all three 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. 
 
 Oli, What is your name ? 
 
 Vio, Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess. 
 
 Oli, My servant, sir ! ’Twas never merry world 
 Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment : 
 
 You’re servant to the Count Orsino, youth. 
 
 V 10, 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, 
 
 Taste was sometimes used in the sense of try. So in Chapman’s 
 Odyssey : “ He now began to taste the bow. 
 
 Prevented in the classical sense of anticipated or forestalled. Often so. 
 See The Merchant, page 83, note 18. 
 
 1 "^ Pregnant here means apprehensive, quick, or intelligent. 
 
WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 87 
 
 )o rj they were blanks, rather than fill’d with me ! 
 
 ’ ' ’ I come to whet your gentle thoughts 
 
 OH. 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. 
 Via, 
 
 Dear lady, — 
 
 OH, Give me leave, I 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 : 
 
 Under your hard construction must I sit. 
 
 To force that on you, in a shameful cunning. 
 
 Which you knew none of ypurs : what might you think? 
 Have you not set mine honour at the stake. 
 
 And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts 
 That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your 
 Receiving^® enough is shown : 
 
 A cyprus,2i not a bosom, hides my heart. 
 
 So, let me hear you speak. 
 
 Vio, I pity you. 
 
 OH, That’s a deg^e^to love. 
 
 Vio, No, not a grise for ’tis a vulgar proof. 
 
 To force with the sense of for forcing. The Poet abounds in such 
 instances of the infinitive used like the gerund in Latin. 
 
 19 The figure is of a bear or other animal tied to a stake, to be baited or 
 worriedhy dogs, with free ox 'unmuzzled mouths. 
 
 20 One so quick to understand or apprehend. 
 
 21 Cyprus was the name of a light transparent fabric, like lawn. 
 
 22 Grise is an old word for step^ and so means the same as Olivia s de' 
 gree^ which is used in the Latin sense. 
 
88 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR^ 
 
 That very oft we pity enemies. ^ 
 
 OH. Why, then methinks ’tis time to smile again. 
 
 0 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 i;trikes. 
 
 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. 
 
 ^ V w. Then westward-ho ! 
 
 Grace and good disposition ’tend your ladyship ! 
 
 You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me ? 
 
 OH, Stay : 
 
 1 pr’ythee, tell me what thou think’st of me. 
 
 Vio. That you do think you are not what you are. 
 
 OH. If I think so, I think the same of you. 
 
 Vio. Then think you right : I am not what I am..^ 
 
 OH. I would you were as I would have you be ! 
 
 Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am, C 
 
 I wish it might ; for now I am your fool. \ 
 
 OH. \_Aside^ O, what a deal of scorn looks iWutifi^? / 
 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^|^-^>^ 
 
 ^sario7 
 
 By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing, 
 
 I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, t 
 Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. 
 
 n^ViX)^ (r 
 
 An exclamation used by watermen on the Thames. Westward ho^ 
 Northward ho, and Eastward ho, were also used as titles of plays. 
 
 2^* Maugre is in spite of, from the French mature. 
 
n. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL 
 
 89 
 
 .ot 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. 
 
 And that no woman has ; nor never none 26 
 Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. 
 
 And so adieu, good madam ; never more 
 Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. 
 
 on. Yet come again ; for thou perhaps mayst 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 
 Fabian. 
 
 Aguecheek, 
 
 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 bestow d upon me \ 1 
 saw’t i’ the orchard. 
 
 Sir To. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? tell me 
 
 that. 
 
 R M. ? 
 
 25 This is rather darkly expressed ; but the meaning appears to be, “ Do 
 not, from what I have just said, force or gather reasons for rejecting niy 
 
 ' offer.” Perhaps Olivia thinks her superiority of rank may excuse her in 
 thus making the first open advances. 
 
 26 We should say, “ nor ever anyt The doubling of negatives is very 
 frequent in Shakespeare, as in all the writers of his time ; but such a trebling 
 is rare, at least comparatively so. 
 
90 
 
 TWKLFTII NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT Til, 
 
 Sir And. As plain as I see you now. 
 
 Fab. This was a great argument of love in her toward 
 you. 
 
 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 dormouse valour, to put 
 fire in your heart, and brimstone in your liver. You should 
 then have accosted her ; and with some excellent jests, fire- 
 new from the mint, you should have bang’d the youth into 
 dumbness. This was look’d for at your hand, and this was 
 balk’d : the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash 
 off, and you are now sail’d into the north of my lady’s opin- 
 ion ; 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 Q, 
 policy I hate : I had as lief be a 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 ; 
 
 1 The Brownists were one of the radical sects that arose during the reign < 
 
 of Elizabeth ; so called from Robert Brown, their founder. Like others of 
 
 their kind, their leading purpose was to prevent the abuse of certain things, 
 such as laws, by uprooting the use of them. Malvolio appears to have been 
 intended partly as a satire on the Puritans in general ; they being especially ' 
 
 strenuous at the time this play was written to have restrictions set upon * , 
 
 playing. But there had been a deep-seated grudge between the Puritans 
 and the Dramatists ever since Nash put out the eyes of Martin Marprelate ' 
 
 with salt. ■ 
 
 2 In colloquial langiingo, me was often thus used redundantly, though .J* I 
 
 with a slight dash of humour. i | 
 
II, 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 91 
 
 hu’ .im in eleven places ; my niece shall take note of it ; and 
 assure thyself, there is no love-broker^ in the world can more 
 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 A go. 
 
 \_Exit Sir Andrew. 
 
 '^3 A love-broker is one who mediates or breaks the ice between two bash- 
 ful lovers. Pandarus sustains that office in Troilus and Cressida ; hence 
 our word pander. 
 
 4 Curst is cross, snappish. We should say, “ Be short;' or “ Be tarC' 
 
 3 This has been generally thought an allusion to Coke s abusive thouing 
 of Sir Walter Raleigh at his trial ; but the play was acted a year and a half 
 before that trial took place. And indeed it had been no insult to thou Sir 
 Walter, unless there were some pre-existing custom or sentiment to make it 
 so. What that custon^ was, may be seen by the following passage from a 
 book published in 1661, by George Fox the Quaker : “ For this thou and thee 
 was a sore cut to proud flesh, and them that sought self-honour ; who, though 
 they would say it to God and Christ, would not endure to have it said to 
 themselves. So that we were often beaten and abused, and sometimes in 
 danger of our lives, for using those words to some proud men, who would 
 i^^say. What, you ill-bred clown, do you thou me!" 
 
 6 This curious piece of furniture was a few years since still in being at 
 one of the inns in that town. It was reported to be twelve feet square, and 
 capable of holding twenty-four persons. 
 
 7 Cubiculo, from the Latin cubicuhim, is a sleeping-room. 
 
r 
 
 92 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, Av “ . 
 
 Fab. This is a dear manikin « to you, Sir Toby. 
 
 Stv To. I have been dear to him, lad, — some two thou- 
 sand 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 wain-ropes cannot 
 hale them together. For Andrew, if he were open’d, an 
 you find so much blood in his liver 10 as will clog the foot of 
 a fiea. I’ll eat the rest pf 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,i 2 and will laugh yourselves 
 into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvalio is turn’d hea- 
 then, a very renegado ; for there is no Christian, that means 
 to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impos- 
 sible passages of grossness.^^ He’s in yellow stockings. 
 
 8 Manikin is an old diminutive of man ; here it means pet. 
 
 9 Meaning that he has fooled or dandled so much money out of him. 
 
 10 A red liver, or a liver full of blood, was the common badge of courage, 
 as a white or bloodless liver was of cowardice. 
 
 11 Alluding to the small stature of Maria. Sir Toby elsewhere calls her 
 “ the little villain,” and Viola ironically speaks of her as ” giant.” The ex- 
 pression seems to have been proverbial ; the wren generally laying nine or 
 ten eggs, and the last hatched being the smallest of the brood. 
 
 12 The spleen was held to be the special seat of unbenevolent risibility, 
 and so the cause of teasing or pestering mirth ; splenetic laughter. Here ii 
 seems to mean a fit or turn of excessive merriment, dashed with something 
 of a spiteful humour. 
 
 18 A rather curious commentary on the old notion of ” Salvation by ortho- 
 f doxy,” or belief in believing.” The meaning is, that even one who makes 
 
 I'w 
 
WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 9 
 
 HI. 
 
 Sir To. And cross-garter’d ? 
 
 Mar. Most villanously ; like a pe^nti'* that keeps a school 
 i’ the church. I have dogg’d him, like his murderer. He 
 does obey every point of the letter that I dropp’d to betray 
 him : he does smile his face into more lines than are in the I 
 new map, with the augmentation of the Indies : you have u 
 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, bripg us /wh|pre he is. \JE,xeuni. 
 
 \ 
 
 SCEN± I] 
 
 
 — A Street 
 
 Enter Sebastian and Antoi^ 
 
 Seb, I would not, by my will, have troubled yo^ 
 But, since you make your pleasure of your pains, i 
 I will no further chide you. 
 
 Ant I could not stay behind you : my desi 
 More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ; 
 
 And not all love to see you, — though so much 
 As might have drawn me to a longer voyage, — 
 
 But jealousy what might befall your travel, 
 
 Being skilless in these parts ; which to a stranger, 
 
 
 a merit of being easy of belief, as thinking to be saved thereby, could not 
 believe a thing so grossly incredible as this. The Poet has impossible else- 
 where in the sense of incredible. See Much Ado, page 49, note 21. 
 
 14 The Poet uses pedant for pedagogue. So Holofernes the schoolmaster 
 ~~is called repeatedly in Love's Labours Lost; also the tutors employed for 
 
 Catharine and Bianca in The Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 15 Alluding, no doubt, to a map which appeared in the second edition of 
 Hakluyt’s Voyages, in 1598. This map is multilineal in the extreme, and is 
 the first in which the Eastern Islands are included. 
 
4 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 A 
 
 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 ; too 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 lodging. 
 
