PART THE SIXTH.

     FIRST VOICE.

     But tell me, tell me! speak again,
     Thy soft response renewing--
     What makes that ship drive on so fast?
     What is the OCEAN doing?

     SECOND VOICE.

     Still as a slave before his lord,
     The OCEAN hath no blast;
     His great bright eye most silently
     Up to the Moon is cast--

     If he may know which way to go;
     For she guides him smooth or grim
     See, brother, see! how graciously
     She looketh down on him.

     FIRST VOICE.

     But why drives on that ship so fast,
     Without or wave or wind?

     SECOND VOICE.

     The air is cut away before,
     And closes from behind.

     Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high
     Or we shall be belated:
     For slow and slow that ship will go,
     When the Mariner's trance is abated.

     I woke, and we were sailing on
     As in a gentle weather:
     'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;
     The dead men stood together.

     All stood together on the deck,
     For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
     All fixed on me their stony eyes,
     That in the Moon did glitter.

     The pang, the curse, with which they died,
     Had never passed away:
     I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
     Nor turn them up to pray.

     And now this spell was snapt: once more
     I viewed the ocean green.
     And looked far forth, yet little saw
     Of what had else been seen--

     Like one that on a lonesome road
     Doth walk in fear and dread,
     And having once turned round walks on,
     And turns no more his head;
     Because he knows, a frightful fiend
     Doth close behind him tread.

     But soon there breathed a wind on me,
     Nor sound nor motion made:
     Its path was not upon the sea,
     In ripple or in shade.

     It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
     Like a meadow-gale of spring--
     It mingled strangely with my fears,
     Yet it felt like a welcoming.

     Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
     Yet she sailed softly too:
     Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
     On me alone it blew.

     Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
     The light-house top I see?
     Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
     Is this mine own countree!

     We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
     And I with sobs did pray--
     O let me be awake, my God!
     Or let me sleep alway.

     The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
     So smoothly it was strewn!
     And on the bay the moonlight lay,
     And the shadow of the moon.

     The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
     That stands above the rock:
     The moonlight steeped in silentness
     The steady weathercock.

     And the bay was white with silent light,
     Till rising from the same,
     Full many shapes, that shadows were,
     In crimson colours came.

     A little distance from the prow
     Those crimson shadows were:
     I turned my eyes upon the deck--
     Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

     Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
     And, by the holy rood!
     A man all light, a seraph-man,
     On every corse there stood.

     This seraph band, each waved his hand:
     It was a heavenly sight!
     They stood as signals to the land,
     Each one a lovely light:

     This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
     No voice did they impart--
     No voice; but oh! the silence sank
     Like music on my heart.

     But soon I heard the dash of oars;
     I heard the Pilot's cheer;
     My head was turned perforce away,
     And I saw a boat appear.

     The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,
     I heard them coming fast:
     Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
     The dead men could not blast.

     I saw a third--I heard his voice:
     It is the Hermit good!
     He singeth loud his godly hymns
     That he makes in the wood.
     He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
     The Albatross's blood.

Part 6 opens with a dialogue between the two voices: the first voice, the Ancient Mariner says, asked the second voice to remind it what moved the Ancient Mariner's ship along so fast, and the second voice postulated that the moon must be controlling the ocean. The first voice asked again what could be driving the ship, and the second voice replied that the air was pushing the ship from behind in lieu of wind. After this declaration, the voices disappeared. The Ancient Mariner awoke at night to find the dead sailors clustered on the deck, again cursing him with their eyes. They mesmerized him, until suddenly the spell broke and they too disappeared. The Ancient Mariner, however, was not relieved; he knew that the dead men would come back to haunt him over and over again. Just then, a wind began to blow and the ship sailed quickly and smoothly until the Ancient Mariner could see the shore of his own country. As moonlight illuminated the glassy harbor, lighthouse, and church he sobbed and prayed, happy to be either alive or in heaven. Suddenly, crimson shapes began to rise from the water in front of the ship. When the Ancient Mariner looked down at the deck, he saw an angel standing over each dead man's corpse. The angels waved their hands silently, serving as beacons to guide the ship into port. The Ancient Mariner heard voices: a Pilot, the Pilot's boy, and a Hermit were approaching the ship in a boat. The Ancient Mariner was overjoyed to see other living human beings and wanted the Hermit to wipe him clean of his sin, to "wash away the Albatross's blood."

In Part 6, the two voices offer a narrative and stylistic break in the poem. Whereas before the text was unbroken, their speech is structured much as in the script of a play. The voices are also omniscient in that they know everything that has happened up until now, and are able to offer the Ancient Mariner a more complete explanation of his situation. The manner in which the voices are presented lends a didactic, narratorial feel to their words. The voices leave because, like the Wedding Guest, they have somewhere to be; the second voice urges the first: "Fly, brother, fly! More high, more high! / Or we shall be belated." Yet unlike the Wedding Guest, the voices are not riveted by the Ancient Mariner's tale and can continue on to their destination after briefly stopping to consider him. They are like the two other guests walking with the Wedding Guest when the Ancient Mariner stops him; while his tale may interest them, they are not compelled to hear it. When the Ancient Mariner is out in the open ocean, Coleridge's imagery is heavily visual and tactile, but also focuses on sound: the noises of the wedding merriment interrupt the Ancient Mariner's tale, "voices in a swound" fill the "rime", there is a terrible silence that abounds when the men are unable to speak, and the glorious music created by the ship and the sailors implies that fortune has once again smiled on the Ancient Mariner. Indeed, in Part 6 sounds are especially important. We know of the two voices only because they speak; they have no visible presence. If they are indeed spirits, then they are discernable to humans only because of the sounds that they make. Furthermore, the Ancient Mariner hears his rescuers before he sees them, although he does not cry out to them. Coleridge's focus on sound connects us to the fact that the Ancient Mariner is telling a story to the Wedding Guest. While readers must view the story on the page, the tale is being told aloud, and is meant to be passed on in this manner, much like a sermon. As the ship enters the harbor, we once again get the sense that the Ancient Mariner will be redeemed, although we know that he is doomed to be haunted by the dead men indefinitely: The ship is now in the safety of the harbor, and home is in sight; two hundred angels, one for each dead man, silently guide the ship into shore, acting as beacons that attract the Ancient Mariner's rescuers.  Not only are the Pilot and Pilot's Boy coming to rescue the Ancient Mariner, but a Hermit has come out of the woods to help them. By definition, a hermit is someone who lives in seclusion in a natural setting, making the natural world his shrine and living place. He does not venture out into society, and certainly not on the ocean. The Hermit that the Ancient Mariner meets is joyous and social, urging the Pilot and Pilot's Boy on even though they are afraid of the tattered ship. Although at the end of Part 6 the Ancient Mariner knows that he will soon be home and believes that the Hermit can absolve him of his sin, the reader can't help but suspect that more horror is in store.


PART THE SEVENTH.

     This Hermit good lives in that wood
     Which slopes down to the sea.
     How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
     He loves to talk with marineres
     That come from a far countree.

     He kneels at morn and noon and eve--
     He hath a cushion plump:
     It is the moss that wholly hides
     The rotted old oak-stump.

     The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
     "Why this is strange, I trow!
     Where are those lights so many and fair,
     That signal made but now?"

     "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said--
     "And they answered not our cheer!
     The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
     How thin they are and sere!
     I never saw aught like to them,
     Unless perchance it were

     "Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
     My forest-brook along;
     When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
     And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
     That eats the she-wolf's young."

