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ACT II


SCENE I

The sea-coast.
Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.

Ant.
Will you stay no longer? nor will you
not that I go with you?

Seb.
By your patience, no. My stars shine
darkly over me: the malignancy of my fate
might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I
shall crave of you your leave that I may 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 (10)
are bound.

Seb.
No, sooth, sir: my determinate voyage
is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in
you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you
will not extort from me what I 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, altered that; for some hour before
you took me from the breach of the sea
was my sister drowned.

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 estimable wonder overfar believe

that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her; she

bore a mind that envy could not but call fair.
She is drowned 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.

Seb.
If you will not undo what you have
done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered,
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 Count 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, (49)

That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. [Exit.


SCENE II

A street.
Enter VIOLA, MALVOLIO following.

Mal.
Were not you even now with the
Countess Olivia?

Vio.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I
have since arrived but hither.

Mal.
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 desperate 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.

Vio.
She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

Mal.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to
her; and her will is, it should be so returned:
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, (21)

That sure 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. (30)

How easy is it for the proper-false

In women'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;

And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;

And 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! (41)

O time! thou must untangle this, not I;

It is too hard a knot for me to untie! [Exit.


SCENE III

OLIVIA'S house.
Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW.

Sir To.
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be
abed 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
unfilled 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 (10)
not our life consist of the four elements?

Sir And.
Faith, so they say; but I think it
rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir To.
Thou'rt a scholar; let us therefore
eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine! Enter CLOWN.

Sir And.
Here comes the fool, i' faith.

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 Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing
the equinoctial of Queubus: '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 (31)
fooling, when all is done. 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—

Clo.
Would you have a love-song, or a
song of good life?

Sir To.
A love-song, a love-song.

Sir And.
Ay, ay: I care not for good life.

Clo.
[Sings.]
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.


Sir And.
Excellent good, i' faith.

Sir To.
Good, good.

Clo.
[Sings.]
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.

Sir To.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in
contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance
indeed? shall we rouse the night-owl in a
catch that will draw three souls out of one
weaver? shall we do that?

Sir And.
An you love me, let's do it: 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, (70)
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. [Catch sung.
Enter MARIA.


Mar.
What a caterwauling do you keep
here! If my lady have not called up her steward
Malvolio and bid him turn you out of (79)
doors, never trust me.

Sir To.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians,
Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three
merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous?
am I not of her blood? Tillyvally. Lady! [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 so do I too: he does it with a
better grace, but I do 't more natural.

Sir To.
[Sings]
'O, the twelfth day of (91)

December,'—

Mar.
For the love o' God, peace! Enter MALVOLIO.


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 ye 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 To.
We did keep time, sir, in our (101)
catches. Sneck up!

Mal.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you.
My lady bade me tell you, that, though she
harbors you as her kinsman, she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate
yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome

to the house; if not, an it would please
you to take leave of her, she is very willing to
bid you farewell.

Sir To.
'Farewell, dear heart, since I must (110)
needs be gone.'

Mar.
Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo.
'His eyes do show his days are almost
done.'

Mal.
Is't even so?

Sir To.
'But I will never die.

Clo.
Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal.
This is much credit to you.

Sir To.
'Shall I bid him go?'

Clo.
'What an if you do?'

Sir To.
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?' (121)

Clo.
'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

Sir To.
Out o' tune, 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, and ginger shall
be hot i' the mouth too.

Sir To.
Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub
your chain with crums. A stoup of wine,.
Maria!

Mal.
Mistress Mary, if you prized my,
lady's favor at any thing more than contempt,
you would not give means for this uncivil
rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit.

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.

Sir To.
Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge:
or I'll deliver thy indignation to him (141)
by word of mouth.

Mar.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight:
since the youth of the count's was today
with my lady, she is much out of quiet.
For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with
him: if I do not gull him into a nayword,
and make him a common recreation, do not
think I have wit enough to lie straight in my
bed: I know I can do it.

Sir To.
Posses us, possess us; tell us (150)
something of him.

Mar.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kindof puritan.

Sir And.
O, if I thought that I'ld 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 reason good enough.

Mar.
The devil a puritan that he is, or any
thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned
ass, that cons state without book and
utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded
of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies,
that it is his grounds 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, forehead, 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.

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, (180)
and that she's in love with him.

Mar.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of
that color.

Sir And.
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 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 (201)
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; 'tis too late to go to bed now; come,
knight; come, knight. [Exeunt.


SCENE IV

The DUKE'S palace.
Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.

Duke.
Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.

Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,

That old and antique 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:

Come, but one verse.

Cur.
He is not here, so please your lordship,
that should sing it. (10)

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. [Exit Curio. Music plays.


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,

Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,

Save in the constant image of the creature

That is beloved. How dost thou like this tune? (21)

Vio.
It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is throned.

Duke.
Thou dcst speak masterly:

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stay'd upon some favor that it loves:

Hath it not, boy?

Vio.
A little, by your favor.

Duke.
What kind of woman is't?

Vio.
Of your complexion.

Duke.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

Vio.
About your years, my lord. (30)

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; (39)

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 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. (50)

Clo.
Are you ready, sir?

Duke.
Ay; prithee, sing. [Music.


Clo.

SONG

Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin 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, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!



Duke.
There's for thy pains.

Clo.
No pains, sir; I take pleaure in (70)
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.

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.

