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A little, by your favour.
Of your complexion. Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years,
i'faith? Vio. About your years, my lord. . Pidin
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 display'd, doth fall that very hour.
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!
... Re-enter Curio, and Clown. Duke. O fellow, come, the song we had last
Clo. Are you ready, sir?
free -] Is, perhaps, artless, free from art. ? silly south,] It is plain, simple truth. 8 And dallies with the -] Plays or trifles. ' the old age.) The ages past, times of simplicity,
Fly away, fly away, breath;
0, prepare it ; .
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
Not a friend, not a friend greet
Lay me, 0, where
To weep there.
Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.
Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, 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 inakes a good voyage of nothing:--Farewell. [Exit Clown. Duke. Let all the rest give place.
[Exeunt Cúrio and Attendants.
a very opal!]
Once more, Cesario,
Vio. But, if she cannot love you, sir?
'Sooth, but you must.
Duke. There is no woman's sides,
Ay, but I know,
And what's her history?
* That nature pranks her in,] i.e. adorný.
Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i'the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house,
Ay, that's the theme.
Enter Sir Toby Belch, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,
and FABIAN. Sir To. Come thy ways, signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. "
Sir. To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggårdly rascally sheep-biter coine by some notable shame?
Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.
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.
Enter MARIA. Sir To. Here comes the little villain :-How now, my nettle of India ?4
Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i'the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour: observe hiin, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative ideot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there; (throws down a letter.] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit Maria.
Enter Malvolio. Mal. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?
Sir To. Here's an over-weening rogue!.
Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets" under his advanced plumes!
Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:
. - nettle of India ?] The nettle of India is the plant that produces what is called cow-itch, a substance only used for the purpose of tormenting, by its itching quality.
how he jets ~] To jet is to strut,