     "Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
     (The Pilot made reply)
     I am a-feared"--"Push on, push on!"
     Said the Hermit cheerily.

     The boat came closer to the ship,
     But I nor spake nor stirred;
     The boat came close beneath the ship,
     And straight a sound was heard.

     Under the water it rumbled on,
     Still louder and more dread:
     It reached the ship, it split the bay;
     The ship went down like lead.

     Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
     Which sky and ocean smote,
     Like one that hath been seven days drowned
     My body lay afloat;
     But swift as dreams, myself I found
     Within the Pilot's boat.

     Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
     The boat spun round and round;
     And all was still, save that the hill
     Was telling of the sound.

     I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked
     And fell down in a fit;
     The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
     And prayed where he did sit.

     I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
     Who now doth crazy go,
     Laughed loud and long, and all the while
     His eyes went to and fro.
     "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see,
     The Devil knows how to row."

     And now, all in my own countree,
     I stood on the firm land!
     The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
     And scarcely he could stand.

     "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"
     The Hermit crossed his brow.
     "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say--
     What manner of man art thou?"

     Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
     With a woeful agony,
     Which forced me to begin my tale;
     And then it left me free.

     Since then, at an uncertain hour,
     That agony returns;
     And till my ghastly tale is told,
     This heart within me burns.

     I pass, like night, from land to land;
     I have strange power of speech;
     That moment that his face I see,
     I know the man that must hear me:
     To him my tale I teach.

     What loud uproar bursts from that door!
     The wedding-guests are there:
     But in the garden-bower the bride
     And bride-maids singing are:
     And hark the little vesper bell,
     Which biddeth me to prayer!

     O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
     Alone on a wide wide sea:
     So lonely 'twas, that God himself
     Scarce seemed there to be.

     O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
     'Tis sweeter far to me,
     To walk together to the kirk
     With a goodly company!--

     To walk together to the kirk,
     And all together pray,
     While each to his great Father bends,
     Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
     And youths and maidens gay!

     Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
     To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
     He prayeth well, who loveth well
     Both man and bird and beast.

     He prayeth best, who loveth best
     All things both great and small;
     For the dear God who loveth us
     He made and loveth all.

     The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
     Whose beard with age is hoar,
     Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
     Turned from the bridegroom's door.

     He went like one that hath been stunned,
     And is of sense forlorn:
     A sadder and a wiser man,
     He rose the morrow morn.

The Ancient Mariner was cheered by the Hermit's singing. He admired the way the Hermit lived and prayed alone in the woods, but also "love to talk with mariners." As they neared the ship, the Pilot and the Hermit wondered where the angels - which they had thought were merely beacon lights - had gone. The Hermit remarked on how strange the ship looked with its misshapen boards and flimsy sails. The Pilot was afraid, but the Hermit encouraged him to steer the boat closer. Just as the boat reached the ship, a terrible noise came from under the water, and the ship sank straightaway. The men saved the Ancient Mariner even though they thought he was dead; after all, he appeared "like one that hath been seven days drowned." The boat spun in the whirlpool created by the ship's sinking, and all was quiet save the loud sound echoing off of a hill. The Ancient Mariner moved his lips and began to row the boat, terrifying the other men; the Pilot had a conniption, the Hermit began to pray, and the Pilot's Boy laughed crazily, thinking the Ancient Mariner was the devil. When they reached the shore, the Ancient Mariner begged the Hermit to absolve him of his sins. The Hermit crossed himself and asked the Ancient Mariner what sort of man he was. The Ancient Mariner was instantly compelled to share his story with the Hermit. His need to share it was so strong that it wracked his body with pain. Once he shared it, however, he felt restored. The Ancient Mariner tells the Wedding Guest that ever since then, the urge to tell his tale has returned at unpredictable times, and he is in agony until he tells it to someone. He wanders from place to place, and has the strange power to single out the person in each location who must hear his tale. As he puts it: "I have strange power of speech; / That moment that his face I see, / I know the man that must hear me: / To him my tale I teach." The Ancient Mariner explains that while the wedding celebration sounds uproariously entertaining, he prefers to spend his time with others in prayer. After all, he was so lonely on the ocean that he doubted even God's companionship. He bids the Wedding Guest farewell with one final piece of advice: "He prayeth well, who loveth well / Both man and bird and beast." In other words, one becomes closer to God by respecting all living things, because God loves all of his creations "both great and small." Then the Ancient Mariner vanishes. Instead of entering the wedding reception, the Wedding Guest walks away mesmerized. We are told that he learned something from the Ancient Mariner's tale, and was also saddened by it: "A sadder and a wiser man, / He rose the morrow morn."

As expected, things again go awry for the Ancient Mariner despite his momentary relief. Though safely in the harbor, the ship is pulled under by a forceful undertow, but the Ancient Mariner cannot drown since he is doomed to a living death. Just as he is compelled to tell the Wedding Guest his story, he is compelled to tell it to the Hermit. The Hermit does not ask him where he came from or how he got to the harbor, but rather asks, "What manner of man art thou?" as if to discern whether or not he is human. After all, the Ancient Mariner appears dead when the rescuers pull him into the boat, and suddenly comes to life to row the boat to shore. Instead of answering the Hermit's question directly, the Ancient Mariner is forced for the first time to tell his tale, or be consumed by agony. As he tells the Wedding Guest, he does not seek out certain people to whom to relate his tale, but rather knows them when he sees them. Since both the Hermit and the Wedding Guest are forced to listen to the tale, it is implied that there must be some similarity between the two men even though they appear to come from entirely opposite worlds. The Hermit, a type of character often valorized by the Romantics, is pious and keeps to himself except to converse with transient sailors. He has divorced himself from worldly pleasures, preferring to live in harmony with nature. Meanwhile the Wedding Guest yearns to join his friends in a social and merry setting, full of decadent pleasures such as fine food, wine, song, and dance. The Ancient Mariner's final message is that by respecting all creatures, one can become closer to God. This advice is certainly not new to the Hermit, who devotes his whole life to living in unity with nature and praying three times a day. If the Wedding Guest must be reminded of this because he is on his way to indulge in earthly pleasures separated from nature, why doesn't the Ancient Mariner stop either of the Wedding Guest's two companions? As in the rest of the poem, we cannot know more than the Ancient Mariner himself; by maintaining this device, Coleridge reminds us that we are subject to the same moral laws and consequences as his characters. He also maintains a position of authorial power, as though to remind us that while we inhabit his story, we are in his hands. Just as the Ancient Mariner can compel men to listen to his tale, Coleridge can compel us to read "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" from first line to last, and communicate his message to us so that we become "sadder and...wiser." Coleridge famously claimed that he did not intend for "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" to have a moral, although he seems to phrase one neatly in the lines: "He prayeth best, who loveth best / All things both great and small; / For the dear God who loveth us, / He made and loveth all." Put differently, one becomes closer to God by respecting all his creations. Coleridge uses the word "teach" to describe the Ancient Mariner's storytelling technique, and says that he has "strange power of speech." In this way, he compares the protagonist to himself; both are gifted storytellers who impart their wisdom unto others. By associating himself with the Ancient Mariner, Coleridge implies that he - and by extension all writers - are tormented by their gift for storytelling; it is in fact a curse. Just as the Ancient Mariner is forced to balance in a painful limbo, the writer is compelled to balance in the liminal space of the imagination "until  tale is told." Both are like addicts, and storytelling is their drug; it provides only momentary relief until the urge returns. Coleridge paints an equally powerful and pathetic image of the writer. He is able to hold an audience's attention so completely that he can force a man to miss his next of kin's wedding reception. He is capable of forever changing his listeners, but is also the constant victim of his own talent - a skill that torments, but never destroys.


