6. HERMAPHRODITES, ANDROGYNES, CROSHABILES, . . .
Presentation: Criminalization of Misdressing
Presentation: Cross-Dressing Onstage And Off
Readings:
God, Deuteronomy 22.5
T. Peend Hermaphroditus and Salmacis (1565)
F. Beaumont Salmacis and Hermaphroditus (1602)
T. Middleton "Ingling Pyander," fr. Micro-Cynicon: Sixe Snarling Satires (1599). STC 17154.
W. Shakespeare Twelfth Night (1599-1601, pub. 1623; Project Gutenberg text, 1993)
J. Healey, fr. "The Description of Shee-landt," Discovery of a New World (1609; ed. DWF)
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The Readings:
Deuteronomy 22.5: The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are abomination unto the LORD thy God.
Thomas Peend. The Pleasant fable of Hermaphroditus and Salmacis (1565)
Dame Venus, once by Mercury compressed, a child did bear:
For beauty far excelling all that erst before him were.
This noble child by name was called Hermaphroditus so,
Of both his parents’ names it is derived, as ye know.
His shape it did so far exceed the graces of all other:
That then the countenance of the child might well desire his mother.
His portrature devine, it was so perfecte in each point,
His noble lyms so fair to sight, so set in every joint,
That he might seem Dame Nature’s work as far for to excell
As do the gods the shape of men, as auncient stories tell.
As to his face, it was so fair and bright with beauty's shine
That it excelled the glistering beams in Phæbus’ face divine.
A pattern plain to mend her mold Dame Nature there might see.
Thereby appeared how marvelous the works of god they be.
The Phrygian boy, by th' eagle caught, on Jove t' attend and wait.
Liriopes, son Narcissus fair, Nymph Echo her dainty bait,
Not Atis fine, which was sometime accepted well with Jove,
Nor yet the boy in incest got which Venus so did love.
All these were not to be compared with young Hermaphrodite.
Nor Cupid sure his brother blind, if Poet’s truly write,
Might not with him in shape compare, but yet to fortune he
Was subject more than this, as we by th' end may plainly see.
For Cupid he doth yet now live a stubborn witless boy:
But Hermaphrodite’s death at last had power for to destroy.
How be it by doleful doom, he lost himself before he died.
Such was his lot. Yet seems it strange one from himself to slide.
Some would not think that any man, might change his nature so,
That from himself by destiny, he might depart or go.
How be it the stranger that it seemed, the rather did I choose
To write of him whose lot it was by ill luck himself to lose.
Among a thousand stories which are worthy to be scanned
In golden verse by skilfull pen, I took this same in hand
To show my ready will to you, till greater power in me:
As correspondent to my mind likewise it may agree.
Wherefore the whilst I shall desire your mastership to take
This same, in worth of worthy’s work, and full account to make,
That want of will is not in mee, though power thereto do not agree.
But now this son of Mercury’s in Ida mount was fed,
And fostered: there full fifteen years his life also he led.
And then desirous for to know the state of countries strange,
All Licia land, by travail great to Caria he did range.
Whereas upon a time, what with his travel that was great,
And eke the weather being hot he wearied then with heat,
And ready for to rest himself, by chance he did espy
A well, with water fair and clear as crystal to the eye.
Which neither bush at any time nor weed it overgrew.
Much like unto the well it was whereto Acteon drew
When that Diana and her Nymphs all naked in the same
He saw, by chance, as he did seek his lately coursed game.
Aboute this spring an idle Nymphe, fair Salmacis did use:
Which even as soon as with her eyes the young man fair she views,
Straight set on fire: The smold’ring heat doth strike unto her heart,
And thorough-pierced by the dint of cruel Cupid’s darte.
She straight desires with him to join, her lust for to fulfill.
She trims herself, & goes forthwith for to declare her will.
To whom when that she came: straightway
With comely grace she gan to say,
"O worthy child, whose shape doth show (as it doth seem to me)
That surely thou some god, and not a earthly wight should be.
Right happy are thy parents sure, and eke the Nurse in lap
Which hath thee laid oft times, and given thy lovely lips the pap.
But happiest of them both I say, a blessed one is she,
Which as thy wife within one bed might join herself with thee.
My dear, vouchsafe to hear my suit, grant my request, I pray,
That if you be not married yet then, then grant this I say,
That I may rest my happy limbs in blessed bed with thee,
So I with Juno for to change my state would not agree.
If thou be married, let me steal one turn. My heart, my joy,"
She said, and therewith held her peace. But lo, the shamefast boy
Was dashed, and out of countenaunce clean. He blushed as red as blood.
He wist not then what "love" did mean. It would have done one good,
To see how well the blushing shame, the amazed boy as it became.
Such was his lively countenaunce, such was his comely hue--
Whom, when the Nymph had long beheld, not able to subdue
Her heat affection and desire. not able to sustain
The force of those so-fervent flames, she doth attempt again
By other means to try the boy, each practice doth she prove.
But nought at all could move, his heart being rude as yet to love.
She seeketh to embrace his neck, and asketh for a kiss.
But then the boy resisting her was moved much with this,
And said, "Leave off these wanton tricks, no longer trouble me--
Else will I soon be gone and leave the place and all with thee."
Then Salmacis, afraid, did make as thence she would be gone,
But in a bush hard by the same, she hid herself anon.
The boy thought now that all was safe from shame as yet now free
Does off his clothes, and thinketh sure that none the same doth see.
And like a wanton kid he skips and in the mead doth run.
Then in the well, to bathe his feet, he so at first begun
But thus at last the water clear it doth delight him so.
He gives his body to the streams and wadeth to and fro,
And further forth with softly foot he doth begin to go.
At last with arms outstretched he his body clean doth dip.
By swimming, through the silver streams his ivory corps doth slip.
The Nymph this while, beholding him, no longer then could stay,
But of her mantel being throwne she would leape in straightway.
The boy amid the waves doth swim as white as any snow.
No swan could seem more white than he that ever any saw.
The Nymphe her heart doth pant with joy, she scant abides to stay,
Until her garments all were off--she plyeth so her prey.
Even as the eager mastive dog, whom scant his keeper stays,
But at the baited Bear he strives for to be gone always.
Even as the hawk doth bate when that she sees the partridge sprung:
So Salmacis, to her it seems Each time it is to long,
That lets her from the prey. But lo, as merry as a pie,
The boy doth frisk and play, he thinks that none may him espy.
But as the Hare within her form, when she doth fear no ill:
The hound is on her suddenly, then pressed the fool to kill.
So Salmacis unto her prayer, into the water goes:
As though that then for all the world her lust she would not lose.
Not to persuade him now she means, as she did erst before:
But now she's pressed her lust to serve, or else to die therefore.
She it to folly so full inclined that nothing then might change her mind.
But lo, the boy, as soon as he did there the Nymph espy,
Even as the little roche with fins out-reached fast both fly,
The ravening Pike, which after him in greater haste doth hie:
So up and downe the spring they fleet, the one himself to save.
The Nymph, her joy by spoil doth seek of th' other for to have.
The flightful boy, like as the Hare, for life the Hound doth fly,
The Nymphe always even as the hound, when he doth come so nigh,
That eve his nose may touch her heels: he girdeth forth amain,
With gaping mouth, being always like his prey for to obtaine.
The Nimphe did drive him up so near, that even of force at last
He is compelled for to resist, and strive for him as fast,
Her rage by strength for to suppress. she forceth on him so,
That wearied nigh the tender boy, he wots not what to do.
To strive he is compelled, or else to yield against his will
Unto his foe, which forceth so, her lust for to fulfill.
And yet some women say, that they be innocents, god wot.
This nicey Nymph doth now display whether it be true or not.
In goodness simple sure they be, Else subtle enough I warrant ye
So nice and fine, before that time this weakling Nymph did seem,
That force and might to break an egg in her ye would scantly deem.
And yet by force, she keepeth now the young man at a bay:
As in a corner doth a dog keep up the striving gray.
And then at last espying well advantage fit thereto,
She catcheth him about the neck as loath to let him go.
Even as the ivy winds about the tree, so doth she clasp
The body of the striving boy: which trembled like the asp.
Even as the Crab in cruel claws when he hath caught his foe:
With gripe doth gird him so as though he should not scape him fro.
Even so the Nymph (though Venus son do as he may resist.
In wordes protesting plain how that she shal not have her liste.)
Yet hoping well, with pressing weight she cleaveth to him so:
That though he strive and writhe, she swears he shall not from her go.
"Wherefore, thou froward boy," she says, "now struggle on thy fill.
But now by force I will obtain that shal content my will.
Thou shalt not scape me sure. Go to, with stubborn-striving still."
With pressed lips perforce to him an hundred kisses she
Doth give (whereby it may appear she liked his company),
Thus said unto the heavens on high: she lifteth up her eyes,
And saith, "O gods, that see all things and sit above the skies,
Grant that this wilfull boy may never part from me.
But let us still in one remain." The gods they did agree
To her request. And Venus then, being moved with their moan,
She did vouchsafe to join their bodies both in one.
