 | Twelfe Night, or what you will |  |
Actus Secundus,
Scæna prima.
Enter Antonio & Sebastian.Ant.
Will you stay no longer: nor will you not that
I go with you.
Seb.
By your patience, no: my starres shine darkely
ouer me; the malignancie of my fate, might perhaps distemper
yours; therefore I shall craue of you your leaue,
that I may beare my euils alone. It were a bad recompence
for your loue, to lay any of them on you.
An.
Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.
Seb.
No sooth sir: my determinate voyage is meere
extrauagancie. But I perceiue in you so excellent a touch
of modestie, that you will not extort from me, what I am
willing to keepe in: therefore it charges me in manners,
the rather to expresse my selfe: you must know of mee
then Antonio, my name is Sebastian (which I call'd Rodorigo)
my father was that Sebastian of Messaline, whom I
know you haue heard of. He left behinde him, my selfe,
and a sister, both borne in an houre: if the Heanens had
beene pleas'd, would we had so ended. But you sir, alter'd
that, for some houre before you tooke me from the
breach of the sea, was my sister drown'd.
Ant.
Alas the day.
Seb.
A Lady sir, though it was said shee much resembled
me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but thogh
I could not with such estimable wonder ouer-farre beleeue
that, yet thus farre I will boldly publish her, shee
bore a minde that enuy could not but call faire: Shee is
drown'd already sir with salt water, though I seeme to
drowne her remembrance againe with more.
Ant.
Pardon me sir, your bad entertainment.
Seb.
O good Antonio, forgiue me your trouble.
Ant.
If you will not murther me for my loue, let mee
be your seruant.
Seb.
If you will not vndo what you haue done, that is
kill him, whom you haue recouer'd, desire it not. Fare
ye well at once, my bosome is full of kindnesse, and I
am yet so neere the manners of my mother, that vpon the
least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me: I am
bound to the Count Orsino's Court, farewell.
Exit
Ant.
The gentlenesse of all the gods go with thee:
I haue 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 seeme sport, and I will go.
Exit.
Scæna Secunda.
Enter Viola and Maluolio, at seuerall doores.Mal.
Were not you eu'n now, with the Countesse Oliuia?
Vio.
Euen now sir, on a moderate pace, I haue since ariu'd
but hither.
Mal.
She returnes this Ring to you (sir) you might
haue saued mee my paines, to haue taken it away your
selfe. She adds moreouer, that you should put your Lord
into a desperate assurance, she will none of him. And one
thing more, that you be neuer so hardie to come againe
in his assaires, vnlesse it bee to report your Lords taking
of this: receiue it so.
Vio.
She tooke the Ring of me, Ile none of it.
Mal.
Come sir, you peeuishly threw it to her: and
her will is, it should be so return'd: If it bee worth stooping
for, there it lies, in your eye: if not, bee it his that
findes it.
Exit
Vio.
I left no Ring with her: what meanes this Lady?
Fortune forbid my out-side haue not charm'd her:
She made good view of me, indeed so much,
That me thought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speake in starts distractedly.
She loues me sure, the cunning of her passion
Inuites me in this churlish messenger:
None of my Lords Ring? Why he sent her none;
I am the man, if it be so, as tis,
Poore Lady, she were better loue a dreame:
Disguise, I see thou art a wickednesse,
Wherein the pregnant enemie does much.
How easie is it, for the proper false
In womens waxen hearts to set their formes:
Alas, O frailtie is the cause, not wee,
For such as we are made, if such we bee:
How will this fadge? My master loues her deerely,
And I (poore monster) fond asmuch on him:
And she (mistaken) seemes to dote on me:
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my maisters loue:
As I am woman (now alas the day)
What thriftlesse sighes shall poore Oliuia breath?
O time, thou must vntangle this, not I,
It is too hard a knot for me t'vnty.
Scœna Tertia.
Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.To.
Approach Sir Andrew: not to bee a bedde after
midnight, is to be vp betimes, and Deliculo surgere, thou
know'st.
And.
Nay by my troth I know not: but I know, to
be vp late, is to be vp late.
To.
A false conclusion: I hate it as an vnfill'd Canne.