ACT I. SCENE I.

An Apartment in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, Lords; Musicians attending.]

DUKE.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.--
That strain again;--it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour.--Enough; no more;
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soever,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy,
That it alone is high-fantastical.

CURIO.
Will you go hunt, my lord?

DUKE.
What, Curio?

CURIO.
The hart.

DUKE.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence;
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.--How now! what news from her?

[Enter VALENTINE.]

VALENTINE.
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But like a cloistress 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 she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.

DUKE.
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill'd,--
Her sweet perfections,--with one self king!--
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers:
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.

[Exeunt.]

Hanging out in his court in Illyria, the moody Duke Orsino listens to the live band he keeps around on retainer and talks about love. At first, he says he can't get enough of music because it really puts him in the mood for lovin'. But, in the very next breath, Orsino tells the musicians to get lost - he's sick of music and doesn't want to hear it anymore. When Curio asks the Duke if he wants to go hunting for hart instead of lounging around, Orsino gushes that the thought of killing Bambi reminds him of the time he first laid eyes on Olivia. Valentine enters the room with bad news - he wasn't able to deliver Orsino's love note to Olivia because, when he showed up at the Countess's place, her handmaid told him to get lost. Olivia's also sent the Duke a little message - she's really bummed about her dead brother, so she's decided to mourn for the next seven years. This will involve traipsing around her place in an all black getup, complete with a dark veil and big, salty tears that will splash all over the ground. When the clueless Orsino hears this, he says he admires Olivia's devotion to her family and thinks that, if she's this devoted to her dead brother, then she's really going to be a great lover when Cupid's arrow makes her fall for a living man. Orsino announces he wants to loll around on "sweet beds of flowers" while he thinks about love.


SCENE II.

The sea-coast.

[Enter VIOLA, CAPTAIN, and Sailors.]

VIOLA.
What country, friends, is this?

CAPTAIN.
This is Illyria, lady.

VIOLA.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd--What think you, sailors?

CAPTAIN.
It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.

VIOLA.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.

CAPTAIN.
True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself,---
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,--
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.

VIOLA.
For saying so, there's gold!
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

CAPTAIN.
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.

VIOLA.
Who governs here?

CAPTAIN.
A noble duke, in nature
As in name.

VIOLA.
What is his name?

CAPTAIN.
Orsino.

VIOLA.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him.
He was a bachelor then.

CAPTAIN.
And so is now,
Or was so very late; for but a month
Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
In murmur,--as, you know, what great ones do,
The less will prattle of,--that he did seek
The love of fair Olivia.

VIOLA.
What's she?

CAPTAIN.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjured the company
And sight of men.

VIOLA.
O that I served that lady!
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.

CAPTAIN.
That were hard to compass:
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.

VIOLA.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
For such disguise as, haply, shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;
It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music,
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap to time I will commit;
Only shape thou silence to my wit.

CAPTAIN.
Be you his eunuch and your mute I'll be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

VIOLA.
I thank thee. Lead me on.

[Exeunt.]

The scene opens after a terrible ship wreck. Viola, a few sailors, and a captain arrive on shore and Viola asks where they are. The captain says they're in Illyria. Viola is bummed that she's in Illyria and says her brother is probably in heaven, but she's holding onto hope that he is alive. The captain tries to comfort Viola and says that, after the ship sank, he saw her brother tie himself to the mast, which had somehow managed to stay afloat. The captain's description of Sebastian clinging to the ship's mast also reveals to the audience what went down at sea. Apparently, when the ship split in two and the passengers and crew went into the water, Viola, being a very scrappy girl, avoided drowning by hanging on to the side of a life boat. Viola gives him some gold for being a nice guy and for cheering her up. The captain, who grew up three hours away from Illyria, tells Viola about the country and dishes a little dirt about its local celebs. The beloved Duke Orsino is a bachelor who's been trying to hook up with the Countess Olivia. But, Olivia's so not into him. Her dad died about a year ago and then her brother died shortly after, so she's sworn off the company of men while she grieves. Viola responds to the gossip by wishing she could disguise her identity and social class for a while by working as Olivia's servant - at least until she gets her bearings and figures out what to do next. The captain explains why that's just not going to happen: Olivia isn't seeing any visitors, not even the Duke. Viola tells the captain that he seems like a trusty fellow, so she's going to pay him a ton of dough to dress her up like a boy and not tell anyone about it. Since she's got such a great singing voice, she wants the captain to introduce her to the Duke as a eunuch. The idea is that parading around as a eunuch will guard Viola from suspicion that she's a woman, while allowing her singing talents to earn her some props in the Duke's court. The captain agrees to keep his lips zipped while Viola dresses up like a boy and plays "I'm a singing eunuch" at Orsino's court.


SCENE III.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her
brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

MARIA.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

SIR TOBY.
Why, let her except, before excepted.

MARIA.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits
of order.

SIR TOBY.
Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these
clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too;
an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

MARIA.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you: 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 TOBY.
Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?

MARIA.
Ay, he.

SIR TOBY.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

MARIA.
What's that to the purpose?

SIR TOBY.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

MARIA.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
very fool, and a prodigal.

SIR TOBY.
Fye that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo,
and speaks three or four languages word for word without book,
and hath all the good gifts of nature.

MARIA.
He hath indeed,--almost natural: for, besides that he's a
fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of
a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought
among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

SIR TOBY.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that
say so of him. Who are they?

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

SIR TOBY.
With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her as
long as there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria.
He's a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano-vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

AGUE-CHEEK.
Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch!

SIR TOBY.
Sweet Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.
Bless you, fair shrew.

MARIA.
And you too, sir.

SIR TOBY.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

SIR ANDREW.
What's that?

SIR TOBY.
My niece's chamber-maid.

SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

MARIA.
My name is Mary, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Mary Accost,--

SIR TOBY.
You mistake, knight: accost is, front her, board her,
woo her, assail her.

SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
Is that the meaning of accost?

MARIA.
Fare you well, gentlemen.

SIR TOBY.
An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never
draw sword again.

SIR ANDREW.
An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by the hand.

SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

MARIA.
Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to
the buttery-bar and let it drink.

SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweetheart? what's your metaphor?

MARIA.
It's dry, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my
hand dry. But what's your jest?

MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.

SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?

MARIA.
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, now I let
go your hand I am barren.

[Exit MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see
thee so put down?

SIR ANDREW.
Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put
me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian
or an ordinary man has; but I am great eater of beef, and, I
believe, that does harm to my wit.

SIR TOBY.
No question.

SIR ANDREW.
An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY.
Pourquoy, my dear knight?

SIR ANDREW.
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. Oh, had I but followed the arts!

SIR TOBY.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

SIR ANDREW.
Why, would that have mended my hair?

SIR TOBY.
Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

SIR ANDREW.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

SIR TOBY.
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to
see a houswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby; your niece will
not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me;
the count himself here hard by woos her.