One countenance did set forth a thing full strange to see,
A man and woman both with one corpse to agree:
And yet the same no parfect man, nor woman for to be.
But now, when that Hermaphrodite did see in water plain,
He entered like a man therein, and should come forth again
But half a man. Himself he lost, his fortune it was so.
Wherefore he lifted up his hands, and prayed his parents to,
That whosoever entereth here, his lot likewise may bee:
That he to man and woman both, in shape may so agree.
Their parents heard the plaint, ye which their double-shaped son
Had made. And so with virtue strange the spring was spread anon.
Thus both in wish they did agree: And now contented well they bee.
Now, Ovid here might seem to some, a trifling tale to tell,
But yet it shows a worthy sense, if it be marked well--
The poets use in pleasant toys great wisdome for to show
--A subtle sense this tale doth bear, albeit perceived of few:
By Venus’ son, here understand such youths as yet be green
And from the spot of filthy lust--the striplings that be clean,
Which yet have not enthralled themselves unto affection vile,
Nor know the poison strong, the subtle bait which lovers doth beguile--
Even such as newly have cast off a boy, and entered in
A young man’s age. Such one as doth to know himself begin.
Of age well able for to rule himself without a guide.
Such one as first into the world beginneth for to slide,
To learn and see the trades of men, to choose the good from ill.
By young Hermaphrodite, such one here understand we will.
By Caria, signify the world where all temptations be
Wheras the good and ill, always together we may see.
By Salmacis, intend each vice that moveth one to ill.
And by the spring, the pleasant sport that doth content the will
So that when any young man first, without a guide or stay,
Doth enter in the world so wide (unskilfull of the way,
Not knowing yet the wily bait, nor the temptations vile
Whereby the subtle sort oft times the silly do beguile),
He blindly runneth on each where, and doubting of none ill
Because himself he meaneth none, he thinks that no man will
Do otherwise. And so, by pleasant shape of vice deceived all unware,
He drowns himself in filthy sin; and, taken in the snare,
The more he strives, entangled once, the faster he is in.
Such is the nature of the bait, and sleight of that same gin.
But after that he is deceived: by practice to his pain,
More wise, always he will beware to come in like again.
Then will he joy to see his wish, on others in like sorte,
Which plunged be in pensive pain, whilst that they seek for sport.
A man is said to lose himself when reason’s quite exiled
Enthraled in slavish woe, he is constrained for to yeild
To lust, and will dame reasons rules (which still shuld rule our race.)
Rejected quite, to affections: we give the ground and place.
And like to beasts, esteming more to serve our sensuall lust,
And to adorn the body brave, which shall consume to dust,
More lief then for to deck the mind which is imortall sure.
Such is our beastly nature blind: so is our lust unpure.
So we our chief and greatest Good, the treasure of our mind,
Do lose, and so to slavish lust, our nature free we bind.
And servant’s bond unto our will, we work our wretched woe.
So one may lose himself, and be unto himself a foe.
So do we change the happy hope of everlasting joy,
Even for the present pastime, which ourselves doth most annoy.
We change our nature clean, being made effeminate.
When we do yield to serve our lust, we lose our former state.
It is the nature of that well, that filthy loathsome lake
Of lust, the strength from lusty men by hidden force to take:
And so it may now plain appear, the poet truth did tell.
As many as hereafter shall once enter in this well
Of vice, he shal be weakned so, his nature sure he shall forego.
Thus much hereof, as my rude Muse doth understand the mind
Of Ovid, by this pleasant tale, no further sense I find.
But now the fleetinge fancies fond, and eke the shuttle wits:
The mad desires of women now, their rage in folish fits
I will display. This Nymph, the boy did for his beauty love,
For even the sudden sight of him, did her affection move.
And Echo, she Narcissus young, even for his beauy’s sake,
Did choose among all other youths to be her faithful make.
Medea and Hipsiphile, did love Jason so,
Even for his lovely face, that they would from their countries go,
And leave their parents & their friends to go, and be with him,
Which to them both, not long ago had erst a stranger been.
Demophon by his seemly shape, did like fair Phillis’ eyes.
And Dido she Eneas brave therefore did love likewise.
And in like sort did end her life, when that she might no more
Enjoy her joyful lust as she was wont sometime before.
It seemed death, what so did them divorce their lovers fro.
Fair Helen, Menelaus’ wife, lo, Paris fine also did yield,
With him to Phrygian town a stranger for to go.
To Paris’ arms herself she took:
And Menelaus old forsook.
The lusty girl began to loath, such sage pastime as he
Could make. She rather chose with Paris young to be.
The learned Sappho did some time to comely Phaon sue
For grace. And Biblis, she her brother did pursue
For beauty that in him did shine. She followed him therefore
So long: till that her fainting limbs could carry her no more.
King Nisus’ daughter-dear also, fair Scilla, was beguiled
By Minos’ yellow-shining hair, which as her foe in field
Against the walls of Megaris did bear his seemly shield.
And yet king Minos’ wife was of another mind.
In Taurus’ black ill-faced sire, more pleasure she did find,
The captain’s rousy scuff-black poll to her so fair did seem
That she her husband’s golden hair did not so much esteem.
The Emperor Othon's daughter dear Adelasie did so
Regar the lively Alcran, that she with him did go
To country’s strange content by hazarde of her life,
Against the will of all her friends, for to become his wife.
With princelike life, for him alone an Empire she would lose.
With him to lead a simple life much rather she did chose.
All pleasures in the world in him alone she then did take.
Al friends, for him alone also she gladly did forsake.
With him for need right well she was contented coals to make.
To couch in cottage low on simple food to fare.
For all the world, excepted him, she took no kind of care.
He was her bliss. Her joy was he. And nothing else esteemed she.
And Hero fair unto her phere, Leander fine did take.
And Thisbe she did kill herself for comely Pyramus’ sake.
Orestes’ lively looks did much Hermione delight.
King Tancred’s daughter Gysmond did love Guistard’s beauty bright.
The Nymphs did Hyacinthus for his seemly shape desire.
His lovely cheerful song did set their youthly hearts on fire.
And Juliet, Romeus young for beauty did embrace,
Yet did his manhood well agree unto his worthy grace.
So seemly shape did love procure:
And Venus birds came to the lure.
And Aphrodite dame so coy did love Adonis so,
That she with him always contented was to go.
In slender hand, the craggy bow she did vouchsafe to bear,
And run a hunting after him, to kill the flightful deer.
The stubbern boy, blind Cupid here, with shaft did strike his mother dear.
Sith beauty’s grace, as pleasant bait, these ladies did deceive.
What did Adonis’ mother, in her father old perceive?
Why she should seek by incest vile, her mothers bed for to defile?
What flinging fit did force her so? what mad desire doth move
Her thus? why should she seek an old and canckred lad to love?
And why did Phædra sue unto her boistrous son-in-law,
Hipolite blunt (being rude to love) unto her lust to draw.
Why did his fierce and frowning face, his hard complexion seem
To her a fair and manlike hue? what made her so to deem?
Sith beauty’s goodly grace, sometime so well it liked her,
That she above her countrey, did young Theseus prefer.
Her sister Ariadne aye his shape esteemed so:
That she her brother did betray, and fled her parents fro.
Such be the fond and frantic fits which in the blinded brain
Of wanton women often times, with swinging sway doth reign.
And Venus eke, which liked so Adonis lovely grace,
That she from him would not abide in any place.
In warlike Mars, that bloody knight, sometime also she did delight.
Sith she for comely beauty then, these lusty youths did love.
To marry with dame Juno’s son what odd conceit did move
Her so: to serve that grisly sire, the coppersmith deformed,
Whom Nature neither with good grace, nor learning had adorned.
But even a rude and boistrous carle, whose color in his face
A Croyden sanguine right did seem. This is a doubtfull case,
That she which erst did seek so much for beauty’s goodly grace,
To love Adonis fair alone, should seek sometime t’ embrace
Sir Vulcan, with his drowsy poll,
A smith which did on stithy roll.
I dare not sure dissolve this doubt. I fear to judge on this.
To have to do with gods above, how dangerous it is:
Tiresias old, which was sometime a judge of Juno’s game.
In jesting strife, for telling truth the judge did bear the blame.
He lost his sight, for judging right.
O judge unwise, thou knowest the price
Of telling truth, more was the ruth!
Tiresias, thou prophet old,
Which hadst the grace for to unfold
The secrets hid of things to come:
Though Juno she,did make thee blind,
Yet Jove to thee was not unkind:
He did restore as good therefore
Thy lack of sight, thy knowledge doth
Right well acquit. That is the troth,
For by the same, unto the skies,
Thy worthy name, it did arise.
How be it I am not so bold
With judgment this for to unfold?
The goddess’ grace I more regard:
Than hope to have of Jove’s reward.
For doubt of blame, I dare not say
Or show the same, which erst alway
I thought. For sure, if I may choose,
Dame Venus’ love I will not lose.
Sith me bear blame, for telling troth:
To show the same I would be loath.
Wherefore now I will cease to write.
