Mal. M. O. A. I. doth fway my life firft, let me feelet me fee

nay, but

Fab. What a dish of poison has fhe dress'd him? Sir To. And with what wing the ftallion checks at it?

Mal. I may command where I adore. Why, fhe may command me: I ferve her, fhe is my Lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obftruction in this-and the end what fhould that alphabetical pofition portend? if I could make that refemble fomething in me? foftly M. O. A. I. Sir To. O, ay! make up that; fcent.

he is now at a cold

Fab. Sowter will cry upon't for all this, tho' it be as rank as a Fox.

Mal. M.

Malvolio

·M.

why, that begins

my name.

Fab. Did not I fay, he would work it out? the cur is excellent at faults.

Mal. M. But then there is no confonancy in the fequel; That fuffers under probation: A fhould follow, but O does.

Fab. And O fhall end, I hope.

Sir To. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry, O. Mal. And then I comes behind. Fab. Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might fee more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

Mal. M. O. A. I. this Simulation is not as the former and yet to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these Letters is in my name. Soft, here follows Profe- If this fall into thy band, revolve. In my Stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of Greatnefs; fome are born Great, fome atchieve Greatnefs, and fome have Greatness thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and Spirit embrace them; and to inure thy felf to what thou art like to be, caft thy humble flough, and appear fresh. Be oppofite with a Kinfman, furly with Servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of State; put thy felf into the trick of fingularity. She thus

advifes

advifes thee, that fighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow Stockings, and wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I fay, remember; go to, thou art made, if thou defireft to be fo: if not, let me fee thee a Steward Still, the fellow of fervants, and not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewel. She, that would alter fervices with thee. The fortunate and happy day-light and champian discovers no more: this is open. I will be proud, I will read politick Authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off grofs acquaintance, I will be point devise, the very man. I do not now fool my felf, to let imagination jade me; for every reafon excites to this, that my Lady loves me. She did commend my yellow Stockings of late, fhe did praife my leg, being cross-garter'd, and in this fhe manifefts her felf to my love, and with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my Stars, I am happy I will be ftrange, ftout, in yellow Stockings, and cross-garter'd, even with the Swiftness of putting on. Jove, and my Stars be praised! Here is yet a Poftfcript. Thou canst not chufe but know who I am; if thou entertaineft my love, let it appear in thy fmiling; thy Smiles become thee well. Therefore in my prefence Still Smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee. Jove, I thank thee! I will fmile, I will do every thing that thou wilt have me. [Exit. Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a penfion of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

Sir To. I could marry this Wench for this device.
Sir And. So could I too.

Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her, but fuch another jeft.

Enter Maria.

Sir And. Nor I neither.

Fab. Here comes my noble Gull-catcher.

Sir To. Wilt thou fet thy foot o' my neck?

Sir And. Or o' mine either?

Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy Bond-flave?

Sir And. I'faith, or I either?

Sir To. Why, thou haft put him in fuch a dream, that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad.

Mar. Nay, but fay true, does it work upon him? Sir To. Like Aqua vite with a Midwife.

Mar. If you will then fee the fruits of the fport, mark his first approach before my Lady: he will come to her in yellow Stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-garter'd, a fashion fhe detefts; and he will fmile upon her, which will now be fo unsuitable to her difpofition, being addicted to a melancholy, as fhe is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if will fee it, follow me. you

Sir To. To the gates of Tartar; thou moft excellent devil of wit!

Sir And. I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.

АСТ III.

SCENE, Olivia's Garden.

Enter Viola, and Clown.

VIOLA.

S

AVE thee, Friend, and thy mufick doft thou live by thy Tabor?

Cle. No, Sir, I live by the Church.

Vio. Art thou a Churchman?

Clo. No fuch matter, Sir, I do live by the Church: for I do live at my House, and my House doth stand by the Church.

Vio. So thou may'ft fay, the King lyes by a Beggar, if a Beggar dwell near him: or the Church stands by thy Tabor, if thy Tabor ftand by the Church.

Clo.

A

Clo. You have faid, Sir: to fee this age! (10) A fentence is but a chev'ril glove to a good wit; how quickly the wrong fide may be turned outward?

Vio. Nay, that's certain; they, that dally nicely with words, may quickly make them wanton.

Clo. I would, therefore, my Sifter had had no Name, Sir.

Vio. Why, Man?

Clo. Why, Sir, her Name's a word; and to dally with that word, might make my Sifter wanton; but, indeed, words are very rafcals, fince bonds difgrac'd them.

Vio. Thy reafon, Man?

Clo. Troth, Sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown fo falfe, I am loth to prove reafon with them.

Vie. I warrant, thou art a merry Fellow, and careft for nothing.

Clo. Not fo, Sir, I do care for fomething; but, in my conscience, Sir, I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing, Sir, I would, it would make you invifible.

Vio. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's Fool?

Clo. No, indeed, Sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly; she will keep no Fool, Sir, 'till the be married; and Fools are as like Husbands, as Pilchers are to Herrings, the Husband's the bigger: I am, indeed, not her Fool, but her Corrupter of Words.

Vio. I faw thee late at the Duke Orfino's.

(10) A Sentence is but a Cheveril glove to a good Wit ;] Mr. Pope, in his first Edition of Shakespeare, to fhew the World the Depth of his Learning, inform'd us in a Glofs that Cheveril meant tender from Cheverillus, a young Cock, a Chick. But I never heard yet of any Glove or Leather made of a Cockrel's Skin; and believe, it will hardly come into Experiment in Mr. Pope's or my Time. The Etymology is therefore to be disputed. I fhew'd in my SHAKESPEARE Reftor'd, that Cheveril Leather is made of the Skin of a Kid, or Goat: which was call'd by the LATINES, Caprillus; by the ITALIANS, Ciaverello; and by the FRENCH, Chevereul: from which last, our Word Cheveril is immediately deduced. Mr. Pope in his laft Edition has fuffer'd himself to be inform'd; and embraced thefe Derivations.

VOL. II.

Kk

Clo.

Glo. Foolery, Sir, does walk about the Orb like the Sun; it fhines every where. I would be forry, Sir, but the fool fhould be as oft with your Mafter, as with my miftrefs: I think, I faw your wisdom there.

Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold, there's expences for thee.

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, fend thee a beard!

Vio. By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almoft fick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?

Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, Sir? Vio. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. Clo. I would play lord Pandarus of Phrygia, Sir, to bring a Creffida to this Troylus.

Vio. I understand you, Sir, 'tis well begg'd.

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, Sir, begging but a beggar: Creffida was a beggar. (11) My lady is within, Sir, I will confter to them whence you come; who you are, and what you would, is out of my welkin, I might fay, element; but the word is over[Exit.

worn.

Vio. This fellow is wife enough to play the fool,
And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of the perfons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice,
As full of labour as a wife-man's art:
For folly, that he wifely fhews, is fit;

But wife men's, folly fall'n, quite taints their wit.

f

(11) Creffida was a Beggar.] The Poet in this Circumftance undoubtedly had his Eye on CHAU CER's Teftament of Crefeide. Cupid, to revenge her Prophanation against his Deity, calls in the planetary Gods to affift him in his Vengeance. They infiantly turn her Mirth into Melancholy, her Health into Sickness, her Beauty into Deformity, and in the End pronounce this Sentence upon her;

Thus fhalt thou go begging fro hous to hous,
With Cuppe and Clappir like a Lazargus.

Enter