SIR TOBY.
She'll none o' the Count; she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her
swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man.

SIR ANDREW.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest
mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes
altogether.

SIR TOBY.
Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?

SIR ANDREW.
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 TOBY.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBY.
And I can cut the mutton to't.

SIR ANDREW.
And, I think, I have the back-trick simply as strong as
any man in Illyria.

SIR TOBY.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these
gifts a curtain before them? are they like to take dust, like
Mistress Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a
galliard and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a
jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What
dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by
the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the
star of a galliard.

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in
flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR TOBY.
What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

SIR ANDREW.
Taurus? that's sides and heart.

SIR TOBY.
No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper: ha,
higher: ha, ha!--excellent!

[Exeunt.]

Meanwhile, back at Olivia's pad, Sir Toby Belch complains that his niece, Olivia, needs to snap out it - she's mourned for her dead brother long enough and now it's time to party. Maria lays into Toby and warns him to come home at a more reasonable hour, because Olivia's sick and tired of him staying out late. Toby says that's just too bad - he's gotta fight for his right to party. Having given Toby Belch a little piece of her mind, Maria starts in on Toby's guest and drinking buddy, Sir Andrew Aguecheek. When Toby brags that Aguecheek's super rich, Maria scoffs that he'll probably burn through his cash within the year because he's an idiot who does nothing but drink. Toby defends his good buddy and says Aguecheek speaks three or four languages and plays a musical instrument, too. Maria's not impressed and points out that Aguecheek's a drunken fool and likes to pick fights that he can't win. He's a coward and will probably get himself killed, she insists. Toby's feeling blissfully belligerent and explains why Aguecheek's always drunk - because he's always drinking toasts to Olivia's good health, of course. Toby, who is clearly still wasted from partying all night, then brags that he'll beat the heck out of any man that refuses to drink a toast to Olivia. Just then, Sir Andrew Aguecheek shows up. He says, "What's up?" to his pal Toby and introduces himself to Maria, who proceeds to rag on him. Toby gives his boy a hard time for letting a woman clown him like that. The two then proceed to talk smack and fall into what seems to be a familiar pattern of drunken banter. Sir Andrew Aguecheek says he's had a swell time partying with Toby, but it's time for him to get home, especially since it seems Olivia's not interested in marrying him. Nonsense, Toby says, there's no way Olivia will get with Duke Orsino, so Aguecheek should hang in there a bit longer. Aguecheek says he might as well stick around for another month or so. Why not? There's always a great party to go to. The two talk a little more trash and then run off.


SCENE IV.

A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]

VALENTINE.
If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario,
you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three
days, and already you are no stranger.

VIOLA.
You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir,
in his favours?

VALENTINE.
No, believe me.

[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and Attendants.]

VIOLA.
I thank you. Here comes the count.

DUKE.
Who saw Cesario, ho?

VIOLA.
On your attendance, my lord; here.

DUKE.
Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul:
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them there thy fixed foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.

VIOLA.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

DUKE.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.

VIOLA.
Say I do speak with her, my lord. What then?

DUKE.
O, then unfold the passion of my love,
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.

VIOLA.
I think not so, my lord.

DUKE.
Dear lad, believe it,
For they shall yet belie thy happy years
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair:--some four or five attend him:
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company:--prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.

VIOLA.
I'll do my best
To woo your lady. [Aside] Yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Back at Duke Orsino's pad, Valentine gives props to "Cesario" for making a name for "himself" in such a short time in the Duke's service. Viola , who has clearly spent a lot of time with Orsino in the past three days, asks Valentine if the Duke has mood swings. Just then, Orsino enters looking for "Cesario"--he wants his boy to trot on over to Olivia's place to chat her up for him. Orsino says that "Cesario" is the man for the job since "he" already knows how Orsino feels about Olivia and that "he" shouldn't take no for an answer if Olivia's servants try to shoo "him" away. "Cesario" is skeptical since it sounds like Olivia is really upset about her dead brother. Orsino tells "Cesario" to do whatever it takes to get the job done, even if he has to cause a big scene at Olivia's house. Okay, fine, agrees "Cesario," who asks what "he" is supposed to do if "he" actually makes it inside Olivia's pad. Duke Orsino seems to think that Olivia will be so moved by "Cesario's" youth and girlish beauty that she'll want to hook up with the Duke. Orsino then proceeds to describe "Cesario's" luscious ruby red lips and high pitched voice, all of which he believes will get Olivia in the mood for some lovin'. Viola agrees to do this but then she drops a bombshell on the audience: it's going to be brutal for her to be Orsino's wingman because she is falling for the Duke. The situation stinks because she wants to be the Duke's wife, but now she has to try to convince Olivia to marry the Duke.


SCENE V.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]

MARIA.
Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open
my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse: my
lady will hang thee for thy absence.

CLOWN.
Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs
to fear no colours.

MARIA.
Make that good.

CLOWN.
He shall see none to fear.

MARIA.
A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was
born, of, I fear no colours.

CLOWN.
Where, good Mistress Mary?

MARIA.
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

CLOWN.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are
fools, let them use their talents.

MARIA.
Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent: or to be
turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you?

CLOWN.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning
away, let summer bear it out.

MARIA.
You are resolute, then?

CLOWN.
Not so, neither: but I am resolved on two points.

MARIA.
That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break,
your gaskins fall.

CLOWN.
Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby
would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh
as any in Illyria.

MARIA.
Peace, you rogue; no more o' that; here comes my lady: make
your excuse wisely; you were best.

[Exit.]

[Enter OLIVIA and MALVOLIO.]

CLOWN.
Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits
that think they have thee do very oft prove fools; and I, that am
sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says
Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.--God bless
thee, lady!

OLIVIA.
Take the fool away.

CLOWN.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

OLIVIA.
Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you
grow dishonest.

CLOWN.
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend:
for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the
dishonest man mend himself: if he mend, he is no longer
dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything
that's mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but
patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue.
If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,
what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so
beauty's a flower:--the lady bade take away the fool; therefore,
I say again, take her away.

OLIVIA.
Sir, I bade them take away you.

CLOWN.
Misprision in the highest degree!--Lady, Cucullus non facit
monachum; that's as much to say, I wear not motley in my
brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

OLIVIA.
Can you do it?

CLOWN.
Dexteriously, good madonna.

OLIVIA.
Make your proof.

CLOWN.
I must catechize you for it, madonna.
Good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

OLIVIA.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.

CLOWN.
Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?

OLIVIA.
Good fool, for my brother's death.

CLOWN.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

OLIVIA.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

CLOWN.
The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being in heaven.--Take away the fool, gentlemen.

OLIVIA.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

MALVOLIO.
Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him.
Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

CLOWN.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better
increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox;
but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.

OLIVIA.
How say you to that, Malvolio?

MALVOLIO.
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren
rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool
that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of
his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him,

he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men that crow so at
these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.

OLIVIA.
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem
cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he
do nothing but rail; nor no railing in known discreet man, though
he do nothing but reprove.

CLOWN.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speakest well of
fools!

[Re-enter MARIA.]

MARIA.
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires
to speak with you.

OLIVIA.
From the Count Orsino, is it?

MARIA.
I know not, madam; 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

OLIVIA.
Who of my people hold him in delay?

MARIA.
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

OLIVIA.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman.
Fie on him!

[Exit MARIA]

Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick, or
not at home; what you will to dismiss it.