And you hardly, by judgment right,
As one exempt from Venus might:
May be more bold, this to unfold.
And so to you, I leave it now, that this most weighty doubt:
At further leisure (when you list) yourself may find it out.
T. D. Peend.
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Francis Beaumont, Salmacis and Hermaphroditus (1602)
My wanton lines do treat of amorous love
Such as would bow the hearts of gods above:
Then Venus, thou great Citherean Queen,
That hourly tripp'st on the Idalian green,
Thou laughing Erycina, deign to see
The verses wholly consecrate to thee;
Temper them so within thy Paphian shrine,
That every lover’s eye may melt a line;
Command the god of Love, that little King,
To give each verse a slight touch with his wing,
That as I write, one line may draw the other,
And every word skip nimbly o'er another.
There was a lovely boy the Nymphs had kept,
That on the Idan mountains oft had slept,
Begot and born by powers that dwelt above,
By learned Mercury of the Queen of love:
A face he had that showed his parents’ fame,
And from them both conjoined, he drew his name:
So wondrous fair he was, that (as they say)
Diana being hunting on a day, 20
She saw the boy upon a green bank lay him,
And there the virgin-huntress meant to slay him,
Because no Nymphs did now pursue the chase:
For all were strook blind with the wanton’s face.
But when that beauteous face Diana saw,
Her arms were numbed, and she could not draw;
Yet did she strive to shoot, but all in vain,
She bent her bow, and loosed it straight again.
Then she began to chide her wanton eye,
And fain would shoot but durst not see him die.
She turned and shot--and did of purpose miss him.
She turned again, and did of purpose kiss him.
Then the boy ran: for (some say), had he stayed,
Diana had no longer been a maid.
Phoebus so doted on this rosiate face
That he hath oft stole closely from his place,
When he did lie by fair Leucothoes side,
To dally with him in the vales of Ide:
And ever since this lovely boy did die,
Phoebus each day about the world doth fly, 40
And on the earth he seeks him all the day,
And every night he seeks him in the sea:
His cheek was sanguine, and his lip as red
As are the blushing leaves of the rose spread:
And I have heard, that till this boy was born,
Roses grew white upon the virgin thorn,
Till one day walking to a pleasant spring,
To hear how cunningly the birds could sing,
Laying him down upon a flowery bed,
The roses blushed and turned themselves to red.
The rose that blushed not, for his great offence
The gods did punish, and for impudence
They gave this doom that was agreed by all:
The smell of the white Rose should be but small.
His hair was bushy, but it was not long,
The Nymphs had done his tresses mighty wrong:
For as it grew, they pulled away his hair,
And made abiliments of gold to wear.
His eyes were Cupids: for until his birth,
Cupid had eyes, and lived upon the earth, 60
Till on a day, when the great queen of love
Was by her white doves drawn from heaven above
Unto the top of the Idalian hill
To see how well the Nymphs their charge fulfill,
And whether they had done the goddess right
In nursing of her sweet Hermaphrodite:
Whom when she saw, although complete & full,
Yet she complained, his eyes were somewhat dull:
And therefore, more the wanton boy to grace,
She pulled the sparkling eyes from Cupids face,
Feigning a cause to take away his sight,
Because the ape would sometimes shoot for spite.
But Venus set those eyes in such a place,
As graced those clear eyes with a clearer face.
For his white hand each goddess did him woo:
For it was whiter then the driven snow:
His leg was straighter then the thigh of Love:
And he far fairer then the god of love.
When first this well-shaped boy, beauty’s chief king,
Had seen the labor of the fifteenth spring, 80
How curiously it painted all the earth,
He 'gan to travel from his place of birth,
Leaving the stately hills where he was nursed,
And where the Nymphs had brought him up at first:
He loved to travel to the coasts unknown,
To see the regions far beyond his own,
Seeking clear watery springs to bathe him in:
(For he did love to wash his ivory skin)
The lovely Nymphes have oft times seen him swim,
And closely stole his clothes from off the brim,
Because the wanton wenches would so fain
See him come nak’d to ask his clothes again.
He loved besides to see the Lycian grounds,
And know the wealthy Carians utmost bounds.
Using to travel thus, one day he found
A crystal brook, that trill'd along the ground,
A brook, that in reflection did surpass
The clear reflection of the clearest glass.
About the side there grew no foggy reeds,
Nor was the fount compassed with barren weeds: 100
But living turf grew all along the side,
And grass that ever flourished in his pride.
Within this brook a beauteous Nymph did dwell,
Who for her comely feature did excell;
So fair she was, of such a pleasing grace,
So straight a body, and so sweet a face,
So soft a belly, such a lusty thigh,
So large a forehead, such a crystal eye,
So soft and moist a hand, so smooth a breast,
So fair a cheek, so well in all the rest,
That Jupiter would revel in her bower,
Were he to spend again his golden shower:
Her teeth were whiter then the morning’s milk,
Her lip was softer then the softest silk,
Her hair as far surpassed the burnshed gold,
As silver doth excel the basest mold:
Jove courted her for her translucent eye,
And told her, he would place her in the sky,
Promising her, if she would be his love,
He would engrave her in the heaven above, 120
Telling this lovely Nymph, that if he would,
He could deceive her in a shower of gold,
Or like a swan come to her naked bed,
And so deceive her of her maiden-head:
But yet, because he thought that pleasure best
Where each consenting joins each loving breast,
He would put off that all-commanding crown,
Whose terror strook th'aspiring giants down,
That glittering crown, whose radiat sight did toss
Great Pelion from the top of mighty Oss,
He would depose from his world-swaying head,
To taste the amorous pleasures of her bed:
This added he besides, the more to grace her,
Like a bright star he would in heavens vault place her.
By this the proud lascivious Nymph was moved,
Perceiving by great Jove she was belov’d,
And hoping as a star she should ere long
Be stern or gracious to the Sea-man’s song,
(For mortals still are subject to their eye,
And what it sees, they strive to get as high). 140
She was contented that almighty Jove
Should have the first and best fruits of her love:
(For women may be likened to the year,
Whose first fruits still do make the daintiest cheer)
But yet Astræa first should plight her troth,
For the performance of Joves sacred oath.
(Just times decline, and all good days are dead,
When heavenly oaths had need be warranted)
This heard great Jupiter and lik'd it well,
And hastily he seeks Astræa’s cell,
About the massy earth searching her tower:
But she had long since left this earthly bower,
And flew to heaven above, loathing to see
The sinful actions of humanity.
Which when Jove did perceive, he left the earth,
And flew up to the place of his own birth,
The burning heavenly throne, where he did spy
Astræa’s palace in the glittering sky.
This stately tower was builded up on high,
Far from the reach of any mortall eye; 160
And from the palace side there did distill
A little water, through a little quill,
The dew of justice, which did seldom fall,
And when it dropped, the drops were very small.
Glad was great Jove when he beheld her tower,
Meaning a while to rest him in her bower;
And therefore sought to enter at her door:
But there was such a busy rout before;
Some serving men, and some promoters be,
That he could pass no foot without a fee:
But as he goes, he reaches out his hands,
And pays each one in order as he stands;
And still, as he was paying those before,
Some slipped again betwixt him and the door.
At length (with much ado) he passed them all,
And entered straight into a spacious hall,
Full of dark angles and of hidden ways,
Crooked Mæanders, infinite delays;
All which delays and entries he must pass,
Ere he could come where just Astræa was. 180
All these being past by his immortall wit,
Without her door he saw a porter fit,
An aged man, that long time there had been,
Who us'd to search all those that entred in,
And still to every one he gave this curse,
None must see justice but with empty purse.
This man searcht Jove for his owne priuate gain,
To have the money which did yet remain,
Which was but small: for much was spent before
On the tumultuous rout that kept the dore.
When he had done, he brought him to the place
Where he should see divine Astræa’s face.
Then the great King of gods and men in went,
And saw his daughter Venus there lament,
And crying loud for justice, whom Jove found
Kneeling before Astræa on the ground,
And still she cried and begged for a just doom
Against black Vulcan, that unseemly groom,
Whom she had chosen for her only love,
Though she was daughter to great thund’ring Jove: 200
And though the fairest goddess, yet content
To marry him, though weak and impotent;
But for all this they always were at strife:
For evermore he railed at her his wife,
Telling her still, Thou art no wife of mine,
Another’s strumpet, Mars his concubine.
By this Astræa spied almighty Jove,
And bow'd her finger to the queen of love,
To cease her suit, which she would hear anon,
When the great King of all the world was gone.
Then she descended from her stately throne,
Which seat was builded all of Jasper stone,
And o'er the seat was painted all above,
The wanton unseen stealths of amorous Jove;
There might a man behold the naked pride
Of lovely Venus in the vale of Ide,
When Pallas, and Jove’s beauteous wife and she
Strove for the prize of beauty’s rarity:
And there lame Vulcan and his Cyclops strove
To make the thunderbolts for mighty Jove: 220
From this same stately throne she down descended,
And said, "The griefs of Jove should be amended,"
Asking the King of gods what luckless cause,
What great contempt of state, what breach of laws
(For sure she thought, some uncouth cause befell,
That made him visit poor Astræa’s cell)
Troubled his thought: and if she might decide it,
Who vext great Jove, he dearly should abide it.