 Seb. I am not weary, and ’tis long to night : 
 
 I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes 
 
 With the memorials and the things of fame 
 
 That do renown this city. 
 
 jifit. Would you’d pardon me ; 
 
 I do not without danger walk these streets : 
 
 Once, in a sea-fight, ’gainst the' County’s galleys 
 I did some service ; of such note indeed, 
 
 That, were I ta’en here, it would ^ scarce be answer’d, 
 
 Seb. Belike you slew great number of his people. 
 
 Ant. Th’ offence is not of such a bloody nature ; 
 
 Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel 
 Might well have given us bloody argument.'^ 
 
 1 Worth here stands for wealth or fortune. Repeatedly so. 
 
 2 Reliques for antiquities^ or, as it is said a little after, “ the memorials and 
 the things of fame ” that confer renown upon the city. 
 
 8 Would for could ; the auxiliaries could, should, and would being ofteii_ 
 used indiscriminately. The same with shall and will ; as in a subseque 
 speech : “ Haply your eyes shall light,” &c. 
 
 4 Argument readily passes over into the sense of debate, and debaf' 
 readily into that of strife or conflict. 
 
SCEN3 in. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 95 
 
 It might have since been answer’d 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 knowledge 
 With viewing of the town : there shall you have me. 
 
 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 th’ Elephant. 
 
 i do remember. \_Exeunt. 
 
 s Lapsed \s., properly ,/»//«« / but here carries the sense of making a Mp 
 or mis-step, so as to be recognized and caught. 
 
 6 An inn so named ; probably from its having a picture of an elephant 
 for its sign ; like the boar' s-kead of Falstaff’s famous tavern in Eastcheap. 
 In old times, when but few people could read, lettered signs would not do ; 
 and so pictured ones were used instead. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 
 Scene IV. — Olivia’s Garden, 
 
 Enter Olivia and Maria. 
 
 OH, [^Aside.^ I have sent after him : says he, he’ll comef 
 How shall I feast him ? what bestow of him ? 
 
 youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d. 
 
 I speak too loud. — 
 
 Q Where is Malvolio ? — he is sad ^ and civil, 
 
 3 And suits well for a servant with my fortunes : — 
 
 Where is Malvolio? 
 
 He’s coming, madam ; but in very strange manner. 
 He is, sure, possess’d, madam. 
 
 — on. Why, what’s the matter? does he rave? 
 
 _ Mar, No, madam, he does nothing but smile : your lady- 
 ship were best to have some guard about you, if he come ; 
 for, sure, the man is tainted in’s wits. 
 
 ’i on. Go call him hither. \_Exit Maria.] — I’m as mad 
 as he, 
 
 ^ If sad and merry madness equal be. — 
 
 Re-enter Maria, with Malvolio. 
 
 - How now Malvolio ! 
 
 Mai, Sweet lady, ho, ho. \_Smiles fantasHcalfy 
 
 OH. Smilest thou ? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 
 Mai. Sad, lady ! I could be sad : this does make some 
 obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering ; but what of 
 
 7 We should say, “ bestow on him.” This indifferent use of on and of iJ 
 very frequent. — In the line before, “says he, he’ll come” of course means 
 ” if\\Q. says he’ll come.” This way of making the subjunctive is common. 
 
 1 Sad in its old sense of serious or grave. See Much Ado, page 30, 
 note 17. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 97 
 
 that? if 7 t please the eye of one, it is with me as the very 
 true sonnet is, Please one, and please all? 
 
 OH, 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. 
 
 OH, Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai, To bed ! ay, sweet-heart ; and I’ll come to thee. 
 
 7 OH, God comfort thee ! Why dost thou smile so, and 
 ^ kiss thy hand so oft? 
 
 Man, How do you, Malvolio? 
 
 Mai, At your request ! yes ; nightingales answer daws. 
 
 ' Mar, Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before 
 my lady ? 
 
 Mai. Be not afraid of greatness : — ’twas well writ. 
 
 ^ OH, What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. Some are born great, — 
 
 OH, Ha! 
 
 Mai. — some achieve greatness , — 
 
 OH, What sayest thou ? ^ 
 
 Mai. — and some have greatness thrust upon them, 
 
 OH, Heaven restore thee ! 
 
 Mai. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, — 
 OH, My yellow stockings 1 
 MaL — and wish'd to see thee cross-garter' d, 
 
 2 A copy of this “ very true sonnet ” was discovered a few years ago. It 
 is adorned with a rude portrait of Queen Elizabeth, with her feathered fan, 
 starched ruff, and ample farthingale, and is said to have been composed by 
 her Majesty’s right merry and facetious droll, Dick Tarleton ; and has the 
 heading, “ A prettie new Ballad, intituled, The Crowe sits upon the wall, 
 Please one and please all.” The last line forms the burden, and is repeated 
 in each stanza. 
 
98 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Oli. Cross-garter’d ! 
 
 Mai. Go to^ thou art ?nade, if thou desirest to he so ; — 
 
 Oli. Am I made ? 
 
 Mai. — if not^ let me see thee a servant still. 
 
 OH. Why, this is very midsummer madness.^ 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Ser. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s 
 is return’d : 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 look’d to. Where’s my cousin Toby? Let 
 some of my people have a special care of him : I would not 
 have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. 
 
 \^Exeunt Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Mai. O, 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 stub- 
 born to him ; for she incites me to that in the letter. Cast 
 thy humble sloughy says she : be opposite with a kinsman, 
 surly with servants ; let thy tongtie twang arguments of State ; 
 put thyself m to the trick of singularity : and, consequently, 
 sets down the manner how ; as, a sad face, a reverent car- 
 riage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so 
 forth. I have limed her ; ^ but it is God’s doing, and God 
 make me thankful ! And, when she went away now. Let 
 this fellow be look'd to : fellow ! not Malvolio, nor after my 
 
 8 “ Tis midsummer moon with you ” was a proverbial phrase, meaning 
 you are mad. Hot weather was of old thought to affect the brain. 
 
 4 That is, caught her, as a bird is caught with lime. Lime was used for 
 any trap or snare for catching birds. See Much Ado, page 200, note 10. 
 

 SCENE TV. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 99 
 
 degree, but fellow.^ Why, every thing udheres together, thnt 
 no dram 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, God, not I, is the doer of this, 
 and He is to be thanked. 
 
 Re-enter Maria with Sir Toby Belch and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all 
 the devils of Hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself pos- 
 sessed him, yet I’ll speak to him. 3 
 
 Fab. Here he is, here he is. — How is’t with you, sir? how 
 is’t with you, man ? 
 
 Mai. 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. 
 
 Mai. 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, Malvolio ? how is t 
 with you? What, man ! defy’^ the Devil : consider, he’s an 
 enemy to mankind. 
 
 Mai. Do you know what you say ? 
 
 Mar. La you, an you speak ill of the Devil, how he takes 
 it at heart 1 Pray God, he be not bewitch’d ! My lady 
 would not lose him for more than I’ll say. 
 
 Mai. How now, mistress ! 
 
 Mar. O Lord ! 
 
 ® Malvolio takes fellow in the sense of companion or equal. 
 
 6 Incredulous for incredible; an instance of the indiscriminate use of 
 
 active and passive forms. See As You Like It, page 96, note 4. 
 7 Defy, again, for renounce or abjure. See page 48, note 13. 
 
lOO 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Sir T •). Pr’ythee, 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 ! ’tis 
 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. 
 
 Mai, My prayers, minx ! 
 
 Mar, No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness. 
 
 Mai. Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow 
 things : I am not of your element : you shall know more 
 hereafter. \_Exit, 
 
 Sir To, Is’t possible ? 
 
 Fab, If this were play’d upon a stage now, I could con- 
 demn it as an improbable fiction. 
 
 Sir To, His very genius hath taken the infection of the 
 device, man. 
 
 Mar, Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air, and 
 taint. 
 
SCENE ir. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 lOI 
 
 Fah. 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. 
 
 Fah . More matter for a May Jaoriiingd-^-^--' — ^ 
 
 EnUr Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
 
 Sir And. Here’s the challenge, read it : I warrant there’s 
 vinegar and pepper in’t. 
 
 ^^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 
 ■"^w. 
 
 Sir To. [Reads.] Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and 
 
 11 This seems to have been the common way of treating madness in the 
 Poet’s time. See As You Like It, page 93. note 49. 
 
 12 It was usual on the First of May to exhibit metrical interludes of the 
 comic kind, as well as other sports, such as the Morris-Dance. — In the line 
 before “ a finder of madmen" is probably meant in a legal sense; as when 
 a coroner or jury finds, that is, brings in or renders, a verdict. See As You 
 Like It, page no, note 8. 
 
102 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT ITT, 
 
 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 exceeding good sense — less. 
 
 Sir To. [Reads.] / will waylay thee going home; where 
 if it be thy chance to kill me, — 
 
 Fab. Good. 
 
 Sir To. [Reads.] — thou kilFst me like a rogue and a 
 villain. 
 
 Fab. Still you keep o’ the windy side of the law : good. 
 
 Sir To. [[Reads.J 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 thyself. Thy friend, as 
 thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, Andrew Aguecheek. 
 
 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 ; scpiLit me for him at the corner 
 of the orchard, like a bum-baily : gQ goon as ever thou 
 see’st him, draw ; and, as thou drawest, swear horrible ; for 
 it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering 
 accent sharply twang’d off, gives manhood more approba- 
 tion than ever proof itself would have earn’d him. Away ! 
 
 Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing. \_Fxit. 
 
 Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter : for the beha- 
 viour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good 
 capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord 
 
 13 The man on whose soul he hopes that God will have mercy is the one 
 that he supposes will fall in the combat : but Sir Andrew hopes to escape 
 unhurt, and to have no present occasion for that blessing. — Mason. 
 
 14 Bum-bai.ly is a waggish form of bum-bailiffs which, again, is a corrup- 
 tion oi bound-bailiff ; a subordinate officer, like our deputy-sheriff, so called 
 from the bond which he had to give for the faithful discharge of his trust. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 103 
 
 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 de- 
 liver his challenge by word of mouth ; set upon Aguecheek 
 a notable report of valour ; and 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 mess- 
 age for a challenge. \_Fxeunt Sir Toby, Fabian, and Maria. 
 
