| [Enter DUKE ORSINO, VIOLA, CURIO, and others] | |
| DUKE ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | Seek him out, and play the tune the while. |
| [Exit CURIO. Music plays] | |
| 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 beloved. How dost thou like this tune? |
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| VIOLA | It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is throned. |
| DUKE ORSINO | Thou dost speak masterly: My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves: Hath it not, boy? |
| VIOLA | A little, by your favour. |
| DUKE ORSINO | What kind of woman is't? |
| VIOLA | Of your complexion. |
| DUKE ORSINO | She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith? |
| VIOLA | About your years, my lord. |
| DUKE ORSINO | 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 worn, Than women's are. |
| VIOLA | I think it well, my lord. |
| DUKE ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | Ay; prithee, 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 ORSINO | There's for thy pains. |
| Clown | No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir. |
| DUKE ORSINO | I'll pay thy pleasure then. |
| Clown | Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. |
| DUKE ORSINO | 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 every thing and their intent every where; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. |
| [Exit] | |
| DUKE ORSINO | Let all the rest give place. |
| [CURIO and Attendants retire] | |
| 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. |
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| VIOLA | But if she cannot love you, sir? |
| DUKE ORSINO | I cannot be so answer'd. |
| VIOLA | Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love a 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 ORSINO | 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 call'd 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 ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | 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 ORSINO | Ay, that's the theme. To her in haste; give her this jewel; say, My love can give no place, bide no denay. |
| [Exeunt] |