[Exit MALVOLIO.]

Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike
it.

CLOWN.
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should
be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes--
one of thy kin, has a most weak pia mater.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH.]

OLIVIA.
By mine honour, half drunk!--What is he at the gate, cousin?

SIR TOBY.
A gentleman.

OLIVIA.
A gentleman? What gentleman?

SIR TOBY.
'Tis a gentleman here.--A plague o' these pickle-herrings!--How
now, sot?

CLOWN.
Good Sir Toby,--

OLIVIA.
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

SIR TOBY.
Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.

OLIVIA.
Ay, marry; what is he?

SIR TOBY.
Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me
faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.
What's a drunken man like, fool?

CLOWN.
Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above
heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns
him.

OLIVIA.
Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my coz;
for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drowned: go, look
after him.

CLOWN.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
madman.

[Exit CLOWN.]

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I
told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much,
 and therefore comes to speak with you; I told him you were
asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and
therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? he's fortified against any denial.

OLIVIA.
Tell him, he shall not speak with me.

MALVOLIO.
Has been told so; and he says he'll stand at your door
like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll
speak with you.

OLIVIA.
What kind of man is he?

MALVOLIO.
Why, of mankind.

OLIVIA.
What manner of man?

MALVOLIO.
Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

OLIVIA.
Of what personage and years is he?

MALVOLIO.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy;
as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling, when 'tis
almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy
and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly;
one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

OLIVIA.
Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.

MALVOLIO.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

[Exit.]

[Re-enter MARIA.]

OLIVIA.
Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

[Enter VIOLA.]

VIOLA.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

OLIVIA.
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?

VIOLA.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you,
tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I
would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is
excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good
beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to
the least sinister usage.

OLIVIA.
Whence came you, sir?

VIOLA.
I can say little more than I have studied, and that
question's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest
assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in
my speech.

OLIVIA.
Are you a comedian?

VIOLA.
No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice
I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?

OLIVIA.
If I do not usurp myself, I am.

VIOLA.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for
what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from
my commission: I will on with my speech in your praise, and then
show you the heart of my message.

OLIVIA.
Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

VIOLA.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

OLIVIA.
It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I
heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach,
rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon
with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

MARIA.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

VIOLA.
No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer.--
Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

OLIVIA.
Tell me your mind.

VIOLA.
I am a messenger.

OLIVIA.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the
courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

VIOLA.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no
taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as
full of peace as matter.

OLIVIA.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?

VIOLA.
The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my
entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as
maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

OLIVIA.
Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.

[Exit MARIA.]

Now, sir, what is your text?

VIOLA.
Most sweet lady,--

OLIVIA.
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.
Where lies your text?

VIOLA.
In Orsino's bosom.

OLIVIA.
In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

VIOLA.
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

OLIVIA.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

VIOLA.
Good madam, let me see your face.

OLIVIA.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my
face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain
and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this
present. Is't not well done?

[Unveiling.]

VIOLA.
Excellently done, if God did all.

OLIVIA.
'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

VIOLA.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.

OLIVIA.
O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out
divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried; and every
particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips
indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one
neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me?

VIOLA.
I see you what you are: you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you. O, such love
Could be but recompens'd though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!

OLIVIA.
How does he love me?

VIOLA.
With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

OLIVIA.
Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulged, free, learn'd, and valiant,
And, in dimension and the shape of nature,
A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;
He might have took his answer long ago.

VIOLA.
If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.

OLIVIA.
Why, what would you?

VIOLA.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.

OLIVIA.
You might do much. What is your parentage?

VIOLA.
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.

OLIVIA.
Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.

VIOLA.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.
What is your parentage?
'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I am a gentleman.'--I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast:--soft, soft!
Unless the master were the man.--How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.--
What, ho, Malvolio!--

[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
Here, madam, at your service.

OLIVIA.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I or not; tell him I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.

MALVOLIO.
Madam, I will.

[Exit.]

OLIVIA.
I do I know not what: and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe:
What is decreed must be; and be this so!

[Exit.]

Over at Olivia's place, Maria and Feste the Clown goof around, talking trash. Feste makes a dirty joke about how "well hung" he is when Maria tells him that Olivia will literally hang him because he hasn't shown up to work in such a long time. Olivia enters and orders her servants to "Take the fool away." Feste responds by saying something like, "Hey--didn't you hear Olivia say take the fool away? Take her away already." Olivia is totally amused, but pretends she's not, so Feste will have to convince her that he should be allowed to stay and make her laugh. Then Feste makes a crack about why Olivia really is a fool--she's wasting her time mourning for a dead brother who's in a better place , while she mopes around in her crazy, all black get-up. Malvolio asks Olivia why she lets Feste hang around. Malvolio claims that Feste isn't really that funny and, besides, he saw some other comedian totally clown him the other day. Olivia tells Malvolio to beat it--he's a bitter jerk if he doesn't see how great Feste is. Maria enters then with news that there's some dumb kid at the gate who wants to talk to Olivia. He's not taking "no" for an answer and Maria doesn't know what to do. Olivia tells Malvolio to go to the gate and say she's sick or busy or whatever. The kid should hit the road ASAP because she's not in the mood to talk. Feste makes a random joke about how brainless Sir Toby Belch is, just as Olivia's uncle enters the room. Olivia then takes Toby to task for being a drunk and spending all his time partying. She also asks him about who's at the gate. Toby gives her a drunken answer that basically amounts to, "Don't know, don't care," and staggers out. Olivia sends Feste to look after him. Malvolio reenters the room and confirms that, yep, there's an annoying kid at the gate who says he's not going anywhere until he sees Olivia. Olivia asks what the messenger is like and Malvolio says that he doesn't seem old enough to be a man or young enough to be a boy. The kid also speaks like a "shrew." Intrigued, Olivia lets the kid inside, but not before she covers her face with her black veil. "Cesario" enters the room and asks which one of the lovely ladies is Olivia--"he's" got to deliver a message from the Duke. Olivia's not interested in the Duke, but the kid is intriguing so she chats him up. "Cesario" says "he's" got this whole message memorized, so Olivia should just please pipe down and let "him" deliver it. Olivia's not interested in Duke Orsino's cliche attempts to sweet talk her, so she toys with "Cesario" for a while and asks why he was so lippy when he was out at the gate. "Cesario" insists that "he" needs to speak to Olivia alone so he can deliver his private message. "Cesario" tries to deliver the memorized speech again, but Olivia cuts "him" off and mocks the Duke's little love letter. "Cesario" asks to see Olivia's face and Olivia removes her veil. "Cesario" says that Olivia is gorgeous--she should get married and have some good looking kids with Orsino. Exasperated, Olivia says that the Duke already knows she's not into him. He's nice and all, and rich, and handsome, but he needs to learn to take "no" for an answer. "Cesario" says that doesn't make any sense. Then Olivia asks "Cesario" what he would do if he loved her and "Cesario" says "he" would stand at Olivia's gate and sing love poetry until Olivia took pity on "him." Olivia is totally smitten when she hears this and she asks "Cesario" about his parentage, to which "Cesario" replies that "he" is well-born. Olivia tells "Cesario" to go back to Orsino and tell him to quit bothering her. Then Cesario should come back and tell Olivia what the Duke has to say about that. Olivia tries to give "Cesario" a few coins for his trouble, but "Cesario" tells her to keep her money. When "Cesario" leaves, Olivia says "Cesario" is a total dream-boat. Malvolio enters the room and Olivia lies and says that "Cesario" gave her a ring from the Duke. She says she doesn't want it so Malvolio should run after "Cesario" and return the trinket, ASAP. Olivia has apparently forgotten about her quest to mourn for her dead brother. She tells us that "fate" has brought "Cesario" to her, so she'll let whatever happens happen.