Jove onely thanked her, and began to show
His cause of coming (for each one doth know
The longing words of lovers are not many,
If they desire to be enjoyed of any)
Telling Astræa, It might now befall,
That she might make him blest, that blesseth all:
For as he walk'd upon the flowery earth,
To which his own hands whilome gave a birth,
To see how straight he held it and how just
He rolled this massy ponderous heap of dust,
He laid him down by a cool river side,
Whose pleasant water did so gently slide 240
With such soft whispering, for the brook was deep,
That it had lull'd him in a heavenly sleep.
When first he laid him down, there was none near him:
(For he did call before, but none could hear him)
But a fair Nymph was bathing when he wak'd,
(Here sigh'd great Jove, and after brought forth) nak'd.
He, seeing, loved. The Nymph yet here did rest,
Where just Astræa might make Jove be blest,
If she would pass her faithfull word so far,
As that great Jove should make the maid a star.
Astræa yielded: at which Jove was pleas'd,
And all his longing hopes and fears were eased.
Jove took his leave, and parted from her sight,
Whose thoughts were full of lovers’ sweet delight,
And she ascended to her throne above,
To hear the griefs of the great queen of love
But she was satisfied, and would no more
Rail at her husband as she did before:
But forth she tripped apace, because she strove
With her swift feet to overtake great Jove; 260
She skipped so nimbly as she went to look him,
That at the palace door she overtook him,
Which way was plain and broad as they went out,
And now they could see no tumultuous rout.
Here Venus--fearing lest the love of Jove
Should make this maid be plac'd in heaven above,
Because she thought this Nymph so wondrous bright,
That she would dazzle her accustom'd light:
And fearing now she should not first be seen
Of all the glittering stars as she had been,
But that the wanton Nymph would ev'ry night
Be first that should salute each mortal sight--
Began to tell great Jove, she griev'd to see
The heaven so full of his iniquity,
Complaining that each strumpet now was grac'd,
And with immortal goddesses was plac'd,
Entreating him to place in heaven no more
Each wanton strumpet and lascivious whore.
Jove, mad with love, harkened not what she said,
His thoughts were so entangled with the maid, 280
But furiously he to his palace leapt,
Being minded there till morning to have slept:
For the next morn, as soon as Phoebus rays
Should yet shine cool, by reason of the seas,
And ere the parting tears of Thætis’ bed
Should be quite shaked from off his glittring head,
Astræa promis'd to attend great Jove,
At his owne palace in the heaven above,
And at that palace she would set her hand
To what the love-sick god should her command:
But to descend to earth she did deny,
She loath'd the sight of any mortal eye,
And for the compass of the earthly round,
She would not set one foot upon the ground.
Therefore Jove meant to rise but with the sun,
Yet thought it long until the night was done.
In the mean space Venus was drawn along
By her white doves unto the sweating throng
Of hammering blacksmiths, at the lofty hill
Of stately Etna, whose top burneth still: 300
(For at that burning mountain’s glittring top,
Her cripple husband Vulcan kept his shop)
To him she went, and so collogues that night
With the best strains of pleasure’s sweet delight,
That ere they parted, she made Vulcan swear
By dreadfull Styx, an oath the gods do fear,
If Jove would make the mortal maid a star,
Himself should frame his instruments of war,
And took his oath by black Cocytus Lake,
He never more a thunder-bolt would make:
For Venus so this night his senses pleas'd,
That now he thought his former griefs were eas'd.
She with her hands the blacksmiths body bound,
And with her ivory arms she twyn'd him round,
And still the fair queen with a pretty grace,
Dispersed her sweet breath o'er his swarthy face:
Her snowy arms so well she did display,
That Vulcan thought they melted as they lay.
Untill the morn in this delight they lay:
Then up they got, and hasted fast away 320
In the white chariot of the queen of love,
Towards the palace of great thundring Jove,
Where they did see divine Astræa stand,
To pass her word for what Jove should command.
In limpt the blacksmith, after stepped his queen,
Whose light arraiment was of lovely green.
When they were in, Vulcan began to swear
By oaths that Jupiter himself doth fear,
If any whore in heaven’s bright vault were seen,
To dim the shining of his beauteous queen,
Each mortal man should the great gods disgrace,
And mock almighty Jove unto his face,
And giants should enforce bright heaven to fall,
Ere he would frame one thunderbolt at all.
Jove did entreat him that he would forbear.
The more he spoke, the more did Vulcan swear.
Jove heard his words, and 'gan to make his moan,
That mortal men would pluck him from his throne,
Or else he must incur this plague, he said,
Quite to forgo the pleasure of the maid: 340
And once he thought, rather than lose her blisses,
Her heavenly sweets, her most delicious kisses,
Her soft embraces, and the amorous nights,
That he should often spend in her delights,
He would be quite thrown down by mortal hands,
From the blest place where his bright palace stands.
But afterwards he saw with better sight,
He should be scorn'd by every mortal wight,
If he should want his thunderbolts, to beat
Aspiring mortals from his glittering seat:
Therefore the god no more did woo or prove her,
But left to seek her love, though not to love her.
Yet he forgot not that he woo'd the lass,
But made her twice as beauteous as she was,
Because his wonted love he needs would show.
This have I heard, but yet scarce thought it true.
And whether her clear beauty was so bright,
That it could dazzle the immortall sight
Of gods, and make them for her love despair,
I do not know, but sure the maid was faire. 360
Yet the fair Nymph was never seen resort
Unto the savage and the bloody sport
Of chaste Diana, nor was ever wont
To bend a bow, nor ever did she hunt,
Nor did she ever strive with pretty cunning,
To overgoe her fellow Nymphs in running:
For she was the fair water-Nymph alone,
That unto chaste Diana was unknown.
It is reported, that her fellows used
To bid her (though the beauteous Nymph refus'd)
To take, or painted quivers or a dart,
And put her lazy idleness apart.
Nor took she painted quivers, nor a dart,
Nor put her lazy idleness apart,
But in her crystal fountain oft she swims,
And oft she washes o'er her snowy limbs:
Sometimes she comb'd her soft dishevel'd hair,
Which with a fillet tied she oft did wear:
But sometimes loose she did it hang behind,
When she was pleas'd to grace the eastern wind: 380
For up and down it would her tresses hurl,
And as she went, it made her loose hair curl:
Oft in the water did she look her face,
And oft she us'd to practise what quaint grace
Might well become her, and what comely feature
Might be best fitting so divine a creature.
Her skin was with a thin veil overthrown,
Through which her naked beauty clearly shone.
She us'd in this light raiment as she was,
To spread her body on the dewy grass:
Sometimes by her own fountain as she walks,
She nips the flowers from off the fertile stalks,
And with a garland of the sweating vine,
Sometimes she doth her beauteous front in-twine:
But she was gathering flowers with her white hand,
When she beheld Hermaphroditus stand
By her clear fountain, wondering at the sight,
That there was any brook could be so bright:
For this was the bright river where the boy
Did die himself, that he could not enjoy 400
Himself in pleasure, nor could taste the blisses
Of his owne melting and delicious kisses.
Here did she see him, and by Venus law,
She did desire to have him as she saw:
But the fair Nymph had never seen the place,
Where the boy was, nor his enchanting face,
But by an uncouth accident of love
Betwixt great Phoebus and the son of Jove,
Light-headed Bacchus: for upon a day,
As the boy-god was keeping on his way
Bearing his vain leaves and his ivy bands
To Naxos, where his house and temple stands,
He saw the Nymph, and seeing, he did stay,
And threw his leaves and ivy bands away,
Thinking at first she was of heavenly birth,
Some goddess that did live upon the earth,
Virgin Diana that so lively shone,
When she did court her sweet Endimion:
But he a god, at last did plainly see,
She had no mark of immortality. 420
Unto the Nymph went the young god of wine,
Whose head was chaf'd so with the bleeding vine,
That now, or fear or terror had he none,
But 'gan to court her as she sat alone:
"Fairer then fairest"--thus began his speech--
"Would but your radiant eye please to enrich
My eye with looking, or one glance to give
Whereby my other parts might feed and live,
Or with one sight my senses to inspire,
Far livelier then the stole Promethean fire;
Then might I live! Then by the sunny light
That should proceed from thy thrice-radiant sight,
I might survive to ages. But that missing,"
(At that same word he would have fain bin kissing)
"I pine," fair Nymph: "O never let me die
For one poor glance from thy translucent eye,
Far more transparent than the clearest brook."
The Nymph was taken with his golden hook:
Yet she turn'd back, and would have tripped away;
But Bacchus forced the lovely maid to stay, 440
Asking her why she struggled to be gone,
Why such a Nymph should wish to be alone?
Heaven never made her fair, that she should vaunt
She kept all beauty, it would never grant
She should be born so beauteous from her mother,
But to reflect her beauty on another:
"Then with a sweet kiss cast thy beams on me,
And I’ll reflect them back again on thee.
