Save in the conftant image of the creature
That is belov'd.-How doft thou like this tune?
Vio. It gives a very echo to the feat
Where love is thron'd.

DUKE. Thou doft speak masterly.

My life upon't, young tho' thou art, thine eye
Hath ftaid upon fome favour that it loves:
Hath 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 heav'n; let ftill the woman take

An elder than herfelf, fo wears the to him;

So fways fhe level in her husband's heart.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,

More longing, wavering, fooner loft and worn,
Than women's are.

V10. 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 rofes, whofe fair flower,

Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

Vio. And fo they are: alas, that they are so, To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Enter Curio and Clown.

DURE. O fellow, come.-The fong we had last night,

Mark it, Cefario, it is old and plain;

The spinsters and the knitters in the fun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chaunt it: it is filly footh,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.

CLO. Are you ready, fir,

DUKE. Ay; pr'ythee, fing.

SONG.

Come away, come away, death,
And in fad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,

I am flain by a fair cruel maid.

My fhrowd of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it.

My part of death no one so true

Did fhare it.

Not a flower, not a flower fweet,

On my black coffin let there be strown:

Not a friend, not a friend greet

[Mufick.

My poor corps, where my bones fhall be thrown, A thousand thousand fighs to fave,

Lay me, O! where

True lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

DUKE. There's for thy pains.

CLO. No pains, fir; take pleasure in finging, fir.

DUKE. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

CLO. Truly, fir, and pleasure will be paid one time or other.

DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLO. Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tay

lor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal! I would have men of such conflancy 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. Farewel.

SCENE VII.

DUKE. Let all the reft give place.

[Exit.

[Exeunt.

Once more, Cefario,

Get thee to yond fame fovereign 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 foul.
VIO. But if the cannot love you, fir-
DUKE. I cannot be fo anfwer'd.
Vio. Sooth, but you must.

Say, that fome 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 fo; must she not then be answer'd?
DUKE. There is no woman's fides

Can abide the beating of so strong a paffion,
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold fo much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite:
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That fuffers furfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the fea,

And can digeft 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 doft 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'th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: fhe pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She fat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may fay more, fwear more, but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for ftill we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE. But dy'd thy fister of her love, my boy?
Vio. I'm all the daughters of my father's house.
And all the brothers too-and yet I know not-
Sir, fhall 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 VIII. Changes to 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 fport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.

VOL. II.

R

Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rafcally sheep-biter come by fome 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, fhall we not, Sir Andrew? Sir AND. And we do not, it's 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' th' fun practifing behaviour to his own fhadow this half hour. Obferve him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Clofe, in the name of jefting! lye you there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Throws down a letter, and Exit.

SCENE IX. 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 the fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Befides, the uses me with a more exalted refpect, than any one elfe that follows her. What should I think on't?

Sir To. Here's an over-weening rogue.

FAB. O, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkeycock of him; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes! Sir AND. 'Slife, I could fo beat the rogue.

Sir To. Peace, I fay.

MAL. To be Count Malvolio,