To be vp after midnight, and to go to bed then is early:
so that to go to bed after midnight, is to goe to bed betimes.
Does not our liues consist of the foure Elements?
And.
Faith so they say, but I thinke it rather consists
of eating and drinking.
To.
Th'art a scholler; let vs therefore eate and drinke,
Marian I say, a stoope of wine.
Enter Clowne.
And.
Heere comes the foole yfaith.
Clo.
How now my harts: Did you neuer see the Picture
of we three?
To.
Welcome asse, now let's haue a catch.
And.
By my troth the foole has an excellent breast, I
had rather then forty shillings I had such a legge, and so
sweet a breath to sing, as the foole has. Insooth thou wast
in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spok'st of
Pigrogromitus, of the Uapians passing the Equinoctial of
Quenbus: 'twas very good yfaith: I sent thee sixe pence
Clo.
I did impeticos thy gratillity: for Maluolios nose
is no Whip-stocke. My Lady has a white hand, and the
Mermidons are no bottle-ale houses.
An.
Excellent: Why this is the best fooling, when
all is done. Now a song.
To.
Come on, there is sixe pence for you. Let's haue
a song.
An.
There's a testrill of me too: if one knight giue a
Clo.
Would you haue a loue-song, or a song of good
life?
To.
A loue song, a loue song.
An.
I, I. I care not for good life.
Clowne
sings.
O Mistris mine where are you roming?
O stay and heare, your true loues coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further prettie sweeting.
Iourneys end in louers meeting,
Euery wise mans sonne doth know.
An.
Excellent good, ifaith.
To.
Good, good
Clo.
What is loue, tis not heereafter,
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What's to come, is still vnsure.
In delay there lies no plentie,
Then come kisse me sweet and twentie:
Youths a stuffe will not endure.
An.
A mellifluous voyce, as I am true knight.
To.
A contagious breath.
An.
Very sweet, and contagious ifaith.
To.
To heare by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the Welkin dance indeed? Shall wee
rowze the night-Owle in a Catch, that will drawe three
soules out of one Weauer? Shall we do that?
And.
And you loue me, let's doo't: I am dogge at a
Catch.
Clo.
Byrlady sir, and some dogs will catch well.
An.
Most certaine: Let our Catch be, Thou Knaue.
Clo.
Hold thy peace, thou Knaue knight. I shall be constrain'd
in't, to call thee knaue, Knight.
An.
'Tis not the first time I haue constrained one to
call me knaue. Begin foole: it begins, Hold thy peace.
Clo.
I shall neuer begin if I hold my peace.
An.
Good ifaith: Come begin.
Catch sung
Enter Maria.
Mar.
What a catterwalling doe you keepe heere? If
my Ladie haue not call'd vp her Steward Maluolio, and
bid him turne you out of doores, neuer trust me.
To,
My Lady's a Catayan, we are politicians, Maluolios
a Peg-a-ramsie, and Three merry men be wee. Am not I
consanguinious? Am I not of her blood: tilly vally. Ladie,
There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady.
Clo.
Beshrew me, the knights in admirable fooling.
An.
I, he do's well enough if he be dispos'd, and so
do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more
naturall.
To.
O the twelfe day of December.
Mar.
For the loue o'God peace.
Enter Maluolio.
Mal.
My masters are you mad? Or what are you?
Haue you no wit, manners, nor honestie, but to gabble
like Tinkers at this time of night? Do yee make an Alehouse
of my Ladies 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?
To.
We did keepe time sir in our Catches. Snecke vp.
Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My Lady
bad me tell you, that though she harbors you as her kinsman,
she's nothing ally'd to your disorders. If you can
separate your selfe and your misdemeanors, you are welcome
to the house: if not, and it would please you to take
leaue of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
To.
Farewell deere heart, since I must needs be gone.
Mar.
Nay good Sir Toby.
Clo.
His eyes do shew his dayes are almost done.
Mal.
Is't euen so?
To.
But I will neuer dye.
Clo.
Sir Toby there you lye.
Mal.
This is much credit to you.
To.
Shall I bid him go.
Clo.
What and if you do?
To.
Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo.
O no, no, no, no, you dare not.
To.
Out o'tune sir, ye lye: Art any more then a Steward?