 Re-enter Olivia, with Viola. 
 
 OH, IVe 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. 
 
 on. Here, wear this jewel for me, — ’tis 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. 
 
 That honour, saved, may upon asking give ? 
 
 Vio, Nothing but this, — your true love for my master. 
 
 15 This imaginary serpent was fabled to have the power of darting venom 
 from its eyes, or of killing by its look. Shakespeare elsewhere has the 
 phrase, “ death-darting eye of cockatrice.” He also has several allusions to 
 the same beast under the name of baslUsk, 
 
104 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OK 
 
 ACT III, 
 
 on. How with mine honour may I give him that' 
 
 ' Which I have given to you ? 
 
 Vio, I will acquit you. 
 
 Oh. 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. Gentleman, 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 interceptor, full of despite, 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 quar- 
 rel 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 : 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, dubb’d with unhack’d rapier and on 
 ^carpet consideration ; but he is a devil in private brawl: 
 
 16 Tuck is a rapier or long dagger. — Yare is quick^ nimble, ox prompt . — 
 > “ Attends thee ” here means waits for thee. So in Coriolanus, i. lo : “I am 
 attended at the cypress grove.” 'i; 
 
 Opposite for opponent or adversary. So in the second sceile of this 
 Act; ” And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of*, 
 cruelty.” Shakespeare never uses 
 
 18 I'he meaning of this may be gathered from Randle Holme.. Speaking 
 of a certain class of knights, he says, ” They are termed simply knights of 
 the carpet, or^ knights of the green cloth, to distinguish them from knights 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 105 
 
 souls and bodies hath he divorced three ; and his incense- 
 ment at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be 
 none but by pangs of death and sepulchre : hob-nob is his 
 word ; give’t or take’t. 
 
 Vio. I will return again into the house, and desire some 
 conduct 20 of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of 
 some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to 
 taste 21 their valour : belike this is a man of that quirk. 
 
 Sir To. Sir, no ; his indignation derives itself out or a 
 very competent injury ; therefore get you on, and give him 
 his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you un- 
 dertake 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 forswear to wear iron 
 about you. 
 
 Vio. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech 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. \^Extt. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 that are dubbed as soldiers in the field ; though in these days they are cre- 
 ated or dubbed with the like ceremony as the others are, by the stroke of a 
 naked sword upon the shoulder.” 
 
 -9 Hob-nob, hab-nab, habbe or nabbe, is have or not have, hit or miss. 
 
 20 Conduct for conductor, escort, or convoy. So in The Tempest, v. i : 
 “There is in this business more than Nature was ever conduct of. Also in 
 The Merchant, iv. i : “Go give him courteous conduct to this place.” 
 
 21 Taste in the sense of try has occurred before in this Act. 
 
ib6 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 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^uld possibly have found in any part of Illyria. 
 Will^,yt5u walk towards him? I will make your peace with 
 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 : 22 I care not 
 who knows so much of my mettle. f Exeunt, 
 
 \ 
 
 Scene V. — The Street adjoining Olivia’s Garden, 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
 
 Sir To, Why, man, he’s a very devil ; I have not seen such 
 a I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, 
 
 and he gives me the stuck-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 damn’d ere I’d 
 have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll 
 give him my horse, gray Capulet. 
 
 22 Viola’s fright does not quench her humour, or her sense of the ludi- 
 crous in her position. Her meaning is, that she would rather be one of che 
 parties in a marriage than in a duel. 
 
 1 Firago^ for virago. The meaning appears to be, “ I have never seep a 
 viraginous woman so obstreperous and violent as he is.” 
 
 2 A corruption ol stoccata, an Italian term in fencing. 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 107 
 
 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. — 
 
 Enter Fabian and Viola. 
 
 \To Fab.] I have his horse to take up3 the quarrel : I have 
 persuaded him the youth’s a devil. 
 
 Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him ; ^ and pants and 
 looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. 
 
 Sir To. {To Vio.] There’s no remedy, sir; he will fight 
 with you for’s oath-sake : marry, he 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 gentle- 
 man 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, ’tis against my will. {Draws. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Ant. Put up your sword. If this young gentleman 
 Have done offence, I take the fault on me : 
 
 -If you offend him, I for him defy you. 
 
 8 Take up is the old phrase for make up or settle. See As You Like It, 
 page 134, note 7. 
 
 4 He has as horrid a conception of him. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 io8 
 
 Sir To, You, sir ! why, what are you ? 
 
 Ant, \_Drawing.'] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more 
 Than you have heard him brag to you he will. 
 
 Sir To, Nay, if you be an undertaker,^ I am for you. 
 
 nn {.Draws. 
 
 Fab, O good Sir Toby, hold ! here come tfeftofificei^ 
 
 Sir To, \To Antonio.] I’ll be with you anon. 
 
 Vio, [7h Sir And.] 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 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. 
 
 I 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. — [7h Vio.] 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. You stand amazed ; 
 
 But be of comfort.^ 
 
 ^ One who takes up or undertakes the quarrels of others ; an intermeddler 
 or intruder. 
 
 ® Be of comfort is old language for be comforted. 
 
SCENE V. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 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 show’d me here, 
 
 And, part, being prompted by your present trouble. 
 
 Out of my lean and low ability 
 
 ril 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 
 I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death ; 
 
 Relieved him with all sanctity of love ; 
 
 And to this image, which methought did promise 
 Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 
 
 I Off, What’s that to us? The time goes by : away 
 Ant. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god 1 — 
 'Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. 
 
 In nature there’s no blemish but the mind ; 
 
no 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind : ^ 
 
 Virtue is beauty ; but the beauteous-evil 
 Are empty trunks,® o'erflourish'd by the Devil. 
 
 I 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 1 
 
 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 "^4/ 
 Yet living in my glass even such, and so, , 
 
 In favour was my brother ; and he went w- A 
 
 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. 
 
 Eab. 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, — \Exit. 
 
 7 Unkind, here, is unnatu7'al, ungrateful, or without natural affection. 
 So the Poet often has kind for nature. See As You Like It, page 117, note 2. 
 
 ® Trunks, being then part of the furniture of apartments, were orn?* 
 mented with scroll-work or flourished devices. 
 
 ® I hat is, “ I do not yet believe myself, when from this accident I gather 
 hope of my brother’s life.” 
 
 His resemblance survives in the reflection of my own figure.” 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Fab. Come, let’s see the event. 
 
 Sir To. I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet. 
 
 \Exeu7it. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene \.— The Street adjoining Olivia’s Garden. 
 
 Enter Sebastian and the Clown. 
 
 Clo. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you ? 
 
 Seb. Go to, go toj thou art a foolish fellow : 
 
 Let me be clear of thee. 
 
 Cto. 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 j nor your name is not Master Cesario j nor this is 
 not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so. 
 
 Seb. I pr’ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else ; 
 
 Thou knowst not me. 
 
 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 lubberly world will prove a cockney I 
 
 1 The phrase go to, now pretty much obsolete, was very common in the 
 Poet’s time, especially in colloquial language. Sometimes it is nearly equiv- 
 alent to our be off, which appears to be the sense of it in this place ; and 
 sometimes it means about the same as come on. 
 
 2 The meaning seems to be, “ I am afraid this great lumpish world will 
 be all given over to cockney ism." — Cockney seems to be understood the 
 world over as a t^rm for a Londoner. Minsheu’s Ductor in Linguas, 1617, 
 explains it thus : “ A Cgckney may be taken for a child tenderly and wan- 
 tonly brought up.” So, too, in Phillips’s World of Words, 1670 : ‘‘ Cockney, 
 a nickname commonly given to one born and bred in the city of London ; 
 
I 12 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT ly 
 
 pr’ythee, now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I 
 shall' vent to my lady : shall I vent to her that thou art 
 coming ? 
 
 Sed, I pr’ythee, foolish Greek, ^ depart from me : 
 
 There’s money for thee : if you tarry longer, 
 
 I shall give worse payment. 
 
 Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. — These wise 
 men, that give Fools money, get themselves a good report 
 after fourteen years’ purchase.^ 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 
 
 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, and 
 there ! {Beating Sir Andrew. 
 
 Are all the people mad ? 
 
 Enter Sir Tobv Belch and Fabian. 
 
 Sir To. Hold, sir, or Fll 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. {Holding Sebastian. 
 
 Sir And, Nay, let him alone : Fll go another way to work 
 with him ; Fll 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. 
 
 also a fondling child, tenderly brought up and cocker' dr — " Ungird thy 
 strangeness ” is put off thy estrangement. 7'he Clown, mistaking Sebastian 
 for Cesario, thinks his non-recognition to be put on or assumed. 
 
 3 A vierry Greek, and a foolish Greek, were ancient proverbial expressions 
 applied to boon companions, good fellows, as they were called, who spent 
 their time in riotous mirth. 
 
 4 That is, at a very extravagant price ; twelve years’ purchase being then 
 the current price of estates. 
 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 II3 
 
 Sed. Let go thy hand. 
 
 Sir To, Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young 
 soldier, put up your iron : you are \ ^11 fle^h ld ; ^ ^ome on. 
 Seb, I will be free from thee. \_Disengages himself. What 
 wouldst thou now ? 
 
 If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. [^Draws, 
 Sir To. What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or 
 two of this malapert blood from you. {Draws. 
 
 Enter Olivia. 
 
 Oh. 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 preach’d, out of my sight ! — 
 
 Be not offended, dear Cesario. — 
 
 Rudesby,^ be gone 1 — {Exeunt Sir To., Sir And., and Fab. 
 
 I pr’ythee, 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 botch’d up, that thou thereby 
 Mayst smile at this : thou shalt not choose but go ; 
 
 Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, 
 
 5 The verb to Jlesh and the noun Jteshment were used of one’s first ser- 
 vice with the sword. So, too, an unjleshed sword is called a maiden sword. 
 Sir Toby means to intimate that Sebastian, whom he supposes to be Viola, 
 
 7 Extent, as here used, is a legal term for a civil process whereby the 
 person and property of a debtor were seized and held to answer in payment 
 of the debt. See As You Like It, page 78, note 3. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 II4 
 
 He started one poor heart® of mine in thee. 
 