ACT II. SCENE I.

The sea-coast.

[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]

ANTONIO.
Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?

SEBASTIAN.
By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the
malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore
I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone.
It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on
you.

ANTONIO.
Let me know of you whither you are bound.

SEBASTIAN.
No, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere
extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of
modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to
keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express
myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Rodorigo; my father was that Sebastian of
Messaline whom I know you have heard of: he left behind him
myself and a sister, both born in an hour; if the heavens had
been pleased, would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that;
for some hours before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drowned.

ANTONIO.
Alas the day!

SEBASTIAN.
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me,
was yet of many accounted beautiful: but though I could not, with
such estimable wonder, overfar believe that, yet thus far I will
boldly publish her,--she bore mind that envy could not but call
fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem
to drown her remembrance again with more.

ANTONIO.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

SEBASTIAN.
O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble.

ANTONIO.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

SEBASTIAN.
If you will not undo what you have done--that is, kill
him whom you have recovered--desire it not. Fare ye well at once;
my bosom is full of kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of
my mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell
tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court: farewell.

[Exit.]

ANTONIO.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many cnemies in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there:
But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

[Exit.]

On a sea coast Antonio the sea captain asks Sebastian why he's leaving. Antonio also wants to know why he can't go with Sebastian. Sebastian says something like, "Sorry man. It's not you, it's me. I'm in a really bad mood and I don't want to bum you out, so I think it's best for both of us if we go our separate ways. I would be a total jerk if I explained why I'm acting this way and unloaded all my problems on you - you don't deserve that so..." Antonio cuts in and begs Sebastian to tell him where and why he's going away. The cryptic Sebastian says that he can't do it, and where he's going isn't important anyway. But, Antonio's such a great guy that he'll reveal his true identity. His name is "Sebastian," not "Roderigo," and he's really sad because he thinks his twin sister is dead. He also says that he would be dead too if Antonio hadn't scooped him up out of the ocean two hours after his ship sank and his sister drowned. Antonio says that's just awful and Sebastian replies that he doesn't want to stress out Antonio with his problems. Antonio begs Sebastian to let him be his servant, but Sebastian brushes him off and tells Antonio to forget he ever existed. Then Antonio says he doesn't want to cry like his mother always does, so he needs to be on his way to Duke Orsino's court.


SCENE II.

A street.

[Enter VIOLA; MALVOLIO following.]

MALVOLIO.
Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

VIOLA.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but
hither.

MALVOLIO.
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved
me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover,
that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will
none of him: and one thing more: that you be never so hardy to
come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's
taking of this. Receive it so.

VIOLA.
She took the ring of me: I'll none of it.

MALVOLIO.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is
it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it
lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

[Exit.]

VIOLA.
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man; --if it be so,--as 'tis,--
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we;
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly,
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman, now alas the day!
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!

[Exit.]

Meanwhile, on a street outside Olivia's place, Malvolio catches up with Viola and asks "him" if he was the brat that was just at Olivia's place chatting her up about the Duke. Malvolio is all snobby and haughty when he whines about having to run after "Cesario" to give him back the Duke's ring--Olivia doesn't want it. Then Malvolio says to "Cesario" that Olivia wants nothing to do with Duke Orsino. And another thing, she doesn't want you back at her house unless you return to say that the Duke took his ring back. Viola goes along with this in front of Malvolio and says something like: "I'm not taking back the ring--Olivia took it from me so it's hers." Malvolio says whatever, kid, take the ring back and get lost. Left alone on the street, Viola wonders what the heck Olivia is up to since she never gave Olivia a ring from the Duke. Then Viola realizes that Olivia has a crush on "Cesario" and remembers how Olivia seemed distracted and stuttered a lot when they spoke. Then Viola launches into a monologue about how she really feels sorry for poor Olivia, because women are weak and "frail." No wonder Olivia's been duped by Viola's disguise. Oh dear, what will happen now that Olivia's in love with Viola/"Cesario," whose in love with Orsino, who's in love with Olivia?


SCENE III.

A Room in OLIVIA'S House.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]

SIR TOBY.
Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be a-bed after midnight is to
be up betimes; and diluculo surgere, thou know'st.

SIR ANDREW.
Nay; by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late
is to be up late.

SIR TOBY.
A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be
up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go
to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Do not our lives
consist of the four elements?

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of
eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY.
Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.--
Marian, I say!--a stoup of wine.

[Enter CLOWN.]

SIR ANDREW.
Here comes the fool, i' faith.

CLOWN.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?

SIR TOBY.
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.

SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had
rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a
breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very
gracious fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus,
of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very
good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?

CLOWN.
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no
bottle-ale houses.

SIR ANDREW.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is
done. Now, a song.

SIR TOBY.
Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.

SIR ANDREW.
There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a--

CLOWN.
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

SIR TOBY.
A love-song, a love-song.

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

CLOWN.
        SONG
  O, mistress mine, where are you roaming?
  O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
    That can sing both high and low:
  Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
    Journeys end in lovers meeting,
      Every wise man's son doth know.

SIR ANDREW.
Excellent good, i' faith.

SIR TOBY.
Good, good.

CLOWN.
  What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
  Present mirth hath present laughter;
    What's to come is still unsure.
  In delay there lies no plenty;
  Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;
    Youth's a stuff will not endure.

SIR ANDREW.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

SIR TOBY.
A contagious breath.

SIR ANDREW.
Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

SIR TOBY.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall
we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in
a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do
that?

SIR ANDREW.
An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch.

CLOWN.
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW.
Most certain: let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'

CLOWN.
'Hold thy peace, thou knave' knight? I shall be constrain'd
in't to call thee knave, knight.

SIR ANDREW.
'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call
me knave. Begin, fool; it begins 'Hold thy peace.'

CLOWN.
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW.
Good, i' faith! Come, begin.

[They sing a catch.]

[Enter MARIA.]

MARIA.
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
called up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of
doors, never trust me.

SIR TOBY.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a
Peg-a-Ramsey, and
[Singing.]
  'Three merry men be we.'
Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley,
lady.
  'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.'

CLOWN.
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

SIR ANDREW.
Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I
too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

SIR TOBY.
[Singing] O, the twelfth day of December,--

MARIA.
For the love o' God, peace!

[Enter MALVOLIO]

MALVOLIO.
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no
wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this
time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady's house, that
ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or
remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor
time, in you?

SIR TOBY.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MALVOLIO.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell
you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would
please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
farewell.

SIR TOBY.
'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

MARIA.
Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLOWN.
'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'

MALVOLIO.
Is't even so?

SIR TOBY.
'But I will never die.'

CLOWN.
Sir Toby, there you lie.

MALVOLIO.
This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY.
[Singing] 'Shall I bid him go?'

CLOWN.
'What an if you do?'

SIR TOBY.
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'

CLOWN.
'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'

SIR TOBY.
Out o' tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou
think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?

CLOWN.
Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth
too.

