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Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epis. tles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the ex. pressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall fiud bimself most feeliugly personated: I can write very like my lady, your viece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir And. I hav't in my nose too.

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

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

Sir And. And your horse now would make him

an ass.

Mar, Ass, I doubt not.
Sir And. 0, '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.

[Erit. 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 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.

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Sir To. Come, come; I'll go buro some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

(Ereunt,

SCENE IV.

A room in 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.

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 tube the while,

(Erit Curio.-Music.
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 belov’d.-How dost thou like this tune?

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is thron'd.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:

1

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath sťay'd upon some favour* that it loves;
llath it not, boy?
Vio.

A little, by your favour.
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. 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, bog, 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

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

bonest,
Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old ages.

# Countenance.

Simple truth.

+ Lace makers.

Tinies of simplicity.

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Clo. 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 yeu,

0, 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 stroun;

Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, where
Sad true lover ne'er find my grave,

To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.
Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, sir, an 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.

[Exit Clown. Drake. Let all the rest give place.

[Ereunt Curio and Attendants.

Once more, Cesario,

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* A precious stone of all colours.

Get thee to yon' 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* ber in, attracts my soul.

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.
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. My father had a daughter lov'd 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 pin'd in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument,

# Decks,

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