 Sed. [_Astde,^ 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 pray : would thou’dst be ruled by me ! 
 Seb. Madam, I will. 
 
 Oli, O, say so, and so be ! \_Exeunt, 
 
 Scene IL — A Room in Olivia’s House, 
 
 Enter Maria and the Clown. 
 
 Mar. Nay, I pr’ythee, put on this gown and this beard ; 
 make him believe thou art SirTopas 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 as fairly as to 
 say a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors ^ 
 enter. 
 
 Enter Sir Toby Belch and Maria. 
 
 Sir To, God bless thee, master parson ! 
 
 8 An equivoque is here intended between hart and heart, which were 
 formerly written alike. 
 
 1 That is, disguise. Shakespeare has here used a Latinism. “ Dissimulo, 
 to dissemble, to cloak, to hide,” says Hutton's Dictionary, 1583. 
 
 2 Tall was sometimes used in the sense of lusty, thus making a good an- 
 tithesis to lean. 
 
 8 Confederate ox partner is one of the old senses of co 7 npetitor. — To be a 
 good housekeeper is to be hospitable. So, in 2 Henry VI., i. i, we have house- 
 keeping for hospitality, or keeping open house : ” Thy deeds, thy plainness, 
 and thy housekeeping, have won the greatest favour of the commons." 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 II5 
 
 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 5 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, 
 
 Mai. [ Within.'] Who calls there ? 
 
 Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the 
 lunatic. 
 
 Mai [ Withinl] 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. 
 
 Mai, [ Withinl\ 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 gentle ones that will use 
 the Devil himself with courtesy : say’st thou this house is dark ? 
 
 Mai. [ Withinl\ As Hell, Sir Topas. 
 
 Clo, Why, it hath bay-windows^ transparent as bam^a- 
 
 4 A humorous banter upon the language of the schools. 
 
 ° This use of hyperbolical seems to be original with the Clown. Cowley, 
 however, in his Essay Of Greatness, applies the phrase “ hyperbolical fop ” 
 to one Senecio, who is described by Seneca the Elder as possessed with “ a 
 ridiculous affectation of grandeur”; insomuch that he would speak none 
 but big words, eat nothing but what was big, nor wear any shoe that was 
 not big enough for both his feet. 
 
 6 Bay-windows were large projecting windows, probably so called be- 
 cause they occupied a whole bay or space between two cross-beams in a 
 building. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 I l6 
 
 does, and the clere-s tor^ s toward the south-north are as 
 lustrous as ebony ; and-yet complainest thou of obstruction ? 
 
 Mai, [ Within.'] 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. 
 
 Mai, [Within.] 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 concerning wild- 
 fowl? 
 
 Mai. [ Within.] That the soul of our grandam might haply 
 inhabit a bird. 
 
 Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion? 
 
 Mai. [ Within.] I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
 approve his opinion.. 
 
 Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness : thou 
 shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy 
 wits ; and fear to kill a woodcock,^ lest thou dispossess the 
 soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. 
 
 Mai. [ Within.] Sir Topas, Sir Topas, — 
 
 7 Clere-storeys, in Gothic architecture, are the row of windows running 
 along the upper part of a lofty hall or of a church, over the arches of the 
 nave. 
 
 8 That is, by repeating the same question. A crazy man, on being asked 
 to repeat a thing he has just said, is very apt to go on and say something 
 else. So in Hamlet, iii. 4 : “ ’Tis not madness that I have utter’d : bring 
 me to the test, and I the matter will re-word ; which madness would gam- 
 bol from.” 
 
 ® The Clown mentions a woodcock, because it was proverbial as a foolish 
 bird, and therefore a proper ancestor for a man out of his wits. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 II7 
 
 Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas >. 
 
 Clo. Nay, I am for all waters.^® 
 
 Mar. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard 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 conveniently deliver’d, 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 doesT 
 
 MaL \ Withinr^ Fool, — 
 
 Clo. [Singing.] My lady is unkind, perdy. 
 
 MaL \_WithinL\ Fool, — 
 
 Clo. [Singing.] Alas, why is she sa I 
 MaL {WithinP^ Fool, I say,— 
 
 Clo. [Singing.] She loves another — Who calls, ha? 
 
 MaL [ Within?^ Good Fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well 
 at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper : 
 as I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for t. 
 Clo. Master Malvolio? 
 
 MaL \_WithinS\ Ay, good Fool. 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you beside your five wits ? 
 
 MaL \^Within:\ Fool, there was never man so noto- 
 riously abused : I am as well in my wits. Fool, as thou art. 
 
 10 The meaning appears to be, I can turn my hand to any thing, or as- 
 sume any character. Florio in his translation of Montaigne, speaking o 
 Aristotle, says, “ He hath an oar in every water, and meddleth with all 
 things.” And in his Second Frutes : ” I am a knight for all saddles. 
 
 11 This ballad may be found in Percy’s Reliques. Dr. Nott has also 
 printed it among the poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt the elder. 
 
 12 Notoriously in the sense of prodigiously or outrageously. We have no- 
 torious in the same sense near the end of the play. 
 
ii8 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Clo, But as well ? then you are mad indeed, if you be no 
 better in your wits than a fool. 
 
 Mai. {^Within.'\ They have here p roper tied me;^^ 
 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. 
 
 Mai. [ Within Sir Topas, — 
 
 I 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. 
 
 Mai. \ Within.'\ Fool, Fool, Fool, I say, — 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir ? I am shent 
 for speaking to you. 
 
 Mai. [ Within.^ 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. 
 
 Clo. Well-a-day, that you were, sir ! 
 
 Mai. \^Within.'\ 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. 
 
 “ Taken possession of me as of a man unable to look to himself.'* 
 
 14 The Clown, in the dark, acts two persons, and counterfeits, by varia- 
 tion of voice, a dialogue between himself and Sir Topas ; the preceding part 
 of this speech being spoken as Clown, the following as Priest. — Advise 
 you " is bethink you, consider, or be careful. — In the next line, “ endeavour 
 thyself to sleep " is induce, persuade, or compose thyself ; endeavour being 
 used transitively. 
 
 1® Here we have the old phrase “ God be with you ” in the process of 
 contraction into the modern phrase good bye. See As You Like It, page 
 131, note 6. 
 
 Shent is an old word for scolded, blamed, or reprimanded. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 1 19 
 
 Clo, I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not 
 mad indeed ? or do you but counterfeit ? 
 
 MaL [ Within.~\ 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 [ WithinL\ Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree ; 
 I pr’ythee, be gone. 
 
 Clo. [Singing.] 
 
 / am gone, sir; and anon, sir, 
 ril be with you again. 
 
 In a trice, like to the old Vice,^'^ 
 
 You 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 Devil. \jExit. 
 
 17 Both the Vice and the Devil were stereotyped personages in the old 
 Moral-plays which were in use for many ages before the Poet’s time, and 
 were then just going out of use. The Vice, sometimes called Iniquity, was 
 grotesquely dressed in a cap with ass’s ears, and a long coat, and armed 
 with a dagger of lath. He commonly acted the part of a broad, rampant 
 jester and buffoon, full of mad pranks and mischief-making, liberally dashed 
 with a sort of tumultuous, swaggering fun. Especially, he was given to 
 cracking ribald and saucy jokes with and upon the Devil, and treating him 
 with a style of coarse familiarity and mockery ; and a part of his ordinary 
 functions was to bestride the Devil, and beat him with his dagger till he 
 roared, and the audience roared with him ; the scene ending with his being 
 carried off to Hell on the Devil’s back. The Vice was the germ of the pro- 
 fessional Fool or Clown, which Shakespeare delivers in so many forms, and 
 always so full of matter. 
 
 18 Goodman in old language is nearly equivalent to master, or to our flat- 
 tened form of it, mister. It was common for women to speak of their hus- 
 bands as my goodman. And in St. Matthew, xx. ii : “ They murmured 
 against the goodman of the house.” Also in St. Luke, xii. 39. The verses 
 in the text are most likely from an old popular song, of which nothing fur- 
 ther i^ known. 
 
120 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene III. — Olivia’s Garden, 
 
 Enter Sebastian. 
 
 Seh, This is the air ; that is the glorious Sun ; 
 
 This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t : 
 
 And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, 
 
 Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then? 
 
 I could not find him at the Elephant : 
 
 Yet there he was ; and there I found this credit,i 
 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 ’twere so. 
 
 She could not sway her house, command her followers, 
 
 Take and give back affairs, and their dispatch,^ 
 
 With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing. 
 
 As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t 
 
 1 Credit is oddly used here, but in the sense, apparently, of information 
 or intelligence. So in a letter from Queen Elizabeth to Sir Nicholas 
 Throckmorton : “ This bearer came from you with great speed. We have 
 heard his credit^ and find your carefulness and diligence very great.” 
 
 2 T he language is very odd and obscure, and gives but a slight hint of 
 the speaker’s probable meaning. A good housekeeper, at the head of a 
 large domestic establishment, naturally has her time a good deal occupied 
 in taking account or receiving word of things that need to be done, and in 
 issuing orders and directions for the doing of them, or for ” their dispatch.’ 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 I2I 
 
 That is deceivable.^ But here the lady comes. 
 
 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. 
 
 OH, Then lead the way, good father ; — and heavens so 
 shine. 
 
 That they may fairly note this act of mine ! [^Exeunt 
 
 3 Deceivable for deceiving or deceptive ; the passive form, again, with the 
 active sense. See page 99 , note 6 . 
 
 4 A chantry was a little chapel, or particular altar in some cathedral 
 or parochial church, endowed for the purpose of having Masses sung 
 therein for the souls of the founders ; a place for chanting. 
 
 s Doubtful in the sense of fearful. The Poet often uses doubt for fear. 
 