Duke.
Let all the rest give place. [Curio and Attendants retire.


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,

Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;

But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems

That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. (90)

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

As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;

You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?

Duke.
There is no woman's sides

Can 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 (100)

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite,

No motion of the liver, but the palate,

That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much: make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me

And 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. (110)

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?

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 pined 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 (120)

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,

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, SIR ANDREW, 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.
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' favor with my lady about (10)
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.

Sir To.
Here comes the little villain. Enter MARIA.
How now, my metal of India!

Mar.
Get ye all three into the box-tree:
Malvolio's coming down this walk: he has
been yonder i' the sun practising behavior 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! Lie thou there
[throws down a letter], for here comes the
trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit. 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 overweening 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!

Sir To.
Peace, I say. (40)

Mal.
To be Count Malvolio!

Sir To.
Ah, rogue!

Sir And.
Pistol him, pistol him.

Sir To.
Peace, peace!

Mal.
There is example for't; the lady of
the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir And.
Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fab.
O, peace! now he's deeply in: look
how imagination blows him.

Mal.
Having been three months married to (50)
her, sitting in my state,—

Sir To.
O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in
the eye!

Mal.
Calling my officers about me, in
my branched velvet gown; having come from
a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,—

Sir To.
Fire and brimstone!

Fab.
O, peace, peace!

Mal.
And then to have the humor of state;
and after a demure travel of regard, telling
them I know my place as I would they should (61)
do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby,—

Sir To.
Bolts and shackles!

Fab.
O peace, peace, peace! now, now.

Mal.
Seven of my people, with an obedient
start, make out for him: I frown the while;
and perchance wind up my watch, or play
with my—some rich jewel. Toby approaches;
courtesies there to me,—

Sir To.
Shall this fellow live?

Fab.
Though our silence be drawn from (71)
us with cars, yet peace.

Mal.
I extend 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?

Mal.
Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes
having cast me on your niece give me this
prerogative of speech,'— (80)

Sir To.
What, what?

Mal.
'You must amend your drunkenness.'

Sir To.
Out, scab!

Fab.
Nay, patience, or we break the
sinews of our plot.

Mal.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of
your time with a foolish knight,'—

Sir And.
That's me, I warrant you.

Mal.
'One Sir Andrew,'—

Sir And.
I knew 'twas I; for many do call (90)
me fool.

Mal.
What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter.


Fab.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.

Sir To.
O, peace! and the spirit of humors
intimate reading aloud to him!

Mal.
By my life, this is my lady's hand:
these be her very C's, her U's and her T's;
and thus makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt
of question, her hand.

Sir And.
Her C's, her U's and her T's: (100)
why that?

Mal.
[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 seal:
'tis my lady. To whom should this be?

Fab.
This wins him, liver and all.

Mal.
[Reads]
Jove knows I love:

But who?

Lips, do not move; (110)

No man must know.

'No man must know.' What follows? the
numbers altered! 'No man must know:' if
this should be thee, Malvolio?

Sir To.
Marry, hang thee, brock!

Mal.
[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! (120)

Sir 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 dish o' poison has she dressed
him!

Sir To.
And with what wing the staniel
checks at it!

Mal.
'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
this: and the end,—what should that alphabetical
position portend? If I could make that
resemble something in me,—Softly! M, O, A,
I,—

Sir To.
O, ay, make up that: he is now
at a cold scent.

Fab.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this,
though it be as rank as a fox.

Mal.
M,—Malvolio; M,—why, that begins
my name.

Fab.
Did not I say he would work it out? (140)
the cur is excellent at faults.

Mal.
M,—but then there is no consonancy
in the sequel; that suffers under probation:
A should follow, but O does.

Fab.
And O shall end, I hope.

Sir To.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make
him cry O!

Mal.
And then I comes behind.

Fab.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you,
you might see more detraction at your heels (150)
than 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 me, for every one of these
letters are in my name. Soft! here follows

prose. [Reads]

'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In
my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid
of greatness: some are born great, some
achieve greatness, and some have greatnes
thrust upon 'em. Thy Fates open their hands;
let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and,
to inure thyself to what thou art like to be,
cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be
opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants;
let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put
thyself into the trick of singularity: she thus
advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember
who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say,
remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest
to be so; if not, let me see thee a
steward still, the fellow of servants, and not
worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell.
She that would alter service with thee.

THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.'


Daylight and champain discovers not more:
this is open. I will be proud, I will read politic
authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off
gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise the
very man. I do not now fool myself, to let

imagination jade me; for every reason excites
to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend
my yellow stockings of late, she did
praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in this
she manifests herself to my love, and with a
kind of injunction drives me to these habits of

her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. I
will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and
cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting
on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here
is yet a postscript. [Reads]


'Thou canst not choose but know who
I am. If thou entertainest my love, let it appear
in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee
well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear
my sweet, I prithee.'



Jove, I thank thee: I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me. [Exit.

Fab.
I will not give my part of this sport
for a pension of thousands to be paid from the
Sophy.

Sir To.
I could marry this wench for this
device. (200)

Sir And.
So could I too.

Sir To.
And ask no other dowry with her
but such another 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? (209)

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.

Mar.
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 his first approach before my lady:
he will come to her in yellow stockings, and
'tis a color she abhors, and cross-gartered, 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, thou most
excellent devil of wit!

Sir And.
I'll make one too. [Exeunt.

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