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Enter Olivia and Malvolio.

Clo. Wit, an'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.bless thee, lady!

Oli. Take the fool away.

God

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? take away the lady.

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

Clo. 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 mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him: any thing, 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.

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you.

Clo. Misprision in the highest degree!-Lady,
Cucullus non facit monachum; that's as much as
to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good ma-
donna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. Dexterously, good madonna.
Oli. Make your proof.

Clo. I must catechize you for it, madonna; good my mouse of virtue, answer me.

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

Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou? Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. Clo. I think, his soul is in hell, madonna. Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. Clo. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.-Take away the fool, gentlemen.

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

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

Clo. 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 two-pence that you are no fool.

Re-enter Maria.

Mar. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires to speak with you. Oli. From the count Orsino, is it?

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

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay?
Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

Oli. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks no-
thing 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 fool-
ing grows old, and people dislike it.

Clo. 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.5

Enter Sir Toby Belch.

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

Sir To. A gentleman.

Oli. A gentleman? What gentleman?

Sir To. 'Tis a gentleman here-A plague o' these pickle-herrings!-How now, sot? Clo. Good sir Toby,

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

Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery: there's one at the gate.

Oli. Ay, marry; what is he?

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

[Exit.

Oli. What's a drunken man like, fool? Clo. Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

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

Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [Exit Clown.

Re-enter Malvolio.

Mal. 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 fore-knowledge of that too, and Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. such a barren rascal: I saw him put down the Oli. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more Mal. He has been told so: and he says, he'll brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of his stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the guard already unless you laugh and minister oc-supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. casion 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.2

:

Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, to take those things for bird-bolts,3 that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove.

Clo. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing,4 for thou speakest well of fools!

(1) Italian, mistress, dame. (2) Fools' baubles. Short arrows. (4) Lying.

Oli. What kind of man is he?
Mal. Why, of man kind.

Oli. What manner of man?

Mal. Of very ill manner : he'll speak with you, will you, or no.

Oh. Of what personage, and years, is he? Mal. 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.

(5) The cover of the brain.

Oli. Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls.

Re-enter Maria.

[Exit.

Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text? Vio. In Orsino's bosom. Oli. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom? Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of

Oli. Give me my veil: come, throw it o'er my his heart. face;

We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

Enter Viola.

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

Oli. Speak to me, I shall answer for her. Your will?

Vio. 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 penn'd, 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. Oli. Whence came you, sir?

Vio. 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. Oli. Are you a comedian?

Vio. 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?

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am. Vio. 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.

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

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

Oli. 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.

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. Vio. No, good swabber: I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant,2 sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind.

Vio. I am a messenger. Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

Vio. 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.

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

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

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to negociate 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 as I was this present:3 is't not well done? [Unveiling. Vio. Excellently done, if God did all.

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

Vio. 'Tis beauty truly blent,4 whose red and white

Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.

Oli. 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?

Vio. 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!

Oli.
How does he love me?
Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
Oli. 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 divulg'd, 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.

Vio. 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.
Oli.
Why, what would you?
Vio. 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.

Oli. You might do much: What is your parentage?

Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well :

Vio. The rudeness, that hath appear'd in me, have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead: to|I am a gentleman. your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.

Oli. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [Exit Maria.] Now; sir, what is your text? Vio. Most sweet lady,

(1) Accountable.

(2) It appears from several parts of this play, that the original actress of Maria was very short.

Oli.

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:

(3) Presents. (4) Blended, mixed together.
(5) Well spoken of by the world.
(6) Cantos, verses. (7) Echoing.

not but call fair: she is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remem

brance again with more.

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. Seb. O, good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.

I thank you for your pains: spend this for me.
Vio. 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
Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty. [Exit.
Oli. 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:2-Not too fast:-kindness; and I am yet so near the manners of my

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.

Mal.
Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. 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.
Mal. Madam, I will.

[Exit.

Oli. 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 ;4
What is decreed, must be; and be this so! [Exit.

ACT II.

Enter Antonio and

SCENE I.-The sea-coast.
Sebastian.
Ant. Will you stay no longer? nor will you not,
that I go with you?

Seb. 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

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.

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies 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.

SCENE II.—A street. Enter Viola; Malvolio following.

Mal. Were not you even now with the countess Olivia?

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

Mal. 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.

Vio. She took the ring of me; I'll none of it. Mal. 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.

Vio. 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, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,

Seb. By your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, For she did speak in starts distractedly. perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion of you your leave, that I may bear my evils alone:Invites me in this churlish messenger. it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.

Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither you are bound.

Seb. 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 hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned.

Ant. Alas, the day!

Seb. 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 a mind that envy could

(1) Messenger. (2) Proclamation of gentility. (3) Count. (4) Own, possess. (5) Reveal.

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 ?8 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.
SCENE III-A room in Olivia's house. Enter
Sir Toby Belch, and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.
Sir To. Approach, sir Andrew: not to be a-bed
after midnight, is to be up betimes; and diluculo
surgere, thou know'st,-

(6) Dexterous, ready fiend.
(7) Fair deceiver.
(8) Suit.

[Exit.

Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up late, is to be up late.

Sir To. 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 And. 'Faith, so they say; but, I think, it rather consists of eating and drinking.

Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.-Maria, I say!a stoop of wine! Enter Clown.

Sir And. Here comes the fool, i'faith. Clo. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?!

Sir To. Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch. Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast.2 I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg; and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, hou 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?

Sir And. Most certain: let our catch be, Thou knave.

Clo. Hold thy peace, thou knave, knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight. Sir And. 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold thy peace. Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace. Sir And. Good, i'faith! Come, begin. [They sing a catch.

Enter Maria.

Mar. What a catterwauling 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 To. My lady's a Cataian,6 we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men we be. Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-valley, lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady! [Singing.

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

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disClo. I did impeticos thy gratillity;4 for Malvo-posed, and so do I too; he does it with a better lio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white grace, but I do it more natural.

hand, and the myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

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

Sir And. There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a

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

Sir To. A love-song, a love-song.

Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

SONG.

Clo. 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 And. Excellent good, i'faith.
Sir To. Good, good.

Clo. 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 And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true

knight.

Sir To. A contagious breath.

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.
Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in con-

Sir To. O, the twelfth day of December,-
Mar. For the love of God, peace.

Enter Malvolio.

[Singing.

Mal. 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 To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! 110

lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My

you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, 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 To. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.

Mar. Nay, good sir Toby.

Clo. His eyes do show his days are almost done.
Mal. Is't even so?

Sir To. But I will never die.

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal. This is much credit to you.

Sir To. Shall I bid him go?

Clo. What an if you do?

[Singing.

Sir To. Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
Clo. O no, no, no, no, you dare not.

Sir To. Out o' time? sir, ye lie.-Art any more

tagion. But shall we make the welkin dances in-than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou deed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?

Sir And. An you love me, let's do't: I am dog

at a catch.

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

well.

(1) Loggerheads be. (2) Voice. (3) Mistress.
(4) I did impetticoat thy gratuity.
(5) Drink till the sky turns round.
(6) Romancer. (7) Name of an old song.

art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.

Sir To. Thou'rt i' the right.-Go, sir, rub your chain with crums:-a stoop of wine, Maria!

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would

(8) Equivalent to filly fally, shilly shally.
(9) Cobblers. (10) Hang yourself.
(11) Stewards anciently wore a chain.

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Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me Cut.7

Sir And. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn some sack,
'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come,
knight.
[Exeunt.

SCENE IV-A room in the Duke's palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

Duke. Give me some music: Now, good mor-
row, friends

Mar. 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 Mal- Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, volio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him That old and antique song we heard last night; into a nay-word,2 and make him a common recrea-Methought, it did relieve my passion much; tion, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight || More than light airs and recollected terms, in my bed: I know I can do it. Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times :

Sir To. Possess us,3 possess us; tell us some-Come, but one verse. thing of him.

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

Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.

Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.

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

Duke. Who was it?

Cur. 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, Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or any thing In the sweet pangs of it remember me : constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,For, such as I am, all true lovers are; that cons state without book, and utters it by great Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so cram-Save, in the constant image of the creature med, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his | That is belov'd.-How dost thou like this tune? ground of taith, that all that look on him, love him; Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat and on that vice in him will my revenge find nota- Where love is thron'd. ble cause to work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. 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 To. Excellent! I smell a device. Sir And. I hav't in my nose too.

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with hun.

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

Sir And. And your horse now would make him

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Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favours that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?

Vio.
A little, by your favour.
Duke. What kind of woman is't?
Vio.
Of your complexion.
Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years,
i'faith?

Vio. 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 worn,
Than women's are.

Vio.
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.

Vio. 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,9

Do use to chaunt it; it is silly sooth, 10
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.11

(6) Amazon. (7) Horse. (8) Countenance.
(9) Lace makers. (10) Simple truth.
(11) Times of simplicity.

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