 6 Whiles was often used thus in the sense of until. — Note, from the Latin 
 notitia, is several times used by the Poet in the sense of knowledge. — The 
 ceremony to which Olivia here so sweetly urges Sebastian is the ancient 
 solemn troth-plight, as it was called, which, as it had the binding force of an 
 actual marriage, might well give peace to an anxious maiden till the day of 
 full nuptial possession should arrive. 
 
 A bright, glad sunshine falling upon a bride or new-made wife was 
 formerly thought auspicious; it inspired a feeling that the Powers ab(|^ 
 were indeed smiling their benediction upon the act; and so was fitting 
 cause for prayer beforehand, and of thanksgiving afterwards. Of course 
 this was a fond old superstition : but I believe marriage is not even yet 
 so far enlightened and “ de-religionized ” but that something of the old 
 feeling still survives. 
 
122 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT I OR, 
 
 ACT V 
 
 .V 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — The Street before Otjvia’s House, 
 
 Enter the Clown and Fabian. 
 
 Fab, Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter. 
 
 Clo, Good Master Fabian, grant me another request. 
 
 ^Fab, Any thing. 
 
 Clo, Do not desire to see this letter. 
 
 ^FaS", This is, to give a dog, and, in recompense, desire 
 my dog again. 
 
 Enter the Duke, Viola, Curio, 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 ass of me. 
 Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass : so that by my foes, 
 sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself ; and by my friends 
 I am abused : so that, conclusions to be as kisses,^ if your 
 
 1 Warburton thought this should be, “ conclusion to be asked is ” ; upon 
 which Coleridge remarks thus : “ Surely Warburton could never have 
 wooed by kisses and won, or he would not have flounder-flatted so just ana 
 humorous, nor less pleasing than humorous, an image into so profound a 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 123 
 
 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^ te rtio^ is a good play ; and the old 
 saying is, the third p3.ys for all : the tviplex^ sir, is a good 
 ' tripping measure \ as 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 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. 
 
 --nihility. In the name of love and wonder, do not four kisses make a double 
 /^affirmative? The humour lies in the whispered ‘No!’ and the inviting 
 ‘ Don’t I ’ with which the maiden’s kisses are accompanied, and thence com- 
 pared to negatives, which by repetition constitute an affirmative.” The 
 ' Cambridge Editors, however, note upon the passage thus : ” The meaning 
 seems to be nothing more recondite than this : as in the syllogism it takes 
 two premisses to make one conclusion, so it takes two people to make one 
 
 kiss.” . , 
 
 2 The Clown puns so swiftly here that it is not easy to keep up with him. 
 The quibble lies between the two senses oi grace as a title and as a gracious 
 
 impulse or thought. 
 
124 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 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 ma% sir, that did rescue me. 
 
 cj ^ Enter with E^Tomo. /) . , 
 
 Duke, That face of his I do remember well y ^ ^ 
 
 1 /X 
 
 
 Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear’d 
 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 sc athfu l 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? 
 
 I 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. 
 
 Vio, He did me kindness, sir ; drew on my side ; 
 But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me, — 
 
 I know not what ’twas, but distraction. 
 
 Duke, Notable pirate ! thou salt-water thief! 
 
 What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies. 
 
 /) 
 
 8 Unprizable is evidently used here in the sense of worthless, or of no 
 price. The Poet elsewhere has it in the opposite sense of inestimable, 
 
 4 " The tongue of loss ” here means the tongue of the loser ; but is much 
 more elegant. — Scathful is harmful, damaging, or destructive, 
 
 ^ Inattentive to his character or condition, like a desperate man. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 125 
 
 Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,® 
 
 Hast made thine enemies ? 
 
 jlfit 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 wreck 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. 
 
 Unto the danger of this adverse town ; 
 
 Drew to defend him wheii 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-removed thing 
 
 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 — 
 
 6 Dear is used in the same sense here as in Hamlet : “ Would I had met 
 my dearest foe in Heaven ! ” Tooke has shown that this is much nearer the 
 original sense of the word than the meaning commonly put upon it ; dear 
 being from the Anglo-Saxon verb to dere, which signifies to hurt. An ob- 
 ject of love, any thing that we hold dear, may obviously cause us pain, dis- 
 tress, or solicitude : hence the word came to be used in the opposite senses 
 of hateful and beloved. 
 
126 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 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 madness : 
 
 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. 
 
 Oh. 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 unauspicious altars 
 
 My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breath’d out 
 
 That e’er devotion tender’d ! 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 th’ Egyptian thief at point of death, 
 
 7 Both fat and fulsome seem here to have nearly the sense of dull, gross, 
 or sickening. The Poet uses fulsome of a wine that soon palls upon the 
 taste from its excessive sweetness. *• 
 
SCENE I, 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 127 
 
 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 crowned in his master’s spite. — 
 
 ^^^ome, boy, with me ; my thoughts are ripe in mischief : 
 
 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. {Following, 
 
 OH, ^ Where goes Cesario ? 
 
 Vio, After him I love 
 
 More than I love these eyes, more than my life. 
 
 More, by all mores, than ere I shall love wife. — 
 
 If I do feign, you witnesses above. 
 
 Punish my life for tainting of my love ! 
 
 OH, Ah me, detested ! how am I beguiled ! 
 
 Vio, Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong? 
 
 8 An allusion to the story of Thyamis, as told by Heliodorus in his Ethi- 
 opics, of which an English version by Thomas Underdowne was published 
 a second time in 1587. Thyamis was a native of Memphis, and chief of a 
 band of robbers. Chariclea, a Greek, having fallen into his hands, he grew 
 passionately in love with her, and would have married her ; but, being sur- 
 prised by a stronger band of robbers, and knowing he must die, he went to 
 the cave where he had secreted her with his other treasures, and, seizing her 
 by the hair with his left hand, with his right plunged a sword in her breast; 
 it being the custom with those barbarians, when they despaired of their own 
 life, first to kill those whom they held most dear, so as to have them as com- 
 panions in the other world. 
 
128 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT I OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Oli, F >t thou forgot thyself? is it so long? — 
 
 Call for the holy father. \Exit an Attendant. 
 
 Di [7"^ Viola.] Come, away ! 
 
 Oli Whither, my lord? — Cesario, husband, stay. 
 
 L’.cke. 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 ; 
 
 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 ’tis ripe — what thou dost know 
 Hath newly pass’d between this youth and me. 
 
 Priest, A contract and eternal bond of love. 
 
 Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands. 
 
 Attested by the holy close of lips. 
 
 Strengthen’d by interchange ment of your rings ; 
 
 And all the ceremony of this compact 
 Seal’d in my function, by my testimony : 
 
 Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave 
 I’ve travel!’ d but two hours. 
 
 Duke, O thou dissembling cub ! what wilt thou be 
 
 9 “ Suppress or disown \S\y proper self; deny what you really are." 
 
 In ancient espousals the man received as well as gave a ring. 
 
I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 129 
 
 When time hath sow^d a grizzle on thy caseP^i 
 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. 
 
 Vio. My lord, I do protest, — 
 
 Qli^ O, do not swear ! 
 
 Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. 
 
 Enter Sir Andrew Aguecheek with his head broken. 
 
 Sir And, For the love of God, a surgeon ! send one pres- 
 ently to Sir Toby. 
 
 Oli, What’s the matter? 
 
 Sir And, ’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 gentlemen, one Cesario : we took 
 him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate. 
 
 Duke, My gentleman Cesario ? 
 
 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 you sword upon me without cause ; 
 
 But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not. 
 
 11 The skin of a fox or rabbit was often called its case. So in Cary’s 
 Present State of England, 1626 ; “ Queen Elizabeth asked a knight, named 
 Young, how he liked a company of brave ladies. He answered, “ As I like 
 my silver-haired conies at home : the cases are far better than the bodies. 
 
 12 Lifelings is a diminutive of life, as pittikins is of pity. ’ Od's is one of 
 the disguised oaths so common in old colloquial language ; the original form 
 being God's, We have Imogen exclaiming 'Od's pittikins in Cymbeline, iv. 2. 
 
130 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Sir And, If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you 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, led by the Clown. 
 
 Duke. How now, gentleman ! how is’t with you ? 
 
 Sir To. That’s all one : ’has hurt me, and there’s rhe 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 paynim : 
 
 I hate a drunken rogue. 
 
 OH. Away with him ! Who hath made this havoc with 
 them ? 
 
 Sir And, I’ll help you. Sir Toby, because we’ll be dress’d 
 together. 
 
 Sir To. Will you help ? — an ass-head and a coxcomb and 
 a kn^ve ! a thin-faced knave, a gull ! 
 
 OH. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look’d to. 
 
 \Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew. 
 
 Enter Sebastian. 
 
 Seb. I’m sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman ; 
 
 But, had it been the brother of my blood, 
 
 I must have done no less with wit and safety. 
 
 18 Othergates is an old word meaning the same as our otherwise. 
 
 14 Paynim, meaning pagan or heathen, was of old a common term of re- 
 proach. Sir Toby is too deeply fuddled to have his tongue in firm keeping, 
 and so uses passy-measures for past-measure, probably. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 I3I 
 
 You throw a strange regard on me ; 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 perspective, that is and is not ! 
 
 Seb, Antonio, O my dear Antonio ! 
 
 How have the hours rack’d 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. Which is Sebastian ? 
 
 Oh, Most wonderful ! 
 
 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 devour’d. — 
 
 {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. 
 
 So went he suited to his watery tomb : 
 
 If spirits can assume both form and suit. 
 
 You come to fright us. 
 
 15 A strange regard is a look of estrangement or alienation. 
 
 16 A perspective formerly meant a glass that assisted the sight in any way. 
 The several kinds used in Shakespeare’s time are enumerated in Scot s Dis- 
 coverie of Witchcraft, 1584, where that alluded to by the Duke is thus de- 
 scribed : “ There be glasses also wherein one man may see another man s 
 image and not his own,” — where that which is, is not; or appears, in a 
 different position, another thing. 
 
132 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 'I 
 
 Se^. 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 I 
 Vio, My father had a mole upon his brow, — 
 
 Sed, And so had mine. 
 
 Vio, — And died that day when Viola from her birth 
 Had number’d thirteen years. 
 
 Seb, O, that recbrd is lively in my soul ! 
 
