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Mar. They that add moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

Sir To. With drinking healths to my Neice: I'll drink to her as long as there's a paffage in my throat, and Drink in Illyria. He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my Neice 'till his brains turn o'th' toe like a parish top. What, Wench? Caftiliano vulgo; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.

Enter Sir Andrew.

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch? Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew!

Sir And. Bless you, fair Shrew.

Mar. And you too, Sir.

Sir To. Accoft, Sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And. What's that?

Sir To. My Neice's chamber-maid.

·Sir And. Good Mistress Accoft, I defire better acquaintance.

Mar. My name is Mary, Sir.

Sir And. Good Miftrefs Mary Accoft,

Sir To. You mistake, Knight: accoft, is, front her, board her, wooe her, affail her.

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accoft? Mar. Fare you well, Gentlemen.

Sir To. An thou let her part fo, Sir Andrew, would thou might'ft never draw fword again.

Sir And. An you part fo, Mistress, I would I might never draw fword again. Fair Lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

Mar. Sir, I have not you by th' hand.

Sir And. Marry, but you shall have, and here's my hand.

Mar. Now, Sir, thought is free: I pray you, bring your hand to th' buttery-bar, and let it drink.

Sir And. Wherefore, fweet heart? what's your metaphor ?

Mar. It's dry, Sir.

Sir And. Why, I think fo: I am not fuch an ass, but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jeft? Mar. A dry jeft, Sir.

Sir And. Are you full of them?

Mar. Ay, Sir, I have them at my fingers ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[Exit Maria. Sir To. O Knight, thou lack'ft a cup of canary: when did I see thee fo put down?

Sir And. Never in your life, I think, unless you you fee canary put me down: methinks, fometimes I have no more wit than a Chriftian, or an ordinary Man has ; but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does harm to my wit.

Sir To. No question.

Sir And. An I thought That, I'd forfwear it. I'll ride home to morrow, Sir Toby.

Sir To. Pourquoy, my dear Knight?

Sir And. What is pourquoy? do, or not do? I would, I had bestowed that time in the Tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. (2) O, had I but follow'd the Arts!

Sir To. Then hadft thou had an excellent head of hair.

Sir And. Why, would That have mended my hair? Sir To. Paft queftion; for, thou seeft, it will not curl by Nature.

(2) Sir And.

O, bad I but follow'd the Arts!
Sir To. Then had'st thou had an excellent head of Hair.
Sir And. Why, would That have mended my Hair?


Sir To. Paft Question; for thou feeft it will not cool my Nature.] Prodigious Sagacity! and yet thus it has pafs'd down thro' all the printed Copies. We cannot enough admire that happy Indolence of Mr. Pope which can acquiefce in tranfmitting to us fuch Stuff for genuine Senfe and Argument. The Dialogue is of a very light Strain, 'tis certain, betwixt two foolish Knights: but yet I would be very glad to know, methinks, what Sir Andrew's following the Arts, or his Hair being mended, could have to do with the cooling, or not cooling, Sir Toby's Nature. But my Emendation clears up all this Abfurdity: And the Context is an unexceptionable Confirmation.

Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
Sir To. Excellent! It hangs like Flax on a Diftaff, &c.


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Sir And. But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

Sir To. Excellent! it hangs like flax on a diftaff; and I hope to see a House-wife take thee between her Legs, and spin it off.

Sir And. Faith, I'll home to morrow, Sir Toby; your Neice will not be seen, or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the Duke himself here, hard by, wooes her.

Sir To. She'll none o'th' Duke, fhe'll not match above her degree, neither in eftate, years, nor wit; I have heard her fwear it. Tut, there's life in't, man.

Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o'th' ftrangeft mind i'th' world: I delight in masks and revels fometimes altogether.

Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, Knight? Sir And. As any man in Illyria whatsoever he be, under the degree of my Betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a Galliard, Knight? Sir And. Faith, I can cut a caper.

Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to't.

Sir And. And, I think, I have the back-trick, fimply as ftrong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em? are they like to take duft, like Mistress Mall's Picture? why doft thou not go to church in a Galliard, and come home in a Coranto? my very walk fhould be a Jig! I would not fo much as make water, but in a fink-a-pace: what doft thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did

I cannot pass over the remarkable Conundrum betwixt Sir Andrew wishing he had follow'd the Arts, and Sir Toby's Application of This to the ufing Art in improving his Hair: because I would obferve, what Variety and what a Contraft of Character the Poet has preferv'd in this Pair of ridiculous Knights. Sir Toby has moderate natural Parts, and a fmattering of Education; which makes him always to be running his Wit, and gives him a Predominance over the other. Sir Andrew is a Blockhead by Nature, and unimprov'd by any Acquirements from Art; and fo is made the very Anvil to Impofition and Ridicule.

think, by the excellent conftitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the Star of a Galliard.

Sir And. Ay, 'tis ftrong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colour'd Stocking. Shall we fet about fome revels?

Sir To. What fhall we do elfe? were we not born under Taurus?

Sir And. Taurus? that's fides and heart.

Sir To. No, Sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me fee thee caper; ha! higher ha, ha!


SCENE changes to the Palace.


Enter Valentine, and Viola in man's attire.

Val. IF the Duke continue these favours towards you, Cefario, you are like to be much advanc'd; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no ftranger.

Vio. You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in queftion the continuance of his love. Is he inconftant, Sir, in his favours?

Val. No, believe me.

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.

Vio. I thank you: here comes the Duke.
Duke. Who faw Cefario, hoa?

Vio. On your attendance, my Lord, here.

Duke. Stand you a while aloof.


Thou know'ft no lefs, but all: I have unclafp'd

To thee the book even of my fecret foul.

Therefore, good youth, addrefs thy gate unto her;

Be not deny'd access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot fhall grow
'Till thou have audience.

Vio. Sure, my noble Lord,

If the be fo abandon'd to her forrow

As it is spoke, fhe never will admit me.

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Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited Return.

Vio. Say, I do fpeak with her, my Lord; what then? Duke. O, then, unfold the paffion of my love, Surprize her with difcourfe of my dear faith; It fhall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a Nuncio of more grave afpect. Vio. I think not fo, my Lord.

Duke. Dear Lad, believe it:

For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That fay, thou art a man: Diana's lip

Is not more smooth and rubious; thy fmall pipe
Is as the Maiden's organ, fhrill, and found,
And all is semblative a Woman's part.

I know, thy Constellation is right apt
For this affair: fome four or five attend him;
All, if you will; for I my felf am best
When leaft in company. Profper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy Lord,
To call his fortunes thine.

Vio. I'll do my best

To woo your Lady; yet, a barrfull ftrife!
Who-e'er I woo, my felf would be his Wife. [Exeunt.


SCENE changes to Olivia's House.

Enter Maria and Clown.

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either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips fo wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excufe; my Lady will hang thee for thy abfence.

Clo. Let her hang me; he, that is well hang'd in this world, needs fear no colours.

Mar. Make That good.

Clo. He fhall fee none to fear.

Mar. A good lenten anfwer: I can tell thee where that Saying was born, of, I fear no colours.

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary?


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