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 t’untie. Exit

2.3 Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew

SIR TOBY Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be abed after midnight is to be up betimes, and diliculo surgere, thou knowest.

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. Does 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’rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say, a stoup of wine.

Enter Feste, the clown

SIR ANDREW Here comes the fool, i’faith.

FESTE 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?

FESTE I did impeticos thy gratility; 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 (to Feste) Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.

SIR ANDREW (to Feste) There’s a testril of me, too. If one knight give a—

FESTE 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.

FESTE (sings)

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.

FESTE

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.

FESTE By’r Lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR ANDREW Most certain. Let our catch be ‘Thou knave’.

FESTE ‘Hold thy peace, thou knave’, knight. I shall be constrained 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’.

FESTE I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR ANDREW Good, i’faith. Come, begin.

They sing the 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 Cathayan, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-o‘-Ramsey, and ‘hree merry men be we’. Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally—‘lady’! ‘There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.’

FESTE 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

‘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 alehouse 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.

FESTE

‘His eyes do show his days are almost done.’

MALVOLIO Is’t even so?

SIR TOBY

‘But I will never die.’

FESTE

‘Sir Toby, there you lie.’

MALVOLIO This is much credit to you.

SIR TOBY

‘Shall I bid him go?’

FESTE

‘What an if you do?’

SIR TOBY

‘Shall I bid him go, and spare not?’

FESTE

‘O no, no, no, no, you dare not.’

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

FESTE Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’th’ mouth, too.

SIR TOBY Thou‘rt i’th’ right. (To Malvolio) Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. (To Maria) 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.