 He finished, indeed, his mortal act 
 
 That day that made my ^i^r thirteen years. 
 
 Vio, If nothing lets make us happy both 
 But this my masculine usurp’d attire. 
 
 Do not embrace me till each circumstance 
 Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump,i® 
 
 That I am Viola : which to confirm. 
 
 I’ll bring you to a captain’s in this town. 
 
 Where lie my maid’s weeds ; by whose gentle help 
 I was preferr’d to serve this noble Count. 
 
 All the occurrence of my fortune since 
 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.^^ 
 
 1"^ Let, often used in .the English Bible, but now obsolete, is an old word 
 for hinder or prevent. 
 
 The Poet repeatedly has jump in the sense of agree or accord. 
 
 10 Prefer was often used in the sense of recommend. 
 
 20 To be mistook was sometimes used, as to be mistaken now is, in the 
 sense of making a mistake. The mistake Olivia has made is in being be- 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT VOU WILL. 
 
 133 
 
 You would have been contracted to a maid ; 
 
 Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived, — 
 
 You are betroth’d 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 wreck. — 
 
 [ To Viola.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times 
 ThoiTnever shouldst love woman like to me. 
 
 Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear ; 
 
 And all those swearings keep as true in soul 
 As doth that orbed 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. 
 
 on. He shall enlarge him ; — fetch Malvolio hither ; — 
 And yet, alas, now I remember me. 
 
 They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract. 
 
 Re-enter the Clown with a letter, and Fabian. 
 
 A most distracting frenzy of mine own 
 From my remembrance clearly banish’d his. 
 
 How does he, sirrah? 
 
 Cb. Truly, madam, he holds Beelzebub at the stave’s end 
 
 trothed to Sebastian instead of Viola ; but this was owing to the bias or pre- 
 disposition of Nature, who would not have a woman betrothed to a woman. 
 
 21 Sebastian applies the term maid apparently to himself, in the sense of 
 virgin. And why not maiden man as well as maiden sword or maiden 
 Speech f 
 
 ^ 22 Continent formefr'ly meant any thing that contains. 
 
U4 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 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 deliver’d. 
 
 Clo, Look, then, to be well edified when the Fool de- 
 livers the madman. [Reads.] By the Lord^ madam ^ — 
 
 Oli. How now ! art thou mad ? 
 
 Clo, No, madam, I do but read madness : an your lady- 
 ship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow vox?^ 
 
 Oli, Pr’ythee, read i’ 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. 
 
 Oh, [7h Fabian.] Read it you, sirrah. 
 
 Fab. [Reads.] By the Lo7'd^ madam, you 7vrong me, 
 and the world shall know it: though you have put me into 
 darkness, and given your d7ninken cousin rule over me, yet 
 have I the benefit ofi my senses as ivell as your ladyship, 1 
 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. 1 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 deliver’d, Fabian ; bring him hither. — 
 
 23 A common phrase in the Poet’s time, meaning it signifies not much. 
 
 24 “ If you would have the letter read in character, you must allow me to 
 assume the voice or frantic tone of a madman,” 
 
 26 Perpend is consider or wei^ 
 
SCENE r. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 135 
 
 My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, 
 
 To think me as well a sister as a wife, 
 
 One day shall crown th’ alliance on’s, so please you, 
 
 Here at my house, and at my proper cost. 
 
 Duke. Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer. — 
 ,\^To Viola.] Your master quits you ; ^6 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 call’d me master for so long. 
 
 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. 
 
 Duke. Is this the madman? 
 
 Oli. Ay, my lord, this same. 
 
 How now, Malvolio ! 
 
 Mai. Madam, you have done me wrong, 
 
 Notorious wrong. 
 
 Oli. Have I, Malvolio? no. 
 
 Mai. 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 ’tis not your seal, not 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, 
 
 26 Quit for acquit, and in the sense of release, discharge, or set free. So 
 in Henry V., iii. 4: “For your great seats, now quit you of great shames.” 
 See, also, As You Like It, page 78, note si. 
 
 27 Write diff^erently from it. We have similar phraseology in common 
 use ; as, “ His speaking was from the purpose.” 
 
136 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT ; OR, 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Bade me come smiling and cross-garter VI 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 suffer’d me to be imprison’d, 
 
 Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest. 
 
 And made the most notorious geek and gull 
 That e’er invention play’d on? tell me wliy. 
 
 Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, 
 d’hough, I confess, much like the character : 
 
 But, out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand. 
 
 And now I do bethink me, it was she 
 
 First told me thou wast mad : thou earnest in smiling, 
 
 And in such forms which here were presupposed 
 Upon thee in the letter. Pr’ythee, be content : 
 
 This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d 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 wonder’d 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 in him : Maria writ 
 The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance 
 
 28 Geek is from the Saxon ^^eac, a cuckoo, and here means a fool. — Here, 
 as twice before in this play, notorious is used, apparently, for egregious. 
 
 29 hnportance for importunity. So, in King Lcar^ iv. 4 : “ Therefore 
 great France my mourning and miportant tears hath pitied,” 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 
 
 137 
 
 In recompense whereof he hath married her. 
 
 How with a sportful malice it was follow’d, 
 
 May rather pluck on laughter than revenge ; 
 
 If that the injuries be justly weigh’d 
 That have on both sides pass’d. 
 
 Oli, Alas, poor soul, 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 gagg'd : and thus the whirligig of time brings 
 in his revenges. 
 
 Mai, I’ll be reveng’d on the whole pack of you. \_Exit. 
 OH, 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 y/ill not part from hence. — Cesario, come 3 
 For so you shall be, while you are a man 3 
 But, when in other habits you are seen, 
 
 Orsino’s mistress and his fancy’s queen. 
 
 [^Exeunt all but the Clown. 
 
 To treat with mockery or insult, to run a rig upon, and to make a butt 
 of, are among the old senses of baffle. 
 
 81 Convents is agrees or comes Jit; a Latinism. 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ^38 
 
 Song. 
 
 Clo. When that I was and'^- a litde tiny boy, 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 
 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 knave and thief men shut their gafe,^^ 
 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 bed, 
 
 With hey, ho, the wind and the rain. 
 
 With toss-pots still had drunken head^^ 
 
 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. [E^it. 
 
 32 This redundant use of and is not uncommon in old ballads. 
 
 33 “ When I was a boy, my mischievous pranks were little regarded ; but, 
 when I grew to manhood, men shut their doors against me as a knave and 
 a thiefy Gate and door were often used synonymously. 
 
 34 “ I had my head drunk with tossing off pots or drams of liquor.’’ So 
 a grog-shop is sometimes called a pot-house ; and to toss is still used for to 
 drink. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 Act I., Scene i. 
 
 Page 30. Of it came d^er my ear like the sweet south, 
 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets ^ 
 
 Stealing and giving odour. — The original has sound instead 
 of south. Pope, as is well known, substituted south, meaning, of course, 
 the south wind, and was followed, I think, by all subsequent editors 
 until Knight. The change is most certainly right. For with what pro- 
 priety can a sound be said to “ breathe upon a bank of violets, stealing 
 ^^^nd giving odour ” ? Moreover, in the old reading, we have a com- 
 parison made between a thing and itself ! It is as much as to say, 
 
 “ The sweet sound came o’er my ear like the sweet sound.” The Poet 
 evidently meant to compare the music to a sweet breeze loaded with 
 fragrance ; the former coming over the ear as the latter comes over 
 another sense. So that the old reading is simply absurd. Knight and 
 Grant White waste a deal of ingenious and irrelevant rhetoric in trying 
 to make it good ; but nothing of that sort can redeem it from absurd- 
 ity. And by the methods they use we can easily read almost any 
 sense we please into whatever words come before us. In this case, 
 they but furnish an apt illustration of how a dotage of the old letter, 
 and a certain exegetical jugglery, may cheat even good heads into an 
 utter dereliction of common sense. — Some one has noted, that to sup- 
 pose a comparison was here intended between the effect of music on 
 the ear and that of fragrance on the sense of smell, is almost to ignore 
 ‘‘ the difference between poetry and prose.” O no ! it is merely to 
 recognize the difference between sense and nonsense. For how should 
 odour affect us but through the sense of smell? But perhaps the writer, 
 being in a jocose humour, caught the style of “ sweet bully Bottom,” 
 and so played the Duke into the funny idea of hearing an odour that 
 he smelt, or of smelling a sound that he heard. For why not a sweet' • 
 
 139 
 
140 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 sounding smell as well as a sweet-smelling sound? — In England, how- 
 ever, the south winds generally are so ill conditioned, that English edi- 
 tors are naturally reluctant to admit such a phrase as “ the sweet south.” 
 
 " But south winds are not the same everywhere as in England : and why 
 may not the Poet have had in mind such a south as often breathes in 
 other places? Nor do English writers always speak ill of winds that 
 blow from southerly quarters. Sir Philip Sidney, in his Arcadia^ I 59 ^> 
 has the following : “ Her breath is more sweet than a gentle south-vfe?>i 
 wind, which comes creeping over flowery fields and shadowed waters.” 
 And Lettsom notes upon the passage, “ A south-wester is a heavy gale 
 from the south-west ; but we often have genial, bright, and growing 
 weather from that quarter, as well as from the south.” 
 
 P. 31. The ele7nent itself^ till seven years\\.^nQ,^. — The original has 
 heate for hence. Corrected by Rowe. Heat is ridiculous. 
 
 p, 31. When liver ^ brain, and heart. 
 
 These sovereign thrones, her sweet perfections. 
 
 Are all supplied and fill’d with one self king. — The original 
 prints “ Are all supplied and fill’d ” as the latter part of the second line, 
 and “ her sweet perfections ” as the first part of the third. Sense, logic, 
 grammar, and prosody, all, I think, plead together for the transposition, 
 which was made by Capell. 
 
 Act I., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 31. Vio. What country, friends, is this ? 
 
 Cap. Illyria, lady. — The 
 
 original has “ This is Illyria, Ladie.” Pope omitted This is, and Dyce 
 suspected it to be an interpolation. 
 
