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WHAT YOU WILL.
SCENE, the PALACE.
Enter the Duke, Curio, and Lords.
F Mufick be the food of Love, play on; Give me excess of it; that, furfeiting, The appetite may ficken, and fo die. That Strain again; it had a dying Fall: O, it came o'er my ear, like the fweet That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing, and giving odour. Enough! 'Tis not fo sweet now, as it was before. O fpirit of Love, how quick and fresh art thou! That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the fea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch foe'er, But falls into abatement and low price, Even in a minute; (1) fo full of shapes in fancy, That it alone is high fantastical.
fo full of Shapes is Fancy,
That it alone is high fantaftical.] Shakespeare has made his Polonius (a Character, which he defign'd fhould be receiv'd with Laughter) fày;
[fouth, no more;
Cur. Will you go hunt, my Lord?
Cur. The hart.
Duke. Why, fo I do, the nobleft that I have: O, when my eyes did fee Olivia first, Methought, the purg'd the air of peftilence; That inftant was I turn'd into a hart, And my defires, like fell and cruel hounds, E'er fince pursue me. How now, what news from her?
Val. So please my Lord, I might not be admitted, But from her hand-maid do return this answer: The element it felf, 'till seven years hence, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But, like a Cloyftrefs, she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother's dead love, which he would keep fresh And lasting in her fad remembrance.
Duke. O, She, that hath a heart of that fine frame, To pay this debt of love but to a Brother, How will the love, when the rich golden fhaft Hath kill'd the flock of all affections elfe That live in her? when liver, brain, and heart, These fov'raign Thrones, are all fupply'd, and fill'd,
for to define true Madnefs,
What is't, but to be Nothing else but mad,
But there is no Parity of Reason why his Duke here, who is altogether ferious, and moralizing on the Qualities of Love, fhould tell us, that Fancy is alone the most fantastical Thing imaginable. I am perfuaded, the Alteration of is into in has given us the Poet's genuine Meaning; that Love is most fantastical, in being fo variable in its Fancies. And Shakespeare every. where fuppofes this to be the diftinguishing Characteriftic of this Paffion. In his As You like it, where What it is to be in Love is defin'd, amongst other Marks we have This ;
It is to be all made of Fantafie.
And in the fame Play, Rofalind, fpeaking of her Lover, fays;
If I could meet that Fancy-monger, I would give him some good Counsel, for he feems to have the Quotidian of Love upon him. And a hundred other Paffages might be quoted, did the Matter require any Proof. Mr. Warburton. Her
Her fweet perfections, with one felf-fame King!
SCENE, the Street.
Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors.
HAT Country, friends, is this?
Vio. And what fhould I do in Illyria?
Perchance, he is not drown'd; what think you, failors?
Affure your felf, after our Ship did split,
Moft provident in peril, bind himself
(Courage and Hope both teaching him the practice)
Vio. For faying fo, there's gold.
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Cap. Ay, Madam, well; for I was bred and born,
Vio. Who governs here?
Gap. A noble Duke in nature, as in name.
Vio. Orfino! I have heard my Father name him:
Cap. And fo is now, or was fo very late;
And then 'twas fresh in murmur (as you know,
Vio. What's fhe?
Cap. A virtuous Maid, the Daughter of a Count,
Vio. O, that I ferv'd that Lady,
Cap. That were hard to compass;
Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain;
Cap. Be you his Eunuch, and your Mute I'll be:
SCENE, an Apartment in Olivia's Houfe.
Enter Sir Toby, and Maria.
Sir To. the death of her Brother thus? I am
HAT a plague means my Neice, to take
fure, Care's an enemy to life.
Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier a-nights; your Neice, my Lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
Sir To. Why, let her except, before excepted.
Mar. Ay, but you must confine your self within the modeft limits of order.
Sir To. Confine? I'll confine my felf no finer than I am; these cloaths are good enough to drink in, and fo be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo I heard my Lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish Knight that you brought in one night here, to be her Wooer?
Sir To. Who, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?
Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all thefe ducats: he's a very fool, and a prodigal.
Sir To. Fie, that you'll fay fo! he plays o'th' viol-degambo, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of Na
Mar. He hath, indeed,
almost natural; for befides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the guft he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a Grave.
Sir To. By this hand, they are fcoundrels and fubftractors that fay fo of him. Who are they?