Dost thou thinke because thou art vertuous, there
shall be no more Cakes and Ale?
Clo.
Yes by S. Anne, and Ginger shall bee hotte y'th
mouth too.
To.
Th'art i'th right. Goe sir, rub your Chaine with
crums. A stope of Wine Maria.
Mal.
Mistris Mary, if you priz'd my Ladies fauour
at any thing more then contempt, you would not giue
meanes for this vnciuill rule; she shall know of it by this
hand.
Exit
Mar.
Go shake your eares.
An.
'Twere as good a deede as to drink when a mans
a hungrie, to challenge him the field, and then to breake
promise with him, and make a foole of him.
To.
Doo't knight, Ile write thee a Challenge: or Ile
deliuer thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Mar.
Sweet Sir Toby be patient for to night: Since
the youth of the Counts was to day with my Lady, she is
much out of quiet. For Monsieur Maluolio, let me alone
with him: If I do not gull him into an ayword, and make
him a common recreation, do not thinke I haue witte enough
to Iye straight in my bed: I know I can do it.
To.
Possesse vs, possesse vs, tell vs something of him.
Mar.
Marrie sir, sometimes he is a kinde of Puritane.
An.
O, if I thought that, I de beate him like a dogge.
To.
What for being a Puritan, thy exquisite reason,
deere knight.
An.
I haue no exquisite reason for't, but I haue reason
good enough.
Mar.
The diu'll a Puritane that hee is, or any thing
constantly but a time-pleaser, an affection'd Asse, that
cons State without booke, and vtters it by great swarths.
The best perswaded of himselfe: so cram'd (as he thinkes)
with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith, that all
that looke on him, loue him: and on that vice in him, will
my reuenge finde notable cause to worke.
To.
What wilt thou do?
Mar.
I will drop in his way some obscure Epistles of
loue, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of his
legge, the manner of his gate, the expressure of his eye,
forehead, and complection, he shall finde himselfe most
feelingly personated. I can write very like my Ladie
your Neece, on a forgotten matter wee can hardly make
distinction of our hands.
To.
Excellent, I smell a deuice.
An.
I hau't in my nose too.
To.
He shall thinke by the Letters that thou wilt drop
with him.
Mar.
My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.
An.
And your horse now would make him an Asse.
Mar.
Asse, I doubt not.
An.
O twill be admirable.
Mar.
Sport royall I warrant you: I know my Physicke
will worke with him, I will plant you two, and let
the Foole make a third, where he shall finde the Letter:
obserue his construction of it: For this night to bed, and
dreame on the euent: Farewell.
Exit
To.
Good night Penthisilea.
An.
Before me she's a good wench.
To.
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me:
what o'that?
An.
I was ador'd once too.
To.
Let's to bed knight: Thou hadst neede send for
more money.
An.
If I cannot recouer your Neece, I am a foule way
out.
To.
Send for money knight, if thou hast her not i'th
end, call me Cut.
An.
If I do not, neuer trust me, take it how you will.
To.
Come, come, Ile go burne some Sacke, tis too late
to go to bed now: Come knight, come knight.
Exeunt
Scena Quarta.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.Du.
Giue me some Musick; Now good morow frends.
Now good Cesario, but that peece of song,
That old and Anticke song we heard last night;
Me thought it did releeue my passion much,
More then light ayres, and recollected termes
Of these most briske and giddy-paced times.
Comes, but one verse.
Cur.
He is not heere (so please your Lordshippe) that
should sing it?
Du.
Who was it?
Cur.
Feste the Iester my Lord, a foole that the Ladie
Oliuiaes Father tooke much delight in. He is about the
house.
Du.
Seeke him out, and play the tune the while.
Musicke playes.
Come hither Boy, if euer thou shalt loue
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me:
For such as I am, all true Louers are,
Vnstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Saue in the constant image of the creature
That is belou'd. How dost thou like this tune?
Vio.
It giues a verie eccho to the seate
Where loue is thron'd.
Du.
Thou dost speake masterly,
My life vpon't, yong though thou art, thine eye
Hath staid vpon some fauour that it loues:
Hath it not boy?
Vio.
A little, by your fauour.
Du.