At Naxos stands my temple and my shrine,
Where I do press the lusty-swelling vine,
There with green ivy shall thy head be bound,
And with the red grape be incircled round;
There shall Silenus sing unto thy praise,
His drunken reeling songs and tickling lays.
Come hither, gentle Nymph." Here blushed the maid,
And fain she would have gone, but yet she stayed.
Bacchus perceived he had o'ercome the lass,
And down he throws her in the dewy grass,
And kissed the helpless Nymph upon the ground,
And would have stray'd beyond that lawful bound. 460
This saw bright Phoebus: for his glittering eye
Sees all that lies below the starry skye
And for an old affection that he bore
Unto this lovely Nymph long time before,
(For he would ofttimes in his circle stand,
To sport himself upon her snowy hand)
He kept her from the sweets of Bacchus bed,
And--'gainst her wil--he sav'd her maidenhead.
Bacchus perceiving this, apace did hie
Unto the Palace of swift Mercury:
But he did find him far below his birth,
Drinking with thieves and catch-poles on the earth;
And they were drinking what they stole to day,
In consultation for to morrow’s prey.
To him went youthful Bacchus, and begun
To show his cause of grief against the Sun,
How he bereft him of his heavenly blisses,
His sweet delights, his nectar-flowing kisses,
And other sweeter sweets that he had won,
But for the malice of the bright-faced sun-- 480
Entreating Mercury by all the love
That had been born amongst the sons of Jove,
Of which they two were part, to stand his friend,
Against the god that did him so offend:
The quaint-tongu'd issue of great Atlas race,
Swift Mercury, that with delightfull grace,
And pleasing accents of his feigned tongue,
Hath oft reform'd a rude uncivil throng
Of mortals, that great messenger of Jove,
And all the meaner gods that dwell above:
He whose acute wit was so quick and sharp
In the invention of the crookd harp:
He that's so cunning with his jesting slights,
To steal from heavenly gods or earthly wights,
Bearing a great hate in his grieved breast,
Against that great commaunder of the west,
Bright-faced Apollo: for upon a day,
Yong Mercury did steal his beasts away:
Which the great god perceiving, straight did show
The peircing arrows and the fearful bow 500
That killed great Python, & with that did threat him,
To bring his beasts again, or he would beat him.
Which Mercury perceiving, unespied,
Did closely steal his arrows from his side.
For this old grudge, he was the easilier won
To help young Bacchus 'gainst the fiery Sun.
And now the sun was in the middle way,
And had o'ercome the one half of the day,
Scorching so hot upon the reeking sand,
That lies upon the near Egyptian land,
That the hot people burnt e'en from their birth,
Do creep again into their mother earth,
When Mercury did take his powerful wand,
His charming Caducæus in his hand,
And a thick beaver which he us'd to wear,
When ought from Jove he to the sun did bear,
That did protect him from the piercing light,
Which did proceed from Phoebus glittering sight.
Clad in these powerful ornaments he flies,
With out-stretched wings up to the azure skies: 520
Where, seeing Phoebus in his orient shrine,
He did so well revenge the god of wine
That whil'st the sun wonders his chariot reels,
The crafty god had stole away his wheels.
Which when he did perceive, he down did slide,
(Laying his glittering Coronet aside)
From the bright-spangled firmament above,
To seek the Nymph that Bacchus so did love,
And found her looking in her watery glass,
To see how clear her radiant beauty was:
And, for he had but little time to stay,
Because he meant to finish out his day,
At the first sight he 'gan to make his moan,
Telling her how his fiery wheels were gone;
Promising her, if she would but obtain
The wheels, that Mercury had stolen, again,
That he might end his day, she should enjoy
The heavenly sight of the most beauteous boy
That ever was. The Nymph was pleased with this,
Hoping to reap some unaccustomed bliss 540
By the sweet pleasure that she should enjoy,
In the blest sight of such a melting boy.
Therefore at his request she did obtain
The burning wheels, that he had lost, again:
Which when he had received, he left the land,
And brought them thither where his coach did stand,
And there he set them on: for all this space,
The horses had not stirred from out their place,
Which when he saw, he wept and 'gan to say,
"Would Mercury had stole my wheels away
When Phaeton my hare-brain'd issue tried--
What a laborious thing it was to guide
My burning chariot!--then he might have pleas'd me,
And of one father’s grief he might have eas'd me:
For then the steeds would have obeyed his will,
Or else at least they would have rested still."
When he had done, he took his whip of steel,
Whose bitter smart he made his horses feel:
For he did lash so hard, to end the day,
That he was quickly at the Westerne sea, 560
And there with Thætis did he rest a space:
For he did never rest in any place
Before that time: but ever since his wheels
Were stole away, his burning chariot reels
Towards the declining of the parting day:
Therefore he lights and mends them in the sea,
And though the poets feign that Jove did make
A treble night for fair Alcmena's sake,
That he might sleep securely with his love;
Yet sure the long night was unknown to Jove:
But the Sun’s wheels one day disordered more,
Were thrice as long amending as before.
Now was the sun environ'd with the sea,
Cooling his watery tresses as he lay,
And in dread Neptune’s kingdom while he sleeps,
Fair Thætis clips him in the watery deeps,
The Mermaids and the Tritons of the West,
Straining their voices, to make Titan rest.
And while the black night with her pitchy hand
Took just possession of the swarfy land: 580
He spent the darksome hours in this delight,
Giving his power up to the gladsome night:
For ne'er before he was so truly blest,
To take an hour or one poor minute’s rest.
But now the burning god this pleasure feels,
By reason of his newly crazed wheels,
There must he stay untill lame Vulcan send
The fiery wheels which he had took to mend.
Now all the night the Smith so hard had wrought,
That ere the Sun could wake, his wheels were brought.
Titan being pleas'd with rest, and not to rise,
And loath to open yet his slumbering eyes:
And yet perceiving how the longing sight
Of mortals waited for his glittering light,
He sent Aurora from him to the sky,
To give a glimsing to each mortall eye.
Aurora much asham'd of that same place
That great Apollo’s light was wont to grace,
Finding no place to hide her shameful head,
Painted her chaste cheeks with a blushing red, 600
Which ever since remained upon her face,
In token of her new-received disgrace:
Therefore she not so white as she had been,
Loathing of ev'ry mortall to be seen,
No sooner can the rosy-fingered morn
Kiss ev'ry flower that by her dew is born,
But from her golden window she doth peepe,
When the most part of earthly creatures sleep.
By this, bright Titan opened had his eyes,
And 'gan to jerk his horses through the skies,
And taking in his hand his fiery whip,
He made Aeous and swift Aethon skip
So fast, that straight he dazzled had the sight
Of fair Aurora, glad to see his light.
And now the sun in all his fiery haste,
Did call to mind his promise lately past,
And all the vows and oaths that he did pass
Unto fair Salmacis, the beauteous lass:
For he had promised her she should enjoy
So lovely fair, and such a well-shaped boy 620
As ne'er before his own all-seeing eye
Saw from his bright seat in the starry sky:
Remembring this, he sent the boy that way,
Where the clear fountain of the fair Nymph lay.
There was he come to seek some pleasing brook.
No sooner came he, but the Nymph was strook:
And though she hasted to embrace the boy,
Yet did the Nymph awhile defer her joy,
Till she had bound up her loose-flagging hair,
And ordered well the garments she did wear,
Faining her count'nance with a lovers care,
And did deserve to be accounted faire.
And thus much spake she while the boy abode:
"O boy, most worthy to be thought a god,
Thou maist inhabit in the glorious place
Of gods, or may’st proceed from human race:
Thou may’st be Cupid, or the god of wine,
That lately wooed me with the swelling vine:
But whosoe'er thou art, O happy he,
That was so blest, to be a sire to thee; 640
Thy happy mother is most blest of many,
Blessed thy sisters, if her womb bare any,
Both fortunate, and O thrice-happy she,
Whose too-much-blessed breasts gave suck to thee!
If any wife with thy sweet bed be blest,
O, she is far more happy then the rest;
If thou hast any, let my sport be stol'ne,
Or else let me be she, if thou hast none."
Here did she pause a while, and then she said,
"Be not obdurate to a silly maid. 650
A flinty heart within a snowy breast,
Is like base mold locked in a golden chest:
They say the eye's the index of the heart,
And shows th'affection of each inward part:
There love plays lively, there the little god
Hath a clear crystal palace of abode.
O bar him not from playing in thy heart,
That sports himself upon each outward part!"
Thus much she spake, & then her tongue was hushed.
At her loose speech Hermaphroditus blushed: 660
He knew not what love was, yet love did shame him,
Making him blush--and yet his blush became him:
Then might a man his shamefast color see,
Like the ripe apple on the sunny tree,
Or ivory dyed o'er with a pleasing red,
Or like the pale moon being shadowed.
By this, the Nymph recovered had her tongue,
That to her thinking lay in silence long,
And said, "Thy cheek is mild, O be thou so,
Thy cheek saith Aye, then do not answere No.
