Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare [the lemonade war series .TXT] 📗

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OLIVIA.
Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours; what might you think?
Have you not set 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 shown. A cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

VIOLA.
I pity you.

OLIVIA.
That's a degree to love.

VIOLA.
No, not a grize; for 't is a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.

OLIVIA.
Why, then methinks 't is time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes]
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you;
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due west.

VIOLA.
Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition
Attend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

OLIVIA.
Stay:
I prithee, tell me what thou think'st of me.

VIOLA.
That you do think you are not what you are.

OLIVIA.
If I think so, I think the same of you.

VIOLA.
Then think you right; I am not what I am.

OLIVIA.
I would you were as I would have you be!

VIOLA.
Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.

OLIVIA.
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid; love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter,
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.

VIOLA.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

OLIVIA.
Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE II.

OLIVIA'S house

[Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW and FABIAN.]

SIR ANDREW.
No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.

SIR TOBY.
Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.

FABIAN.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's
serving-man than ever she bestow'd upon me; I saw 't i' th'
orchard.

SIR TOBY.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.

SIR ANDREW.
As plain as I see you now.

FABIAN.
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.

SIR ANDREW.
'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?

FABIAN.
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and
reason.

SIR TOBY.
And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.

FABIAN.
She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate
you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart,
and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her;
and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should
have bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for at your
hand, and this was balk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity
you let time wash off, and you are now sail'd into the north of
my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on
Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable
attempt either of valour or policy.

SIR ANDREW.
And't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I
had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.

SIR TOBY.
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour.
Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in
eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure
thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in
man's commendation with woman than report of valour.

FABIAN.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

SIR ANDREW.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?

SIR TOBY.
Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no
matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention; taunt
him with the license of ink; if thou thou'st him some
thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in
thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it. Let there be
gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no
matter: about it.

SIR ANDREW.
Where shall I find you?

SIR TOBY.
We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

[Exit SIR ANDREW.]

FABIAN.
This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.

FABIAN.
We shall have a rare letter from him; but you'll not deliver 't?

SIR TOBY.
Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an
answer. I think oxen and wain-ropes cannot hale them together.
For Andrew, if he were open'd, and you find so much blood in his
liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of th'
anatomy.

FABIAN.
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage
of cruelty.

SIR TOBY.
Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.

[Enter MARIA.]

MARIA.
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turn'd heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be sav'd by
believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of
grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

SIR TOBY.
And cross-garter'd?

MARIA.
Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' th'
church. I have dogg'd him, like his murderer. He does obey every
point of the letter that I dropp'd to betray him; he does smile
his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as 't
is. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady
will strike him; if she do, he'll smile, and take 't for a great
favour.

SIR TOBY.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE III.

A street

[Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO.]

SEBASTIAN.
I would not by my will have troubled you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.

ANTONIO.
I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you, though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.

SEBASTIAN.
My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks; too oft good turns
Are shuffl'd off with such uncurrent pay:
But, were my worth as is my conscience firm,
You should find better dealing. What's to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?

ANTONIO.
To-morrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.

SEBASTIAN.
I am not weary, and 't is long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.

ANTONIO.
Would you'd pardon me;
I do not without danger walk these streets.
Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count his galleys
I did some service; of such note indeed,
That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answer'd.

SEBASTIAN.
Belike you slew great number of his people.

ANTONIO.
Th' offence is not of such a bloody nature;
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answer'd in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,
Most of our city did: only myself stood out;
For which, if I be lapsed in this place,
I shall pay dear.

SEBASTIAN.
Do not then walk too open.

ANTONIO.
It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse.
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.

SEBASTIAN.
Why I your purse?

ANTONIO.
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

SEBASTIAN.
I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you
For an hour.

ANTONIO.
To th' Elephant.

SEBASTIAN.
I do remember.

[Exeunt.]


SCENE IV.

OLIVIA'S garden

[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]

OLIVIA.
I have sent after him; he says he'll come.
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.
I speak too loud.
Where's Malvolio? He is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.
Where is Malvolio?

MARIA.
He's coming, madam, but in very strange manner.
He is, sure, possess'd, madam.

OLIVIA.
Why, what's the matter? does he rave?

MARIA.
No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your ladyship were best to
have some guard about you, if he come; for, sure, the man is
tainted in's wits.

OLIVIA.
Go call him hither.

[Exit MARIA.]

I am as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.

[Re-enter MARIA, with MALVOLIO.]

How now Malvolio!

MALVOLIO.
Sweet lady, ho, ho.

OLIVIA.
Smil'st thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.

MALVOLIO.
Sad, lady! I could be sad; this does make some obstruction in the
blood, this cross-gartering; but what of that? if it please the
eye of one, it is with me as the very true
sonnet is, 'Please one, and please all.'

OLIVIA.
Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?

MALVOLIO.
Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to
his hands, and commands shall be executed; I think we do know the
sweet Roman hand.

OLIVIA.
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.