 P. 32. When you, and this poor number saved with you. — The 
 original has those instead of this. Corrected by Capell. 
 
 p. 33. For zvhose dear loss. 
 
 They say, she hath abjured the company 
 
 sight of men. — The original transposes cofnpany and sight, 
 and has love instead of loss. The former correction is Planmer’s ; the 
 latter, Walker’s. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 I4I 
 
 P. 34. of thee 
 
 I well believe thou hast a mind that suits 
 
 With this thy fair and outward character. — The old text reads 
 “ I will believe.” The correction is Walker’s. We have many in- 
 stances of well and will confounded. 
 
 Act I., Scene 3. 
 
 P. 36. He hath^ indeed, all most natural. — So Collier’s second 
 folio. The original has “ almost naturall.” 
 
 P. 36. What, wench ! Castiliano volto. — So Hanmer. The origi- 
 nal has vulgo for voUo, 
 
 P. 37. An thou let her part so. — Her is wanting in the original. 
 Supplied in the third folio. 
 
 P. 38. Never in your life, I think ; unless you saw canary put me 
 down. — The original has see instead of saw. 
 
 P. 39. For thou see' st it will not curl by nature. — The original 
 reads “ coole my nature.” One of Theobald’s happy corrections. 
 
 P. 39. And yet I will not compare with a nobleman. — Instead of 
 a nobleman, the original has an old man. But why should Sir An- 
 drew here speak of comparing himself with an old man ? The whole 
 drift of the foregoing dialogue is clearly against that reading. Theo- 
 bald proposed the change ; and Dr. Badham, in Cambridge Essays, 
 1856, justly remarks upon it thus : “ Sir Andrew has just been speak- 
 ing of the Count Orsino as a rival whom he cannot pretend to cope 
 with ; so that the allusion to nobleman is most natural.” 
 
 P. 40. It does indifferent well in a ^^zxa^-colour' d stock. — The old 
 text reads “ a darn'd colour’d stocke.” Corrected by Rowe. Knight 
 changed darn'd to damask, which has been adopted in some editions. 
 Collier’s second folio has dun-colour' d. 
 
 Act I., Scene 4. 
 
 P. 42. Thy small pipe 
 
 Is as the maiden's organ, shrill in sound. — The original has 
 
142 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 “shrill, and sound.” I suspect it should be “shrill of sound.” We have 
 other instances where of and 6^ were apparently confounded. The cor- 
 rection in was proposed anonymously. 
 
 Act I., Scene 5. 
 
 P. 45. Thafs as much as to say, — The original transposes the sec- 
 ond as^ thus : “ That’s as much to say as.'' 
 
 P. 46. I take those wise nien^ that crow so at these set kind of Fools, 
 to be no better than the fools' zanies. — The original has these wise 
 men,” and omits to be. The former correction is Hanmer’s ; the latter 
 was made by Capell, and is also found in Collier’s second folio. 
 
 P. 47. For here comes one of thy kin. — In the original, “ heere he 
 comes.” Rowe’s correction. 
 
 P. 50. If you be mad, be gone ; if you have reason, be brief. — The 
 original reads “ If you be not mad.” The correction is Mason’s, and 
 is amply sustained by the context. 
 
 P. 51. Vio. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. 
 
 Oli. Tell me your mind. 
 
 Vio. / am a messenger. — So Warburton. The original 
 runs the three speeches all into one ; the prefixes having probably 
 dropped out accidentally. See foot-note 20. 
 
 P. 52. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. — For my own 
 part, I see no difficulty here ; but many have stumbled at the text, and 
 several changes have been proposed ; the only one of which that seems 
 to me much worth considering is Lettsom’s : “ Such a one as I this 
 presents! See foot-note 22. 
 
 • P. 52. With adorations, with fertile tears. 
 
 With groans that thunder love, &c. — The second with is lack- 
 
 ing in the old text. Inserted by Pope. 
 
 p. ^3. If I did love you in my master's flame. 
 
 With such a suffering, such a deadly love. — The original has 
 “ such a deadly life! A very evident misprint, I think ; yet it has 
 waited a good while to be corrected. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 H3 
 
 Act II., Scene i. 
 
 P. 56. My father was that Sebastian of Messaline. — There is no 
 such place known as Messaline ; so some think, and apparently with 
 good reason, that we ought to read Mytilene^ the name of an island in 
 the Archipelago. 
 
 P. 56. Though I could not^ with such an estimable wonder, over far 
 believe that. — The original omits an, and thus leaves the passage so 
 very obscure, to say the least, that it might well be, as indeed it has 
 been, a great puzzle to the editors. Various changes have been pro- 
 posed ; but the insertion of an is by far the simplest and most satis- 
 factory. It was proposed by Mr. W. W. Williams in The Literary 
 Gazette, March 29, 1862, with the following remark : “ I would submit 
 that, if Sebastian’s speech be read carefully, it will require no long 
 pondering to perceive that he is modestly deprecating any comparison 
 of himself with such a beautiful girl as his sister. If that be the pur- 
 port of the words, — and there can hardly be a doubt about it, — the 
 simple insertion of the indefinite article will meet all the necessities of 
 the case.” See foot-note 4. 
 
 Act II., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 58. She took no ring of me : IHl none of it. — The original reads 
 “ She took the ring.” As this is not true, the explanation sometimes 
 given of it is, that Viola, with instantaneous tact, divines the meaning 
 of the ring, and takes care, at the expense of a fib, not to expose 
 Olivia’s tender weakness. But this, perhaps, is putting too fine a point 
 upon it. Dyce at one time retained the old text ; but in his last edi- 
 tion he says, “ I now think it quite wrong, and that what has been said 
 in defence of it is ridiculously over-subtile.” The correction is from 
 Collier’s second folio. 
 
 P. 58. That, as methought, her eyes had lost her tongue. — So 
 Walker. The original has “ That me thought her eyes.” The second 
 folio fills up the gap in the verse by inserting sure instead of as. 
 
144 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 P. 5S. A/aSf our frailty is the cause ^ not we ! 
 
 For, such as we are made of, such we be. — The original has 
 “ Alas, O frailtie is the cause,” and “ such as we are made, if such we 
 be.” The second folio substitutes our for O and Hanmer printed 
 “ eFn such we be.” The common reading is as in the text. Tyrwhitt’s 
 correction. 
 
 P. 59. And /, poor monster, fond as much on him, 
 
 As she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. — The original has And 
 she, mistaken,” &c. Corrected by Dyce. 
 
 Act II., Scene 3. 
 
 P. 64. Out 0^ time sir ? ye lie. Art any 7 nore than a steward P — 
 So Theobald. The old text has tune instead of time. As the whole 
 speech is evidently addressed to Malvolio, tune cannot be right ; while 
 time accords perfectly with what has passed a little before between Sir 
 Toby and the steward. 
 
 P.65. To challenge him the field. — So the old copies; but com- 
 monly printed to the field”; “improperly, I believe,” says Dyce. 
 
 P. 65. Sir And. Possess us, possess us. — In the old text, this speech 
 is given to Sir Toby. Corrected by Walker ; who remarks, “ Surely 
 Sir Toby needed no information respecting Malvolio.” 
 
 P. 66. Sir To. And your horse now would make him an ass. — 
 Here we have just the converse of the preceding instance : the speech 
 has the prefix “ Anl'‘ in the original. But the speech is too keen for 
 Sir Andrew to make. Tyrwhitt pointed out the error. 
 
 Act II., Scene 4. 
 
 P. 68. Go seek him out : — and play the tune the while. — The 
 original lacks Go at the beginning of this line. Supplied by Capell. 
 
 P. 69. Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm. 
 
 More longing, wavering, sooner lost a 7 id won. — So Hanmer 
 und Collier’s second folio. The original has “lost and worne.^’ 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 I4S 
 
 P. 70, Lay me, O, where 
 
 Sad \xVi<^-love never find my grave. — The original has “ Sad 
 true lover.’* Corrected by Capell. 
 
 P. 72. No motion of the liver ^ but the palate, — 
 
 That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt. — The original has 
 puffer, which is convicted of error by the explanations it has called 
 forth. Corrected by Rowe. 
 
 Act II., Scene 5. 
 
 P. 76. And perchance wind up my watch, or play with some rich 
 jewel. — The original has “ play with my some rich jewel 7 ny being 
 probably repeated by mistake. 
 
 P. 76. Though our silence be drawn from us by th’ ears, yet peace, 
 — So Hanmer and Collier’s second folio. The original has the strange 
 reading, “ drawn from us with cars ”/ which has provoked some ex- 
 planations equally strange. As Dyce remarks, “ bith was very common 
 as the contraction of by the ; and therefore bith ears might easily be 
 corrupted into with carsl^ So I leave the text, though I have little 
 doubt it should be wi^ thl ears : for the Poet very often uses with in 
 such cases where we should use by, and the double elision of with and 
 the, so as to make one syllable, is very frequent with him. 
 
 P. 78. And with what wing the staniel checks at it! — The original 
 has stallion. Corrected by Hanmer. 
 
 P. 80. God and my stars be praised. — Godf I thank Thee. — In 
 both these places, the original has Jove. But Malvolio is not a 
 Heathen ; he is rather a strait-laced sort of Christian ; such a one as 
 would be very apt to ascribe his supposed good fortune to the fact of 
 his being among “ the elect.” So 1 suspect that Jove was inserted by 
 some second hand in compliance with the well-known statute against 
 profanation. Halliwell prints as in the text ; and I was fully convinced 
 it ought to be so, long before I knew he had printed it so. 
 
146 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 Act III., wScENE i. 
 
 P. 82. So thou mayst say, the king lives by a beggar. — The original 
 has lyes instead of lives ; an error v^^hich the context readily corrects. 
 
 P. 84. Would not a pair of these breed, sir ? — The original reads 
 ' Would not a pair of these have bredl'' But the course of the dialogue 
 plainly requires the sense of the future. 
 
