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Sir And. And your horse now would make him
Mar. Ass, I doubt not.
Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
[Exit. Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.
Sir To. She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me : What o' that ?
Sir And. I was adored once, too.
Sir To. Let's to bed, knight.—Thou hadst need send for more money.
Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut.
Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how
Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now : come, knight; come, knight.
A Room in the Duke's Palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.
li. e. Call me a gelding : this was a common expression of reproach.
Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.
Duke. Who was it ?
Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in: he is about the house. Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat
Thou dost speak masterly:
A little, by your favor.
Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years,
i'faith? Vio. About your years, my lord.
Duke. Too old, by heaven: Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women's are. Vio.
I think it well, my lord. Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses; whose fair flower, Being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
1 i. e. consumed, worn out.
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!
Re-enter CURIO and Clown.
Clo. Are you ready, sir ?
Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid ;
Fly away, fly away, breath ;
O, prepare it;
Did share it.
black coffin let there be strown ;
Lay me, 0, where
To weep there.
1 Merry, gay:
Silly sooth is simple truth. 3 The old age is the ages past, times of simplicity.
Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.
Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.1
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal.— I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where ; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.–Farewell.
[Exit Clown. Duke. Let all the rest give place. —
[Exeunt Curio and Attendants.
Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yon' same sovereign cruelty : Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her, Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune; But 'tis that miracle, and queen
gems, That nature pranks her in, attracts my soul.
Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir ?
'Sooth, but you must.
Duke. There is no woman's sides
1 This is probably an error of the press, and should read, “I give thee now leave to leave me."
? The opal is a gem which varies its hues, as it is viewed in different lights.
Between that love a woman can bear me,
Ay, but I know,
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe:
And what's her history?
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too ;—and yet I know not :Sir, shall I to this lady? Duke.
Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste: give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. (Exeunt.
SCENE V. Olivia's Garden.
Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,
Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?