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 that

thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once displayed, 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,

Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocenco

[Music.

SONG.

Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, Ay 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 corse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, 0, where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

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

Scene 4.]

TWELFTH-NIGHT.

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

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. 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 [Exit. nothing.-Farewell.

Duke. Let all the rest give place. —

[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.

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 bestowed upon her,

Tell her, I hold as giddily as Fortune;

of queen gems

But 't is that miracle and
That nature pranks her in attracts

my soul.

you,

sir?

Sooth, but you must.

Vio. But if she cannot love
Duke. I cannot be so answered.

Vio.

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 h

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.

Vio.

Ay, but I know—

Duke. What dost thou know?

Vio. 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

Tio. A blank, my lord.

love,

She never told her

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;

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? Vio. 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.

SCENE V.-OLIVIA'S Garden.

Enter Sir TOBY BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, and FABIAN.

Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly, rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame!

Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out o' favour with my lady about a bear-bait