 P. 85. Not, like the haggard, check at every feather 
 
 That comes before his eye. — So Collier’s second folio. The old 
 text has And like the Haggard,” which just contradicts the sense re- 
 quired. Johnson suggested the reading in the text, and rightly ex- 
 plained the meaning of the passage to be, “ He must choose persons 
 and times, and observe tempers ; he must fly at proper game, like the 
 trained hawk, and not fly at large like the unreclaimed haggard, to 
 seize all that comes in his way.” 
 
 P. 85. For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit ; 
 
 But wise men^s folly, shown, quite taints their wit. — The origin 
 nal has “ But wisemens folly falne, quite taint their wit ” ; from which 
 no rational meaning can be gathered. The word shows, in the preced- 
 ’T-g line, points out the right reading. Hanmer made the correction. 
 le foot-note 12. 
 
 P. 86. Pll gei 'em all three ready. — The original has “ all three 
 already." Corrected in the third folio. 
 
 P. 87. Give me leave, I beseech you. — So the third folio. The 
 earlier editions omit /. 
 
 # 
 
 Act III., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 89. Did she see thee the while, old boy ? — So the third folio. 
 The earlier editions omit thee. 
 
 P. 91. We'll call thee at thy cubiculo. — So Hanmer. The origi 
 nal has the instead of thy. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 147 
 
 P. 92. For Andrew, if he were open'd, you find so much blood in 
 his liver, &c. — The original has “ if he were open’d, and you find.” 
 The correction is Walker’s. And is indeed an archaic form of the old 
 concessive an. 
 
 P. 92. Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes. — So Theo 
 bald. The old text has mine instead of nine. See foot-note ii. 
 
 Act III., Scene 3. 
 
 P. 93. As might have drawn me to a longer voyage. — The original 
 has one instead of me. Corrected by Heath. 
 
 P. 94. I can no other answer make, but thanks. 
 
 And thanks, and ever thanks ; too oft good turns 
 Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay. — In the original, the 
 second line stands thus : “ And thankes : and ever oft good turnes.” 
 A large number of readings has been made or proposed. That in the 
 text is by Seymour. 
 
 Act III., Scene 4. 
 
 P. 96. I have sent after him : says he, he'll come. 
 
 How shall I feast him ? — The old text reads “ he says hee’l 
 come.” But the concessive sense is evidently required, not the affirma- 
 tive. Theobald saw this clearly, and so printed “ say he will come.” 
 The simple transposition made in the text gets the same sense naturally 
 enough ; the subjunctive being often formed in that way. 
 
 P.97. My yellow stockings! — The original has Thy instead of 
 My. The correction is Lettsom’s, and a very happy one it is too. 
 
 P. 98. Let thy tongue twang arguments of State. — The original has 
 “ let thy tongue langer with arguments.” The second folio substitutes 
 tang for langer ; tang being merely an old form or spelling of twang. 
 See the letter as given in full in ii. 5, page 80. 
 
 P. 98. But it is God’s doing, and God make me thankful. — Here, 
 again, as also later in the same speech, the original has Jove. See 
 note on “ God and my stars be praised,” page 145. 
 
148 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 P. 102. Very brief, and exceeding good sense — less. — vSo Rowe and 
 various others. The original has “ and to exceeding.” I cannot see 
 what business to has there. 
 
 P. 103. Fve said too much unto a heart of stone. 
 
 And laid mine honour too unchary out. — So Theobald. The 
 original has “too unchary on't'' ; which some editors still retain, and 
 try to support with arguments more ingenious than sound. 
 
 P. 104. He is knight, dubdd with unhack’d rapier and on carpet 
 consideration. — So Pope. The original has “ with unhatchld rapier.” 
 To hatch was used for to ornament ; so that unhatcFd rapier would 
 hardly accord with the occasion. Of course an unhacFd rapier is a 
 rapier that has done no service in fight. So in King John, ii. i ; 
 “ With unhacFd swords and helmets all unbruised.” 
 
 Act III., Scene 5. 
 
 P. 106. Scene V. — The Street adjoining OiaviaIs Garden. — The 
 original and most modern editions print this scene as a continuation of 
 I the preceding one. In the Poet’s time, changes of scene were not 
 
 unfrequently left to the imagination of the audience ; the machinery 
 and furniture not being so ample then as in later days. The course of 
 the action and various particulars of the dialogue, as any one will see 
 who notes them carefully, plainly require a change of scene in this 
 place. Dyce arranges as in the text. 
 
 P. 109. Relieved him with all sanctity of love ; 
 
 And to this image, which methought did promise 
 Most venerable worth, did I devotion. 
 
 I But, O, how vile an idol proves this god! — The original has 
 
 “ with such sanctity,” and “ to his image.” With the former, the text 
 has so abrupt and misplaced a break in the sense, that Walker thought, 
 as he well might, that a line had dropped out after love. The context, 
 I think, fairly requires the sense of all instead of such. Much might 
 more easily be misprinted such, but is not strong enough for the place. 
 ^ The common reading sets a dash after love, of course to indicate a 
 
 j , break in the sense : the original has a ( ; ) as if not aware of any break. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 149 
 
 “ To this image ” is proposed by Walker ; and the occurrence of idol 
 in the last line shows it to be right. Antonio does not mean that he 
 has been worshipping an image of the supposed Sebastian, but that 
 what he has taken for something divine turns out to be but a hollow 
 image. 
 
 Act IV., Scene i. 
 
 P. III. I am afraid this great lubberly world will prove a cockney, 
 — So Collier’s second folio. The original has “ this great lubber the 
 World.” Douce proposed to read “ this great lubberly wordf taking 
 word as referring to vent^ and that reading is adopted by White, who 
 explains great lubberly as meaning pretentious, Dyce says, “ I can 
 hardly believe that Shakespeare would have made the Clown speak of 
 vent as a ‘ great lubberly word.’ ” 
 
 P. 1 12. Why,) there's for thee^ and there ^ and there, and there ! 
 
 Are all the people mad? — The original lacks the last and there, 
 which was added by Capell. Such omissions are apt to occur in case 
 of such repetitions. . 
 
 P. 1 14. Nay, come, / pray; would thou^dst be ruled by me, — So 
 Pope. The original has “Nay come I prethee?"' Walker says, “ Read 
 I pray ; the other is too rugged for a rhyming couplet.” 
 
 Act IV., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 1 14. Sir To. God bless thee, master parson, — Here also the old 
 text has Jove ; quite as much out of place as in the former instances. 
 
 P. 1 15. Say' st thou this house is dark? — The original has that in- 
 stead of this. Corrected by Rann. 
 
 P. 1 17. I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot . — 
 The original omits to. Supplied by Rowe. 
 
 P. 1 19. Are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit ? — This 
 must mean “Are you really sane? or do you but pretend to be so?” 
 Johnson proposed to strike out not, and, I suspect, rightly. That 
 
ISO 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 would give the meaning, “Are you really mad? or have you merely 
 been shamming madness?” which seems more in keeping with the 
 Clown’s humour. 
 
 P. 1 19. Adieu, goodman Devil, — The original has goodman 
 divell”; thus making a rhyme by repeating the same word. Many 
 recent editors change divell to drivel. Still I must think the change 
 to be wrong ; for such repetitions, instead of rhymes proper, are not 
 unfrequent in old ballads ; especially where the rhymes are not con* 
 secutive. 
 
 Act V., Scene i. 
 
 P. 123. The triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure ; as the bells of 
 Saint Bennet, &c. — So Hanmer. The old text has or instead of as. 
 
 P. 128. A contract and eternal bond of love. — So Collier’s second 
 folio. Instead of and, the original repeats ofhy anticipation. 
 
 P. 130. Then he's a rogue and a passy-nieasures paynim. — The 
 original has panyn, which Pope corrected to paynim, an old form of 
 pagan. The second folio changes pavyn to Panin. See foot-note 14. 
 
 P. 1 31. You throw a strange regard on me ; by that 
 
 I do perceive it hath offended you. — The original reads “ a 
 strange regard upon me, and by that.” The reading in the text is 
 Lettsom’s ; who remarks, “ and is wretchedly flat here ; it probably 
 crept in from the line above. Pope and others have ^ on me, by 
 which ^ &C.” 
 
 P. 132. Pll bring you to a captain’s in this town. 
 
 Where lie my maid’s weeds ; by whose gentle help 
 I was preferred to serve this noble Count. — The old text has 
 Captaine instead of captain's, 7 naiden instead of maid's, a.nd preserv' d 
 instead of preferr'd. The first change is from Collier’s second folio ; 
 the other two were made by Theobald, one for the metre, the other for 
 the sense ; as preserv'd gives an untrue meaning. A little further on, 
 Viola speaks of “ my maid's garments.” 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 I51 
 
 P. 133. A most distracting frenzy of mine ozvn. — So Hanmer and 
 Collier’s second folio. The original has “ most extracting frenzy.” 
 Here extracting has to be explained in the sense of distracting, while 
 it does not appear that the word was ever used in that sense. And the 
 preceding line has distract in the same sense. 
 
 P. 135. One day shall crown thl alliance on’s, so please you. — The 
 old text has “ th’ alliance ond ” ; the easiest of misprints. Of course 
 on's is a contraction of on us. The Poet has many such. 
 
 P. 136. It was she 
 
 First told me thou wast mad : thou earnest in smiling. — So 
 Collier’s second folio, and with manifest propriety. The old text has 
 then instead of the second thou. 
 
 P. 136. Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts 
 
 We had conceived in him. — The original reads “ conceiv’d 
 against him,” defeating both sense and verse. No doubt against 
 in from the second line before. Corrected by Tyrwhitt. 
 
 P. 137. Alas, poor soul, hozv have they baffled thee ! — So Walker 
 and Collier’s second folio. The old text has fool instead of soul. It is 
 true, as Dyce notes, that the Poet has poor fool repeatedly as a term of 
 familiar endearment or of pitying fondness ; but that seems to me too 
 strong a sense for this place. 
 
 P. 138. ' Gainst and thief men shut their gate. — So Farmer 
 
 The original has “ Knaves and Theeves. ” Also, in the second stanza 
 after, it has “ unto my bedsf and “ drunken heades." See foot-note 33. 
 


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