SIR TOBY.
Thou'art i' the right.--Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs:
A stoup of wine, Maria!

MALVOLIO.
Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at anything
more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil
rule; she shall know of it, by this hand.

[Exit.]

MARIA.
Go shake your ears.

SIR ANDREW.
'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry,
to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him
and make a fool of him.

SIR TOBY.
Do't, knight; I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll
deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.

MARIA.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of
the count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet.
For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull
him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not
think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can
do it.

SIR TOBY.
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.

MARIA.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.

SIR ANDREW.
O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

SIR TOBY.
What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

SIR ANDREW.
I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.

MARIA.
The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a
time-pleaser: an affectioned ass that cons state without book and
utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his grounds
of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in
him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

SIR TOBY.
What wilt thou do?

MARIA.
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love;
wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the
manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I
can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we
can hardly make distinction of our hands.

SIR TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device.

SIR ANDREW.
I have't in my nose too.

SIR TOBY.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that
they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.

MARIA.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

SIR ANDREW.
And your horse now would make him an ass.

MARIA.
Ass, I doubt not.

SIR ANDREW.
O 'twill be admirable!

MARIA.
Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with
him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where
he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For
this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY.
Good night, Penthesilea.

SIR ANDREW.
Before me, she's a good wench.

SIR TOBY.
She's a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?

SIR ANDREW.
I was adored once too.

SIR TOBY.
Let's to bed, knight.--Thou hadst need send for more money.

SIR ANDREW.
If I cannot recover your niece I am a foul way out.

SIR TOBY.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end,
call me Cut.

SIR ANDREW.
If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.

SIR TOBY.
Come, come; I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go
to bed now: come, knight; come, knight.

[Exeunt.]

Toby Belch and Andrew Aguecheek have just returned to Olivia's pad from another all-night party. Toby says that, since it's after midnight and they're awake, they're just like a couple of healthy people who like to wake up early. A skeptical Aguecheek says he doesn't know about all that, but Toby insists that he and Aguecheek are not only awake at an "early" morning hour, but they also go to bed after midnight, which means they also go to bed "early." Sir Andrew pipes up that all he and Toby ever really do is eat and drink, so Toby calls for another round of booze. Then Feste shows up and they greet each other by saying stuff like "Welcome, ass!" Aguecheek gives Feste props for the great performance he delivered that night. Feste's got a great set of pipes and the crowd enjoyed themselves on dance floor. They also dug his stand-up comic routine and hope he got the money they left him as a tip. Toby and Aguecheek give Feste a few more coins and demand a love song, which Feste obliges. The trio continue to fool around, singing and talking trash when Maria enters and tells them to pipe down before Olivia kicks them out. Maria's chiding doesn't do any good, so Malvolio runs in to lecture them. Don't they have any sense of propriety? Are they crazy? Acting like a bunch of drunken commoners in a rowdy bar. Geesh. Toby blows off Malvolio, who threatens that Olivia's going to give them the boot if they keep it up. Toby, Maria, Feste, and Aguecheek bag on Malvolio for being a steward . Who does Malvolio think he is? Old Toby and company will keep partying. Malvolio yells at Maria then and accuses her of tolerating and egging on the rowdy men. Maria tells him to "go shake ears" which is another way of saying "get lost." When Malvolio leaves, Maria asks Toby and crew to take it easy tonight since Olivia's been all bent out of shape ever since she talked with "Cesario" . Maria knows Olivia's worked up over the visit, but it's not clear if she knows that Olivia has a crush on "Cesario." Maria promises to plan an elaborate prank to punish Malvolio for being such a haughty party pooper and acting like a "kind of Puritan" . Aguecheek says he'd beat Malvolio "like a dog" if he really was a Puritan. Maria calls Malvolio a kiss-up and a poser with secret social ambition. Maria's going to forge a love letter and drop it where Malvolio will find it. When he reads the note, he'll be convinced that Olivia is in love with him. Oh goody. Toby and Aguecheek can't wait to mess with Malvolio. When Maria goes to bed, Toby brags to his buddy that Maria's into him and wants to be Mrs. Toby Belch. Toby then tells Aguecheek he'd better send home for some more money since he's almost out. Aguecheek whines that Olivia will never love him and worries that he's spending all his money for no good reason. Oh, well, he decides. Then he and Toby agree that it's way too late to go to bed now. They might as well stay up and drink some more beer.


SCENE IV.

A Room in the DUKE'S Palace.

[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]

DUKE.
Give me some music:--Now, good morrow, friends:--
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night;
Methought it did relieve my passion much;
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:--
Come, but one verse.

CURIO.
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

DUKE.
Who was it?

CURIO.
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's
father took much delight in: he is about the house.

DUKE.
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

[Exit CURIO.  Music.]

Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me:
For, such as I am, all true lovers are;
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd.--How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

DUKE.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA.
A little, by your favour.

DUKE.
What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA.
Of your complexion.

DUKE.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

VIOLA.
About your years, my lord.

DUKE.
Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women's are.

VIOLA.
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 roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

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

[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]

DUKE.
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night:--
Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.

CLOWN.
Are you ready, sir?

DUKE.
Ay; pr'ythee, sing.  [Music]

CLOWN.
      SONG
    Come away, come away, death.
  And in sad cypress let me be laid;
    Fly away, fly away, breath;
  I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
  My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
       O, prepare it!
  My part of death no one so true
      Did share it.

   Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
 On my black coffin let there be strown:
   Not a friend, not a friend greet
 My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown:
 A thousand thousand sighs to save,
       Lay me, O, where
 Sad true lover never find my grave,
       To weep there!

DUKE.
There's for thy pains.

CLOWN.
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE.
I'll pay thy pleasure, then.

CLOWN.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

DUKE.
Give me now leave to leave thee.

CLOWN.
Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy
doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!--I
would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business
might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it
that always makes a good voyage of nothing.--Farewell.

[Exit CLOWN.]

DUKE.
Let all the rest give place.--

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]

Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign 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 soul.

VIOLA.
But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE.
I cannot be so answer'd.

VIOLA.
'Sooth, but you must.
Say that some 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 so. Must she not then be answer'd?

DUKE.
There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,--
No motion of the liver, but the palate,--
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA.
Ay, but I know,--

DUKE.
What dost thou know?

VIOLA.
Too well what love women to men may owe.
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.

DUKE.
And what's her history?

VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA.
I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too;--and yet I know not.--
Sir, shall 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.]