Thy cheek doth shame, then do thou shame," she said,
It is a man’s shame to deny a maid!
Thou look'st to sport with Venus in her tower,
And be beloved of every heavenly power.
Men are but mortals, so are women too,
Why should your thoughts aspire more than ours do?
For sure they do aspire: Else could a youth,
Whose count'nance is so full of spotless truth,
Be so relentless to a virgin’s tongue?
Let me be wooed by thee but half so long, 680
With half those terms do but my love require,
And I will easily grant thee thy desire.
Ages are bad when men become so slow,
That poor unskilful maids are forced to woo!"
Her radiant beauty and her subtle art
So deeply strook Hermaphroditus’ heart,
That she had won his love, but that the light
Of her translucent eyes did shine too bright:
For long he looked upon the lovely maid,
And at the last Hermaphroditus said,
"How should I love thee when I do espy
A far more beauteous Nymph hid in thy eye?
When thou dost love, let not that Nymph be nigh thee;
Nor when thou woo'st, let that same Nymph be by thee:
Or quite obscure her from thy lover’s face,
Or hide her beauty in a darker place."
By this, the Nymph perceived he did espy
None but himself reflected in her eye,
And, for himself no more she meant to show him,
She shut her eyes & blindfold thus did woo him: 700
"Fair boy, think not thy beauty can dispense
With any pain due to a bad offense!
Remember how the gods punished that boy
That scorned to let a beauteous Nymph enjoy
Her long-wished pleasure--for the peevish elf,
Loved of all others, needs would love himself.
So may’st thou love, perhaps thou may’st be blest,
By granting to a luckless Nymph’s request:
Then rest awhile with me amid these weeds.
The sun that sees all, sees not lovers’ deeds; 710
Phoebus is blind when love-sports are begun,
And never sees until their sports be done:
Believe me, boy, thy blood is very staid,
That art so loath to kiss a youthful maid.
Wert thou a maid, and I a man, I’d show thee,
With what a manly boldness I could woo thee:
‘Fairer then love’s Queen’--thus I would begin,
‘Might not my over-boldness be a sin,
I would entreat this favor, if I could,
Thy rosiate cheek a little to behold.’ 720
Then would I beg a touch, and then a kiss,
And then a lower (yet a higher bliss);
Then would I ask what Jove and Læda did,
When like a swan the crafty god was hid?
What came he for? why did he there abide?
Surely, I think he did nor come to chide!
He came to see her face, to talk, and chat,
To touch, to kiss. Came he for nought but that?
Yes, something else: what was it he would have?
That which all men of maiden’s ought to crave!"
This said, her eyelids wide she did display:
But in this space the boy was run away:
The wanton speeches of the lovely lass
Forced him for shame to hide him in the grass.
When she perceived she could not see him near her,
When she had called, and yet he could not hear her,
Look how when Autumn comes, a little space
Paleth the red blush of the summer’s face,
Tearing the leaves the summer’s covering,
Three months in weaving by the curious spring, 740
Making the grass his green locks go to wrack,
Tearing each ornament from off his back;
So did she spoil the garments she did wear,
Tearing whole ounces of her golden hair:
She thus deluded of her longed bliss,
With much ado at last she uttered this:
"Why wert thou bashful, boy? Thou hast no part
Shows thee to be of such a female heart.
His eye is gray, so is the morning’s eye,
That blusheth always when the day is nigh.
Then his gray eye's the cause--that cannot be:
The gray-eyed morn is far more bold than he!
For with a gentle dew from heaven’s bright tower,
It gets the maidenhead of ev'ry flower.
I would to God he were the rosiate morn,
And I a flower from out the earth new-born!
His face was smooth. Narcissus’ face was so,
And he was careless of a sad Nymph’s woe.
Then that's the cause: and yet that cannot be,
Youthfull Narcissus was more bold than he, 760
Because he died for love (though of his shade).
This boy nor loves himself, nor yet a maid!
Besides, his glorious eye is wondrous bright;
So is the fiery and all-seeing light
Of Phoebus, who at ev'ry morning’s birth
Blusheth for shame upon the sullen earth.
Then that's the cause--and yet that cannot be:
The fiery sun is far more bold than he!
He nightly kisseth Thætis in the sea--
All know the story of Leucothoe.
His cheek is red, so is the fragrant rose
Whose ruddy cheek with over-blushing glows--
Then that's the cause! and yet that cannot be:
Each blushing rose is far more bold than he,
Whose boldness may be plainly seen in this,
The ruddy rose is not ashamed to kiss.
For always, when the day is new begun,
The spreading rose will kiss the morning sun."
This said, hid in the grass she did espy him,
And stumbling with her will, she fell down by him, 780
And with her wanton talk, because he wooed not,
Begged that, which he, poor novice, understood not:
And, for she could not get a greater bliss,
She did entreat at least a sister’s kiss;
But still the more she did the boy beseech,
The more he pouted at her wanton speech.
At last the Nymph began to touch his skin,
Whiter than mountain snow hath ever been,
And did in pureness that clear spring surpass,
Wherein Actæon saw th'Arcadian lass.
Thus did she dally long, till at the last,
In her moist palm she locked his white hand fast:
Then in her hand his wrist she 'gan to close,
When through his pulses straight the warm blood glows,
Whose youthful music fanning Cupid’s fire,
In her warm breast kindled a fresh desire.
Then did she lift her hand unto his breast,
A part as white and youthful as the rest,
Where, as his flowery breath still comes and goes,
She felt his gentle heart pant through his clothes. 800
At last she took her hand from off that part,
And said it panted like another’s heart.
"Why should it be more feeble, and less bold?
Why should the blood about it be more cold?
Nay sure, that yields, only thy tongue denies,
And the true fancy of thy heart belies."
Then did she lift her hand unto his chin,
And praised the pretty dimpling of his skin:
But straight his chin she 'gan to overslip,
When she beheld the redness of his lip;
And said, "Thy lips are soft, press them to mine,
And thou shalt see they are as soft as thine."
Then would she fain have gone unto his eye,
But still his ruddy lip standing so nigh,
Drew her hand back. Therefore his eye she missed,
'Ginning to clasp his neck, and would have kissed;
But then the boy did struggle to be gone,
Vowing to leave her and that place alone.
But then bright Salmacis began to fear,
And said, "Fair stranger, I will leave thee here 820
Amid these pleasant places all alone."
So turning back, she feigned to be gone;
But from his sight she had no power to pass,
Therefore she turned, and hid her in the grass,
When to the ground bending her snow-white knee,
The glad earth gave new coats to every tree.
He then supposing he was all alone,
(Like a young boy that is espied of none)
Runs here, and there, then on the banks doth look,
Then on the crystal current of the brook,
Then with his foot he touched the silver streams,
Whose drowsy waves made music in their dreams,
And, for he was not wholly in, did weep,
Talking aloud and babbling in their sleepe:
Whose pleasant coolness when the boy did feel,
He thrust his foot down lower to the heel:
O'ercome with whose sweet noise, he did begin
To strip his soft clothes from his tender skin,
When straight the scorching sun wept tears of brine, 840
Because he durst not touch him with his shine,
For fear of spoiling that same iv’ry skin,
Whose whiteness he so much delighted in;
And then the moon, mother of mortal ease,
Would fain have come from the Antipodes,
To have beheld him naked as he stood,
Ready to leap into the silver flood;
But might not: for the laws of heaven deny
To show men’s secrets to a woman’s eye:
And therefore was her sad and gloomy light
Confined unto the secret-keeping night.
When beauteous Salmacis awhile had gazed
Upon his naked corps, she stood amazed,
And both her sparkling eyes burnt in her face,
Like the bright Sun reflected in a glass:
Scarce can she stay from running to the boy,
Scarce can she now defer her hoped joy;
So fast her youthfull blood plays in her veins,
That almost mad, she scarce herself contains.
When young Hermaphroditus as he stands,
Clapping his white side with his hollow hands, 860
Leapt lively from the land, whereon he stood,
Into the main part of the crystal flood.
Like iv'ry then his snowy body was,
Or a white Lily in a crystal glass.
Then rose the water-nymph from where she lay,
As having won the glory of the day,
And her light garments cast from off her skin.
"He's mine!" she cryed, and so leapt spritely in.
The flattering ivy who did ever see
Enclasp the huge trunk of an aged tree,
Let him behold the young boy as he stands,
Enclaspt in wanton Salmacis's hands,
Betwixt those iv'ry arms she lockt him fast,
Striving to get away, till at the last,
"Fondling," she said, "why striv'st thou to be gone?
Why shouldst thou so desire to be alone?
Thy cheek is never ‘fair’ when none is by:
For what is ‘red’ and ‘white,’ but to the eye?
And for that cause the heavens are dark at night,
Because all creatures close their weary sight; 880
For there's no mortal can so early rise,
But still the morning waits upon his eyes.
The early-rising and soon-singing lark
Can never chant her sweet notes in the dark;
For sleep she ne'er so little or so long,
Yet still the morning will attend her song.