What kinde of woman ist?
Uio.
Of your complection.
Du.
She is not worth thee then. What yeares ifaith?
Vio.
About your yeeres my Lord.
Du.
Too old by heauen: Let still the woman take
An elder then her selfe, so weares she to him;
So swayes she leuell in her husbands heart:
For boy, howeuer we do praise our selues,
Our fancies are more giddie and vnfirme,
More longing, wauering, sooner lost and worne,
Then womens are.
Uio.
I thinke it well my Lord.
Du.
Then let thy Loue be yonger then thy selfe,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:
For women are as Roses, whose faire flowre
Being once displaid, doth fall that verie howre.
Vio.
And so they are: alas, that they are so:
To die, euen when they to perfection grow.
Enter Curio & Clowne.
Du.
O fellow come, the song we had last night:
Marke it Cesario, it is old and plaine;
The Spinsters and the Knitters in the Sun,
And the free maides that weaue their thred with bones,
Do vse to chaunt it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of loue,
Like the old age.
Clo.
Are you ready Sir?
Duke.
I prethee sing.
Musicke.
The Song.
And in sad cypresse let me be laide
Fye away, fie away breath,
I am slaine by a faire cruell maide:
My shrowd of white, stuck all with Ew, O prepare it.
My part of death no one so true did share it.
On my blacke coffin, let there be strewne:
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poore corpes, where my bones shall be throwne:
A thousand thousand sighes to saue, lay me ô where
Sad true louer neuer find my graue, to weepe there.
Du.
There's for thy paines.
Clo.
No paines sir, I take pleasure in singing sir.
Du.
Ile pay thy pleasure then.
Clo.
Truely sir, and pleasure will be paide one time, or
another.
Du.
Giue me now leaue, to leaue thee.
Clo.
Now the melancholly God protect thee, and the
Tailor make thy doublet of changeable Taffata, for thy
minde is a very Opall. I would haue men of such constancie
put to Sea, that their businesse might be euery thing,
and their intent euerie where, for that's it, that alwayes
makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
Exit
Du.
Let all the rest giue place: Once more Cesario,
Get thee to yond same soueraigne crueltie:
Tell her my loue, more noble then the world
Prizes not quantitie of dirtie lands,
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd vpon her:
Tell her I hold as giddily as Fortune:
But 'tis that miracle, and Queene of Iems
That nature prankes her in, attracts my soule.
Vio.
But if she cannot loue you sir.
Du.
It cannot be so answer'd.
Vio.
Sooth but you must.
Say that some Lady, as perhappes there is,
Hath for your loue as great a pang of heart
As you haue for Oliuia: you cannot loue her:
You tel her so: Must she not then be answer'd?
Du.
There is no womans sides
As loue doth giue my heart: no womans heart
So bigge, to hold so much, they lacke retention,
Alas, their loue may be call'd appetite,
No motion of the Liuer, but the Pallat,
That suffer surfet, cloyment, and reuolt,
But mine is all as hungry as the Sea,
And can digest as much, make no compare
Betweene that loue a woman can beare me,
And that I owe Oliuia.
Uio.
I but I know.
Du.
What dost thou knowe?
Uio.
Too well what loue women to men may owe:
In faith they are as true of heart, as we.
My Father had a daughter lou'd a man
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman
I should your Lordship.
Du.
And what's her history?
Vio.
A blanke my Lord: she neuer told her loue,
But let concealment like a worme i'th budde
Feede on her damaske cheeke: she pin'd in thought,
And with a greene and yellow melancholly,
She sate like Patience on a Monument,
Smiling at greefe. Was not this loue indeede?
We men may say more, sweare more, but indeed
Our shewes are more then will: for still we proue
Much in our vowes, but little in our loue.
Du.
But di'de thy sister of her loue my Boy?
Vio.
I am all the daughters of my Fathers house,
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.
Sir, shall I to this Lady?
Du.
I that's the Theame,
To her in haste: giue her this Iewell: say,
My loue can giue no place, bide no denay.
exeunt
Scena Quinta.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.To.
Come thy wayes Signior Fabian.
Fab.
Nay Ile come: if I loose a scruple of this sport,
let me be boyl'd to death with Melancholly.
