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that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Fare-
Duke. Let all the reft give place. Once more, Ce-
Get thee to yond fame fovereign Cruelty:
The Parts, that Fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Say, that fome Lady, as, perhaps, there is,
Can bide the beating of so strong a paffion,
Vio. Ay, but I know
Duke. What doft thou know?
Vie. Too well what love Women to Men may owe;
"Because, a Man, that suffers himself to run with every Wind, and fo
As it might be, perhaps, were I a Woman,
Duke. And what's her Hiftory?
Vio. A Blank, my Lord: fhe never told her Love, But let Concealment, like a worm i'th' bud, Feed on her damask Cheek: (9) 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 fhews are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
Duke. But dy'd thy Sifter 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 notSir, fhall I to this Lady?
Duke. Ay, that's the theam.
To her in hafte; give her this Jewel: fay,
My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt.
She pined in Thought;
Smiling at Grief] This very fine Image, which has been fo univerfally applauded, it is not impoffible but our Author might originally have borrow'd from CHAUCER in his Affembly of Foules.
And her befidis wonder difcretlie,
Dame Pacience yfittinge there I fonde
With Facé pale, upon an hill of fonde.
If he was indebted, however, for the first rude Draught, how amply has he repaid that Debt in heightning the Picture! How much does the green and yellow Melancholy tranfcend the Old Bard's Face pale; the Monument, his Hill of Sand; and what an additional Beauty is, Smiling at Grief, for which there are no Ground, nor Traces, in the Original! Our Author has given us this fine Picture again in another Place, but, to shew the Power and Extent of his Genius, with Features and Lineaments varied.
Doft look like Patience, gazing on Kings 'Graves,
Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This abfurd Old Play, I have elsewhere taken Notice, was not entirely of our Author's penning; but he has honour'd it with a Number of Malter-Touches, fo peculiar to himself, that a knowing Reader may with Eafe and Certainty diftinguish the Traces of his Pencil.
SCENE changes to Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir To. Ca. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple
Fab. of this fport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Would't thou not be glad to have the niggardly rafcally fheep-biter come by fome notable fhame? 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. An we do not, it's pity of our lives.
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' Sun 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 Ideot of him. Clofe, in the name of jefting! lye thou there; for here comes the Trout that must be caught with tickling. [Throws down a Letter, and Exit.
Mal. 'Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me, She did affect me; and I have heard her felf come thus near, that fhould the fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Befides, fhe ufes 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-weaning rogue.
Fab. Oh, peace: contemplation makes a rare Turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes!
Sir And. 'Slife, I could fo beat the rogue.
Mal. To be Count Malvolio,
Sir And. Piftol him, pistol him.
Sir To. Peace, peace.
Mal. There is example for't: the Lady of the Strachy married the Yeoman of the Wardrobe.
Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel!
Fab. O, peace, now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.
Mal. Having been three months married to her, fitting in my State
Sir To. O for a ftone-bow, to hit him in the eye! Mal. Calling my Officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come down from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia fleeping.
Sir To. Fire and brimftone!
Fab. O, peace, peace.
Mal. And then to have the humour of State; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them, I know my place, as I would They fhould do theirs to ask for my Uncle Toby
Sir To. Bolts and Shackles!
Fab, Oh, peace, peace, peace; now, now.
Mal. Seven of my people with an obedient start make out for him: I frown the while, and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. To by approaches, curtfies there to me.
Sir To. Shall this Fellow live?
Fab. Tho' our filence be drawn from us with cares, yet, peace.
Mal. I extend my hand to him thus; quenching my familiar fmile with an auftere regard of controul.
Sir To. And does not Toby take you a Blow o'th' lips then?
Mal. Saying, Uncle Toby, my fortunes having caft me on your Neice, give me this prerogative of fpeech Sir To. What, what?
Mal. You muft amend your Drunkenness.
Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the finews of our plot.
Mal. Befides, you wafte the treasure of your time with a foolish Knight
Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.
Mal. One Sir Andrew,
Sir And. I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me Fool.
Mal. What employment have we here?
[Taking up the Letter. Fab. Now is the Woodcock near the gin. Sir To. Oh peace! now the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!
Mal. By my life, this is my Lady's hand: these be her very C's, her U's, and her T's, and thus makes the her great P's. It is, in contempt of queftion, her hand..
Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her 7's: why that? Mal. To the unknown belov'd, this, and my good wishes; her very Phrafes: By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impreffure her Lucrece, with which she uses to feal; 'tis my Lady: to whom should this be?
Fab. This wins him, liver and all.
Mal. Jove knows I love, but who, lips do not move, no Man must know. No Man must know. what follows? the number's alter'd-no Man must know if this should be thee, Malvolio?
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, Brock!
Mal. I may command where I adore, but filence, like a
With bloodless ftroke my heart doth gore, M. O. A. I. doth Sway my life.
Fab. A fuftian riddle.
Sir To. Excellent Wench, fay I.