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. Come hither, boy; If ever thou shalt love, Save, in the constant image of the creature Where Love is thron'd. Duke. Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Vio. Duke. What kind of woman is't? Vio. 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. 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. Vio. I think it well, my lord. For women are as roses; whose fair flower, 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 chaunt it; it is silly sooth', And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age'. 6 7 9 Clo. Are you ready, sir? Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, sing. SONG. Clo. Come away, come away, death, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, My part of death no one so true Not a flower, not a flower sweet, [Musick. My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown: silly sooth,] It is plain, simple truth. And dallies with the ] Plays or trifles. the old age.] The ages past, times of simplicity. The cypress wood, of which coffins were made. A thousand thousand sighs to save, Sad true lover never find my grave, Duke. There's for thy pains. Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. 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 makes a good voyage of nothing.-Farewell. Duke. Let all the rest give place.— [Exit Clown. [Exeunt CURIO and Attendants. Get thee to yond' same sovereign cruelty: The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her, That nature pranks her in', attracts my soul. Vio. 'Sooth, but you must. Say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, 1 a very opal!] A precious stone of almost all colours. 2 That nature pranks her in,] i. e. adorns. Duke. There is no woman's sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion 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. My father had a daughter lov'd a man, Duke. And what's her history? Vio. A blank, my lord: She never told her love, Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought; Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? Duke. [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 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 ? 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 *? 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 him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot 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. Enter MALVOLIO. Mal. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. [Exit MARIA. Maria once told me, she did, affect me: and I have heard herself 4 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. |