To.
Wouldst thou not be glad to haue the niggardly
Rascally sheepe-biter, come by some notable shame?
Fa.
I would exult man: you know he brought me out
o'fauour with my Lady, about a Beare-baiting heere.
To.
To anger him wee'l haue the Beare againe, and
we will foole him blacke and blew, shall we not sir Andrew?
An.
And we do not, it is pittie of our liues.
Enter Maria.
To.
Heere comes the little villaine: How now my
Mettle of India?
Mar.
Get ye all three into the box tree: Maluolio's
comming downe this walke, he has beene yonder i'the
Sunne practising behauiour to his own shadow this halfe
houre: obserue him for the loue of Mockerie: for I know
this Letter wil make a contemplatiue Ideot of him. Close
in the name of ieasting, lye thou there: for heere comes
the Trowt, that must be caught with tickling.
Exit
Enter Maluolio.
Mal.
'Tis but Fortune, all is fortune. Maria once
told me she did affect me, and I haue heard her self come
thus neere, that should shee fancie, it should bee one of
my complection. Besides she vses me with a more exalted
respect, then any one else that followes her. What
should I thinke on't?
To.
Heere's an ouer-weening rogue.
Fa.
Oh peace: Contemplation makes a rare Turkey
Cocke of him, how he iets vnder his aduanc'd plumes.
And.
Slight I could so beate the Rogue.
To.
Peace I say.
Mal.
To be Count Maluolio.
To.
Ah Rogue.
An.
Pistoll him, pistoll him.
To.
Peace, peace.
Mal.
There is example for't: The Lady of the Strachy,
married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
An.
Fie on him Iezabel.
Fa.
O peace, now he's deepely in: looke how imagination
blowes him.
Mal.
Hauing beene three moneths married to her,
sitting in my state.
To.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye.
Mal.
Calling my Officers about me, in my branch'd
Veluet gowne: hauing come from a day bedde, where I
haue left Oliuia sleeping.
To.
Fire and Brimstone.
Fa.
O peace, peace.
Mal.
And then to haue the humor of state: and after
a demure trauaile of regard: telling them I knowe my
place, as I would they should doe theirs: to aske for my
kinsman Toby.
To.
Boltes and shackles.
Fa.
Oh peace, peace, peace, now, now.
Mal.
Seauen of my people with an obedient start,
make out for him: I frowne the while, and perchance
winde vp my watch, or play with my some rich Iewell:
Toby approaches; curtsies there to me.
To.
Shall this fellow liue?
Fa.
Though our silence be drawne from vs with cars,
yet peace.
Mal.
I extend my hand to him thus: quenching my
familiar smile with an austere regard of controll.
To.
And do's not Toby take you a blow o'the lippes,
then?
Mal.
Saying, Cosine Toby, my Fortunes hauing cast
me on your Neece, giue me this prerogatiue of speech.
To.
What, what?
Mal.
You must amend your drunkennesse.
To.
Out scab.
Fab.
Nay patience, or we breake the sinewes of our
plot?
Mal.
Besides you waste the treasure of your time,
with a foolish knight.
And.
That's mee I warrant you.
Mal.
One sir Andrew.
And.
I knew 'twas I, for many do call mee foole.
Mal.
What employment haue we heere?
Fa.
Now is the Woodcocke neere the gin.
To.
Oh peace, and the spirit of humors intimate reading
aloud to him.
Mal.
By my life this is my Ladies hand: these bee her
very C's. her U's, and her T's, and thus makes shee her
great P's. It is in contempt of question her hand.
An.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's: why that?
Mal.
To the vnknowne belou'd, this, and my good Wishes:
Her very Phrases: By your leaue wax. Soft, and the impressure
her Lucrece, with which she vses to seale: tis my
Lady: To whom should this be?
Fab.
This winnes him, Liuer and all.
Ioue knowes I loue, but who, Lips do not mooue, no
man must know. No man must know. What followes?
If this should be thee Maluolio?
To.
Marrie hang thee brocke.
Mal.
I may command where I adore, but silence like a Lucresse knife:
With bloodlesse stroke my heart doth gore, M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.
Fa.
A fustian riddle.
To.