Back at Orsino's court, the Duke orders his band to play a song he heard the night before. Curio says sorry, but Feste's not here to sing it. He must be over at Olivia's house because he used to work for Olivia's dad when he was alive. Duke Orsino tells Curio to find Feste, who happens to be roaming around somewhere in the Duke's pad. Orsino then turns to "Cesario" and gives "him" some friendly advice, man-to-man, about love. Orsino says if "Cesario" ever falls in love, he should be reminded of the Duke, who--like all true lovers--is unable to do anything but think of the one he adores. Orsino suspects that "Cesario" is in love and "Cesario" admits that yes, "he" is in love with someone who looks like the Duke and is about the same age. Orsino assumes "Cesario's" in love with an older woman, so he tells "Cesario" it's not a good idea for men to marry older women. "Cesario" should marry a sweet young thing because women age fast, which makes them less attractive to their husbands. Women are also not as attractive after they're no longer virgins. Viola's sad response tells us that she worries about aging and becoming less attractive to a potential husband. Feste enters and sings a song for the Duke about a man who is "slain" by a "cruel maid." Orsino gives Feste some money for his trouble and says it's late--he wants to go to bed. Feste makes a crack about how moody the Duke's behavior is before leaving. Orsino sends everyone away, except "Cesario." He tells "Cesario" to go see Olivia again and try one more time to tell her how much Orsino loves her. "Cesario" doesn't think it will work. Olivia has already said she can't love him, but Orsino won't accept that answer. "Cesario" says, but wait--if some woman other than Olivia loved you, you wouldn't love her back, right? Because you love Olivia and no one else. Pah! Orsino says no woman could possibly resist the level of passion he feels. Love works differently for women, and no woman is capable of being so in love as the Duke--his love is like the ocean, etc., etc. "Cesario" disagrees and says that women are just as capable of love as men. "He" tells the story of his "father's daughter" who once loved a man but never told him. Instead she loved him from a distance, feeling incredibly sad but graciously accepting her fate. That sounds horrible to us, but "Cesario" says that's true love--truer, in fact, than the love of men who are loud about declaring their love but not as faithful with their actions. When Orsino asks what happened to "Cesario's" sister, "Cesario" cryptically replies that "he" doesn't know, even though he is the only daughter and the only son in "his" father's house. If Orsino were paying attention, he might understand that Viola has just outed herself. But he's still focused on Olivia. Plus, Viola changes the subject FAST. She says, "Did you want me to give this jewel to Olivia?" before he can react to her strange statement, and off they go.


SCENE V.

OLIVIA'S garden.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.]

SIR TOBY.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

FABIAN.
Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be
boiled to death with melancholy.

SIR TOBY.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

FABIAN.
I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour
with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

SIR TOBY.
To anger him we'll have the bear again; and we will fool
him black and blue:--shall we not, Sir Andrew?

SIR ANDREW.
An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY.
Here comes the little villain:--How now, my nettle of India?

MARIA.
Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down
this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to
his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of
mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot
of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.]

Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout
that must be caught with tickling.

[Exit Maria.]

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she
did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that,
should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she
uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that
follows her. What should I think on't?

SIR TOBY.
Here's an overweening rogue!

FABIAN.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him;
how he jets under his advanced plumes!

SIR ANDREW.
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:--

SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio;--

SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.

SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.
There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married
the yeoman of the wardrobe.

SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!

FABIAN.
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.

MALVOLIO.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,--

SIR TOBY.
O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

MALVOLIO.
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;
having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

SIR TOBY.
Fire and brimstone!

FABIAN.
O, peace, peace.

MALVOLIO.
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
should do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman Toby.

SIR TOBY.
Bolts and shackles!

FABIAN.
O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

MALVOLIO.
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. Toby approaches; court'sies there to me:

SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

MALVOLIO.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an
austere regard of control:

SIR TOBY.
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?

MALVOLIO.
Saying 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech':--

SIR TOBY.
What, what?

MALVOLIO.
'You must amend your drunkenness.'

SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!

FABIAN.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

MALVOLIO.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a
foolish knight';

SIR ANDREW.
That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO.
'One Sir Andrew':

SIR ANDREW.
I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool.

MALVOLIO.
What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter.]

FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.

SIR TOBY.
O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
him!

MALVOLIO.
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 she her great P's. It
is in contempt of question, her hand.

SIR ANDREW.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?

MALVOLIO.
[Reads] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good
wishes.' Her very phrases!--By your leave, wax.--Soft!--and the
impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my
lady. To whom should this be?

FABIAN.
This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO.
[Reads]
  'Jove knows I love,
    But who?
  Lips, do not move,
  No man must know.'

'No man must know.'--What follows? the numbers alter'd!--'No man
must know':--If this should be thee, Malvolio?

SIR TOBY.
Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO.
  'I may command where I adore:
     But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
  With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;
    M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'

FABIAN.
A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY.
Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO.
'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.'--Nay, but first let me see,--let
me see,--let me see.

FABIAN.
What dish of poison has she dressed him!

SIR TOBY.
And with what wing the stannyel checks at it!

MALVOLIO.
'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me: I
serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal
capacity; there is no obstruction in this;--And the end,--What
should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that
resemble something in me.--Softly!--M, O, A, I.--

SIR TOBY.
O, ay, make up that:--he is now at a cold scent.

FABIAN.
Sowter will cry upon't for all this, though it be as rank as a
fox.

MALVOLIO.
M,--Malvolio; M,--why, that begins my name.

FABIAN.
Did not I say he would work it out?
The cur is excellent at faults.

MALVOLIO.
M,--But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that
suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.

FABIAN.
And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY.
Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'

MALVOLIO.
And then I comes behind.

FABIAN.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more
detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

MALVOLIO.
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 are in my name. Soft; here follows prose.--
'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above
thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some
achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Thy
fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them.
And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy
humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly
with servants: let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put
thyself into the trick of singularity: She thus advises thee that
sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to;
thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee
a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch
fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with
thee,
     'The fortunate-unhappy.'

Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is open. I will be
proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I
will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the
very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me;
for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did
commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being
cross-gartered; and in this she manifests herself 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 strange, stout, in
yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of
putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!--Here is yet a
postscript. 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles
become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my
sweet, I pr'ythee.' Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do
everything that thou wilt have me.

[Exit.]

FABIAN.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of
thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

SIR TOBY.
I could marry this wench for this device:

SIR ANDREW.
So could I too.

SIR TOBY.
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

[Enter MARIA.]

SIR ANDREW.
Nor I neither.

FABIAN.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

SIR TOBY.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW.
Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW.
I' faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the
image of it leaves him, he must run mad.

MARIA.
Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his
first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow
stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a
fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now
be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable
contempt; if you will see it, follow me.

SIR TOBY.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

SIR ANDREW.
I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.]

In Olivia's garden, Toby and Aguecheek hang out with Fabian, who worries that he'll get in trouble again if he helps them trick Malvolio. Seems Malvolio told on Fabian earlier for holding a bear-baiting contest at Olivia's place. Toby Belch says not to worry--they'll make Malvolio pay for being such a drag. Maria enters and tells the men Malvolio has been hanging out alone practicing acting super cool for the past half hour. Now he's headed this way, and she knows the letter she wrote is going to make him act like an even bigger fool. She tells everyone to hide behind a tree and put the letter on the ground for Malvolio to find. Malvolio enters the garden talking to himself. First he says he thinks Maria wants him and then he fantasizes about being married to Olivia, which would make him a Count who could boss around Sir Toby and his raucous little crew. Toby and Aguecheek can hardly contain their laughter and their anger at Malvolio's audacity. The fantasy continues as Malvolio daydreams about fondling some expensive jewels and lecturing Toby for his drunkenness. Malvolio finds the letter and thinks right away that it's written in Olivia's handwriting. He thinks the letter is meant for him because it spells out M-A-O-I, all letters that appear in the name Malvolio. The letter instructs Malvolio to pick fights with Toby and company, wear yellow stockings with cross-garters, and smile at everything, even when Olivia's in a sad mood. Malvolio is all over this and runs off to change his clothes. Toby is psyched - Maria's plot is so clever that he's tempted to marry her. Maria enters and gloats about her evil genius plan. Malvolio is sure to make a fool of himself while annoying Olivia to no end.