Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device. Sir And. So could I too. Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her, but fuch another jeft. Enter Maria. Sir And. Nor I neither. Fab. Here comes my noble gull catcher. Sir And. Or o' mine either? Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-flave? Sir And. I'faith, or I either? Sir To. Why, thou haft put him in fuch a dream, that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad. Mar. Nay, but fay true, does it work upon him? Mar. If you will then fee the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my Lady: he will come to her in yellow ftockings, and 'tis a colour fhe abbors; and crofs-garter'd, a fashion fhe detefts; and he will fmile upon her, which will now be fo unsuitable to her dispo fition, being addicted to a melancholy, as fhe is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will fee it, follow me. Sir To. To the gates of Tartar; thou most excellent devil of wit! Sir And. I'll make one too. [Exeunt. ACT S ACT III. SCENE, Olivia's Garden. Enter Viola, and Clown. VIOLA. AVE thee, Friend, and thy mufick: doft thou live by thy Tabor? Clo. No, Sir, I live by the Church. Vio. Art thou a Churchman ? Clo. No fuch matter, Sir; I do live by the Church: for I do live at my Houfe, and my Houfe doth stand by the Church. Vio. So thou may'ft fay, the King lyes by a Beggar, if a Beggar dwell near him: or the Church ftands by thy Tabor, if thy Tabor ftand by the Church. Clo. You have faid, Sir: to fee this age!A fentence is but a chev'ril glove to a good wit; how quickly the wrong fide may be turned outward? Vio. Nay, that's certain; they, that dally nicely with words, may quickly make them wanton. Clo. I would, therefore, my Sifter 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 Sifter wanton; but, indeed, words are very rafcals, fince bonds difgrac'd them. Vio. Thy reafon, Man? Glo. Troth, Sir, I can yield you none without words ; and words are grown fo false, I am loth to prove reafon with them. Vio. I warrant, thou art a merry Fellow, and careft for nothing. Clo. Clo. Not fo, Sir, I do care for fomething; but, in my confcience, Sir, I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing, Sir, I would, it would make you invifible. Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's Fool? Clo. No, indeed, Sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly; fhe will keep no Fool, Sir, 'till the be married; and Fools are as like Husbands, as Pilchers are to Herrings, the Husband's the bigger: I am, indeed, not her Fool, but her Corrupter of Words. Vio. I faw thee late at the Duke Orfino's. Clo. Foolery, Sir, does walk about the Orb like the Sun; it fhines every where. I would be forry, Sir, but the fool fhould be as oft with your Mafter, as with my Mistress: I think, I faw your wisdom there. Vio. Nay, an thou pafs upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold, there's expences for thee. Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, fend thee a beard! Vio. By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost fick. for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, Sir? Vio. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. Clo. I would play lord Pandarus of Phrygia, Sir, to bring a Creffida to this Troylus. Vio. I understand you, Sir, 'tis well begg'd. Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, Sir; begging but a beggar: Creffida was a beggar. My lady is within, Sir, I will confter to them whence you come; who you are, and what you would, is out of my welkin; I might fay, element; but the word is over-worn. [Exit Vio. This fellow is wife enough to play the fool, And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jefts, The quality of the perfons, and the time; And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice, As full of labour as a wife-man's art: For For folly, that he wifely fhews, is fit; But wife men's, folly fall'n, quite taints their wit. Sir And. Save you, gentleman. (6) Vio. And you, Sir. Sir To. Dieu vous guarde, Monfieur. Vio. Et vous auffi; voftre ferviteur. Sir Tob. I hope, Sir, you are; and I am yours. Will you encounter the House? my Niece is defirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. Vio. I am bound to your Neice, Sir; I mean, she is the lift of my voyage. Sir Tob. Tafte your legs, Sir, put them to motion. Vio. My legs do better understand me, Sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me tafte my legs. Sir Tob. I mean, to go, Sir, to enter. Vio. I will answer you with gate and entrance; but we are prevented. Enter Olivia and Maria. Moft excellent accomplish'd lady, the heav'ns rain odours on you! Sir And. That youth's a rare Courtier! rain odours? well. Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchfafed ear. (6) Sir Tob. Save you, Gentleman. Sir And. Dien vous guarde, Monfieur. Sir And. I hope, Sir, you are; and I am yours.] ~ I have ventur'd to make the two Knights change Speeches in this Dialogue with Viola; and, I think, not without good Reason. It were a prepofterous Forgetfulness in the Poet, and out of all Probability, to make Sir Andrew not only speak French, but understand what is faid to him in it, who in the firft A&t did not know the English of Pourquoy. Sir And. Odours, pregnant, and vouchfafed: get 'em all three ready. -I'll Oli. Let the garden door be fhut, and leave me to my hearing. [Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria. Give me your hand, Sir. Vio. My duty, Madam, and moft humble fervice. Vio. Cefario is your fervant's name, fair Princess. Vio. And he is yours, and he muft needs be yours: Your fervant's fervant is your fervant, Madam. Oli. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, 'Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with me! Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf. Oli. O, by your leave, I pray you ; Oli. Give me leave, I befeech you: I did fend, A ring in chase of you. So did I abufe My felf, my fervant, and, I fear me, you; think? What might you Have you not fet 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 fhewn; a cyprus, not a bosom, Hides my poor heart. So let us hear you speak. Vio. I pity you. Oli. That's a degree to love. |