Excellent Wench, say I.
Mal.
M. O. A. I. doth sway my life. Nay but first
let me see, let me see, let me see.
Fab.
What di[illeg.] a poyson has she drest him?
To.
And with what wing the stallion checkes at it?
Mal.
I may command, where I adore: Why shee may
command me: I serue her, she is my Ladie. Why this is
euident to any formall capacitie. There is no obstruction
in this, and the end: What should that Alphabeticall position
portend, if I could make that resemble something
in me? Softly, M. O. A. I.
To
O I, make vp that, he is now at a cold sent.
Fab.
Sowter will cry vpon't for all this, though it bee
as ranke as a Fox.
Mal.
M. Maluolio, M. why that begins my name.
Fab.
Did not I say he would worke it out, the Curre
is excellent at faults.
Mal.
M. But then there is no consonancy in the sequell
that suffers vnder probation: A. should follow, but O.
does.
Fa.
And O shall end, I hope.
To.
I, or Ile cudgell him, and make him cry O.
Mal.
And then I. comes behind.
Fa.
I, and you had any eye behinde you, you might
see more detraction at your heeles, then Fortunes before
you.
Mal.
M, O, A, I. This simulation is not as the former:
and yet to crush this a little, it would bow to mee, for euery
one of these Letters are in my name. Soft, here followes
prose: If this fall into thy hand, reuolue. In my stars
I am aboue thee, but be not affraid of greatnesse: Some
are become great, some atcheeues greatnesse, and some
haue greatnesse thrust vppon em. Thy fates open theyr
hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them, and to invre
thy selfe to what thou art like to be: cast thy humble
slough, and appeare fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman,
surly with seruants: Let thy tongue tang arguments of
state; put thy selfe into the tricke of singularitie. Shee
thus aduises thee, that sighes for thee. Remember who
commended thy yellow stockings, and wish'd to see thee
euer crosse garter'd: I say remember, goe too, thou art
made if thou desir'st to be so: If not, let me see thee a steward
still, the fellow of seruants, and not woorthie to
touch Fortunes fingers Farewell, Shee that would alter
seruices with thee, tht fortunate vnhappy daylight and
champian discouers not more: This is open, I will bee
proud, I will reade pollticke Authours, I will baffle Sir
Toby, I will wash off grosse acquaintance, I will be point
deuise, the very man. I do not now foole my selfe, to let
imagination iade mee; for euery reason excites to this,
that my Lady loues me. She did commend my yellow
stockings of late, shee did praise my legge being crosse-garter'd,
and in this she manifests her selfe to my loue, &
with a kinde of iniunction driues mee to these habites of
her liking. I thanke my starres, I am happy: I will bee
strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and crosse Garter'd,
euen with the swiftnesse of putting on. Ioue, and my
starres be praised. Heere is yet a postscript. Thou canst
not choose but know who I am. If thou entertainst my loue, let
it appeare in thy smiling, thy smiles become thee well. Therefore
in my presence still smile, deere my sweete, I prethee. Ioue
I thank thee, I will smile, I wil do euery thing that thou
wilt haue me.
Exit
Fab.
I will not giue my part of this sport for a pension
of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.
To.
I could marry this wench for this deuice.
An.
So could I too.
To.
And aske no other dowry with her, but such another
iest.
Enter Maria.
An.
Nor I neither.
Fab.
Heere comes my noble gull catcher.
To.
Wilt thou set thy foote o'my necke.
An.
Or o'mine either?
To.
Shall I play my freedome at tray-trip, and becom
thy bondslaue?
An.
Ifaith, or I either?
Tob.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dreame, that
when the image of it leaues him, he must run mad.
Ma.
Nay but say true, do's it worke vpon him?
To.
Like Aqua vite with a Midwife.
Mar.
If you will then see the fruites of the sport, mark
his first approach before my Lady: hee will come to her
in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhorres, and
crosse garter'd, a fashion shee detests: and hee will smile
vpon her, which will now be so vnsuteable to her disposition,
being addicted to a melancholly, as shee is, that it
cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will
see it follow me.
To.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent diuell
of wit.
And.
Ile make one too.
Exeunt.
| Twelfe Night, or what you will | |