All creatures that beneath bright Cynthia be,
Have appetite unto society;
The overflowing waves would have a bound
Within the confines of the spacious ground,
And all their shady currents would be placed
In hollow of the solitary vast
But that they loathe to let their soft streams sing
Where none can hear their gentle murmuring."
Yet still the boy, regardless what she said,
Struggled apace to overswim the maid,
Which, when the Nymph perceived, she 'gan to say,
"Struggle thou may’st, but never get away.
So grant, just gods, that never day may see
The separation twixt this boy and me!" 900
The gods did hear her pray'r and feel her woe;
And in one body they began to grow.
She felt his youthful blood in every vein;
And he felt hers warm his cold breast again.
And ever since was woman’s love so blest
That it will draw blood from the strongest breast.
Nor man nor maid now could they be esteemed:
Neither, and either, might they well be deemed,
When the young boy Hermaphroditus said,
With the set voice of neither man nor maid,
"Swift Mercury, thou author of my life,
And thou, my mother, Vulcan’s lovely wife,
Let your poor offspring’s latest breath be blest,
In but obtaining this his last request--
Grant that whoe'er heated by Phoebus’ beams,
Shall come to cool him in these silver streams,
May nevermore a manly shape retain,
But half a virgin may return again."
His parents harkened to his last request,
And with that great power they the fountain blest. 920
And since that time who in that fountain swim,
A maiden smoothness seizeth half his limbs.
FINIS.
================================================
Thomas Middleton, "Ingling Pyander." Edited from Micro-Cynicon: Sixe Snarling Satyres (London, 1599)
Age hath his infant youth, old trees their sprigs,
O’erspreading branches their inferior twigs.
Old beldame hath a daughter or a son.
True born or illegitimate, all’s one &emdash;
5 Issue she hath. The father, ask you me?
The house wide open stands, her lodging’s free.
Admit my self for recreation
Sometimes did enter her possession,
It argues not that I have been the man
10 That first kept revels in that mansion.
No, no, the haggling common place is old.
The tenement hath oft been bought and sold &emdash;
’Tis rotten now (earth to earth, dust to dust.
Sodom’s on fire, and consume it must);
15 And wanting second reparations,
Pluto hath seized the poor reversions.
But (that hereafter worlds may truly know
What hemlocks and what rue there erst did grow)
As it is Sathan’s usual policy,
20 He left an issue of like quality:
The still memorial, if I aim aright,
Is a pale, chequered, black hermaphrodite.
Sometimes he jets it like a gentleman,
Otherwhiles much like a wanton courtesan.
25 But truth to tell a man or woman whether
I cannot say she’s excellent in either.
But if report may certify a truth,
She’s neither of either, but a cheating youth.
Yet Troynovant, that all-admired town
30 Where thousands still do travel up and down,
Of beauty’s counterfeits affords not one
So like a lovely smiling paragon
As is Pyander in a nymph’s attire &emdash;
Whose rolling eye sets gazers’ hearts on fire;
35 Whose cherry lip, black brow, and smiles procure
Lust-burning buzzards to the tempting lure.
What, shall I cloak sin with a coward fear,
And suffer not Pyander’s sin appear?
I will, I will! "Your reason?" Why, I’ll tell:
40 Because time was, I loved Pyander well.
True love indeed will hate love’s black defame;
So loathes my soul to seek Pyander’s shame.
Oh, but I feel the worm of conscience sting,
And summons me, upon my soul, to bring
45 Sinful Pyander into open view,
There to receive the shame that will ensue.
Oh, this sad passion of my heavy soul
Torments my heart, and senses do control!
Shame thou, Pyander (for I can but shame) &emdash;
50 The means of my amiss by thy means came.
And shall I then procure eternal blame
By secret cloaking of Pyander’s shame,
And he not blush?
By heaven I will not! I’ll not burn in hell
55 For false Pyander, though I loved him well.
No, no, the world shall know thy villainy,
Lest they be cheated with like roguery!
Walking the city, as my wonted use,
There was I subject to this foul abuse:
60 Troubled with many thoughts, pacing along,
It was my chance to shoulder in a throng.
Thrust to the channel I was, but, crowding her,
I spied Pyander in a nymph’s attire.
No nymph more fair than did Pyander seem,
65 Had not Pyander than Pyander been.
No lady with a fairer face more graced
But that Pyander’s self himself defaced.
Never was boy so pleasing to the heart
As was Pyander for a woman’s part.
70 Never did woman foster such an other
As was Pyander but Pyander’s mother:
Fool that I was in my affection
(More happy I, had it been a vision!),
So far entangled was my soul by love,
75 That force perforce, I must Pyander prove &emdash;
The issue of which proof did testify
Ingling Pyander’s damnèd villainy!
I loved indeed, and to my mickle cost,
I loved Pyander, so my labor lost.
80 Fair words I had for store of coin I gave,
But not enjoyed the fruit I thought to have.
Oh, so I was besotted with her words &emdash;
His words, that no part of a "she" affords.
For had he been a she (injurious boy!),
85 I had not been so subject to annoy.
A plague upon such filthy gullery!
The world was ne’er so drunk with mockery!
Rash-headed cavaliers, learn to be wise &emdash;
And if you needs will do, do with advise.
90 Tie not affection to each wanton smile,
Lest doting fancy truest love beguile.
Trust not a painted puppet, as I have done,
Who far more doted than Pygmalìon.
The streets are full of juggling parasites
95 With the true shape of virgin’s counterfeits.
But if of force you must a hackney hire,
Be curious in your choice. The best will tire,
The best is bad. Therefore, hire none at all!
Better to go on foot, than ride, and fall.
(1599)
================================================
Note to the class: In preparation for our class discussion you may scan the scenes involving the Sir Toby Belch subplot, but read carefully all scenes in which the Duke, Viola, or Sebastian appear (signaled by bold print at the scene heading) --DWF
This Etext file is presented by Project Gutenberg, in cooperation with World Library, Inc., from their Library of the Future and Shakespeare CDROMS. It may not be sold or used for profit.
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
by William Shakespeare
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ORSINO, Duke of Illyria
SEBASTIAN, brother of Viola
ANTONIO, a sea captain, friend of Sebastian
A SEA CAPTAIN, friend of Viola
VALENTINE, gentleman attending on the Duke
CURIO, gentleman attending on the Duke
SIR TOBY BELCH, uncle of Olivia
SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK
MALVOLIO, steward to Olivia
FABIAN, servant to Olivia
FESTE, a clown, servant to Olivia
OLIVIA, a rich countess
VIOLA, sister of Sebastian
MARIA, Olivia's waiting woman
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and Attendants
SCENE:
A city in Illyria; and the sea-coast near it
ACT I. SCENE I.
The DUKE'S palace
Enter ORSINO, Duke of Illyria, CURIO, and other 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 sound
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 soe'er,
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.
Enter VALENTINE
How now! what news from her?
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 flow'rs:
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs.
Exeunt
SCENE II.
The sea-coast
Enter VIOLA, a 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 saved.
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 saved 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 abjur'd the company
And sight of men.
VIOLA. O that I serv'd 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 prithee, 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
SCENE III.
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 Aguecheek?
MARIA. Ay, he.
SIR TOBY. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
MARIA. What's that to th' 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. Fie that you'll say so! He plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys,
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 coystrill that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.
Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK
AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch!
SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew!
AGUECHEEK. Bless you, fair shrew.
MARIA. And you too, sir.
SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
AGUECHEEK. What's that?
SIR TOBY. My niece's chambermaid.
AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
MARIA. My name is Mary, sir.
AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Mary Accost-
SIR Toby. You mistake, knight. 'Accost' is front her, board her,
woo her, assail her.
AGUECHEEK. 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!
AGUECHEEK. 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 th' hand.
AGUECHEEK. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to
th' buttry-bar and let it drink.
AGUECHEEK. Wherefore, sweetheart? What's your metaphor?
MARIA. It's dry, sir.
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. 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?
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY. Pourquoi, my dear knight?
AGUECHEEK. What is 'pourquoi'- 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.
AGUECHEEK. Why, would that have mended my hair?
SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.
AGUECHEEK. 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 huswife take thee between her legs and spin it off.
AGUECHEEK. 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' th' 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.
AGUECHEEK. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' th' strangest
mind i' th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes
altogether.
SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?
AGUECHEEK. 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?
AGUECHEEK. Faith, I can cut a caper.
SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to't.
AGUECHEEK. 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 'em? 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 form'd under the
star of a galliard.
AGUECHEEK. 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?
AGUECHEEK. Taurus? That's sides and heart.
SIR TOBY. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper. Ha,
higher! Ha, ha, excellent! Exeunt
SCENE IV.
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 advanc'd; 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's 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.
SCENE V.
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 hang'd 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 hang'd for being so long absent; or to be
turn'd 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 resolv'd 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, 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.' God bless
thee, lady!
OLIVIA. Take the fool away.
CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
OLIVIA. Go to, y'are 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 patch'd; virtue that transgresses is but
patch'd with sin, and sin that amends is but patch'd 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 as 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, 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 gagg'd. 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
distemper'd 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 allow'd 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 speak'st 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
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. [Hiccups] A plague o' these
pickle-herring! 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 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.
OLIVIA. Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz;
for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd; go look
after him.
CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna, and the fool shall look to the
madman. Exit
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 to a bench, but he'll
speak with you.
OLIVIA. What kind o' 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 in standing water, between boy and
man. He is very well-favour'd, 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 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.
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 allow'd 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 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 appear'd in me have I learn'd from my
entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as
maidenhead- to your cars, divinity; to any other's, profanation.
OLIVIA. Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.
[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS] 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. [Unveiling] Look you, sir, such a one I
was this present. Is't not well done?
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 cruell'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 labell'd 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 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.
VIOLA. If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suff'ring, 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;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hals,
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
Plac'd 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
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 call'd Roderigo; 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 pleas'd, would we had so ended! But you, sir, alter'd that;
for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drown'd.
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 drown'd 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 recover'd-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
SCENE II.
A street
Enter VIOLA and MALVOLIO at several doors
MALVOLIO. Were you not ev'n now with the Countess Olivia?
VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arriv'd 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 return'd. 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 t' untie! Exit
SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S house
Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW
SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be abed after midnight is to
be up betimes; and 'diluculo surgere' thou know'st-
AGUECHEEK. 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 unfill'd 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?
AGUECHEEK. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of
eating and drinking.
SIR TOBY. Th'art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
Marian, I say! a stoup of wine.
Enter CLOWN
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. 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 spok'st 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.
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
CLOWN 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.
AGUECHEEK. Excellent good, i' faith!
SIR TOBY. Good, good!
CLOWN sings
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.
AGUECHEEK. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
SIR TOBY. A contagious breath.
AGUECHEEK. 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?
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. '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.
AGUECHEEK. Good, i' faith! Come, begin. [Catch sung]
Enter MARIA
MARIA. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not
call'd 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 [Sings]
Three merry men be we.
Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally,
lady. [Sings]
There dwelt a man in Babylon,
Lady, lady.
CLOWN. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
AGUECHEEK. Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos'd, and so do I
too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
SIR TOBY. [Sings] 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 kins-man, she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would
please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
farewell.
SIR TOBY. [Sings] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.
MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby.
CLOWN. [Sings] His eyes do show his days are almost done.
MALVOLIO. Is't even so?
SIR TOBY. [Sings] But I will never die. [Falls down]
CLOWN. [Sings] Sir Toby, there you lie.
MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you.
SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go?
CLOWN. [Sings] What an if you do?
SIR TOBY. [Sings] Shall I bid him go, and spare not?
CLOWN. [Sings] O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.
SIR TOBY. [Rising] 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' th' mouth
too.
SIR TOBY. Th' art i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs.
A stoup of wine, Maria!
MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd 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.
AGUECHEEK. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's ahungry,
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.
AGUECHEEK. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear
knight?
AGUECHEEK. 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 affection'd ass that cons state without book and
utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
cramm'd, as he thinks, with excellencies 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 forgotten matter we
can hardly make distinction of our hands.
SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device.
AGUECHEEK. 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's in love with him.
MARIA. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
AGUECHEEK. And your horse now would make him an ass.
MARIA. Ass, I doubt not.
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. Before me, she's a good wench.
SIR TOBY. She's a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me.
What o' that?
AGUECHEEK. I was ador'd once too.
SIR TOBY. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more
money.
AGUECHEEK. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end,
call me Cut.
AGUECHEEK. 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
SCENE IV.
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 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 belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?
VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is thron'd.
DUKE. 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. 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 flow'r
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; prithee, sing. [Music]
FESTE'S 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 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. 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 lov'd 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' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd 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
SCENE V.
OLIVIA'S garden
Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, 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
boil'd 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?
AGUECHEEK. And we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter MARIA
SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain.
How now, my metal 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! [As the men hide she drops
a letter] Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be
caught with tickling.
Exit
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 advanc'd plumes!
AGUECHEEK. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue-
SIR TOBY. Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio!
SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue!
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. 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 branch'd 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 my- some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies 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'-
AGUECHEEK. That's me, I warrant you.
MALVOLIO. 'One Sir Andrew.'
AGUECHEEK. 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.
AGUECHEEK. Her C's, her U's, and her T's. Why that?
MALVOLIO. [Reads] 'To the unknown belov'd, 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. [Reads]
'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 o' poison has she dress'd him!
SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel 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.
[Reads]
'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 'em.
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
wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I say, remember, Go to,
thou art made, if thou desir'st 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 champain 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-devise 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-garter'd; 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-garter'd, even with the swiftness of
putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a
postscript.
[Reads] 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertain'st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles
become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my
sweet, I prithee.'
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.
AGUECHEEK. So could I too.
SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
Enter MARIA
AGUECHEEK. Nor I neither.
FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
AGUECHEEK. Or o' mine either?
SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy
bond-slave?
AGUECHEEK. 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-vita! with a midwife.
AIARIA. 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-garter'd, 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!
AGUECHEEK. I'll make one too. Exeunt
ACT III. SCENE I.
OLIVIA'S garden
Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor
VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music!
Dost thou live by thy tabor?
CLOWN. No, sir, I live by the church.
VIOLA. Art thou a churchman?
CLOWN. No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live
at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
VIOLA. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar
dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor
stand by the church.
CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a
chev'ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be
turn'd outward!
VIOLA. Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may
quickly make them wanton.
CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had name, sir.
VIOLA. Why, man?
CLOWN. Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word
might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals
since bonds disgrac'd them.
VIOLA. Thy reason, man?
CLOWN. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words
are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.
VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow and car'st for nothing.
CLOWN. Not so, sir; I do care for something; but in my conscience,
sir, I do not care for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir,
I would it would make you invisible.
VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
CLOWN. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly; she will keep
no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands
as pilchers are to herrings- the husband's the bigger. I am
indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.
CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun- it
shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be
as oft with your master as with my mistress: think I saw your
wisdom there.
VIOLA. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.
Hold, there's expenses for thee. [Giving a coin]
CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send the a beard!
VIOLA. By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one;
[Aside] though I would not have it grow on my chin.- Is thy lady
within?
CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
VIOLA. Yes, being kept together and put to use.
CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
Cressida to this Troilus.
VIOLA. I understand you, sir; 'tis well begg'd.
[Giving another coin]
CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar:
Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to
them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of
my welkin- I might say 'element' but the word is overworn.
Exit CLOWN
VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well craves a kind of wit.
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art;
For folly that he wisely shows is fit;
But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.
Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW
SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman!
VIOLA. And you, sir.
AGUECHEEK. Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
VIOLA. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
AGUECHEEK. I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.
SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you
should enter, if your trade be to her.
VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my
voyage.
SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what
you mean by bidding me taste my legs.
SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are
prevented.
Enter OLIVIA and MARIA
Most excellent accomplish'd lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
AGUECHEEK. That youth's a rare courtier- 'Rain odours' well!
VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant
and vouchsafed car.
AGUECHEEK. 'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed'- I'll get 'em all
three all ready.
OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.
[Exeunt all but OLIVIA and VIOLA] Give me your hand, sir.
VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service.
OLIVIA. What is your name?
VIOLA. Cesario is your servant's name, fair Princess.
OLIVIA. My servant, sir! 'Twas never merry world
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment.
Y'are servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him; for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks rather than fill'd with me!
VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf.
OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you:
I bade you never speak again of him;
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.
VIOLA. Dear lady-
OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you in a shameful cunning
Which you knew none of yours. What might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all th' unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown: a cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.
VIOLA. I Pity YOU.
OLIVIA. That's a degree to love.
VIOLA. No, not a grize; for 'tis a vulgar proof
That very oft we pity enemies.
OLIVIA. Why, then, methinks 'tis time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes]
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth; I will not have you;
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due west.
VIOLA. Then westward-ho!
Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
OLIVIA. Stay.
I prithee tell me what thou think'st of me.
VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are.
OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you.
VIOLA. Then think you right: I am not what I am.
OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be!
VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
OLIVIA. O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
VIOLA. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
OLIVIA. Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart which now abhors to like his love. Exeunt
SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S house
Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW and FABIAN
AGUECHEEK. No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
SIR TOBY. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
FABIAN. You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
AGUECHEEK. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the
Count's
servingman than ever she bestow'd upon me; I saw't i' th'
orchard.
SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that.
AGUECHEEK. As plain as I see you now.
FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
AGUECHEEK. 'Slight! will you make an ass o' me?
FABIAN. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment
and reason.
SIR TOBY. And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a
sailor.
FABIAN. She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to
exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in
your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have
accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the
mint, you should have bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was
look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd. The double gilt of
this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sail'd
into the north of my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an
icicle on Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some
laudable attempt either of valour or policy.
AGUECHEEK. An't be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I
hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.
SIR TOBY. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of
valour. Challenge me the Count's youth to fight with him; hurt
him in eleven places. My niece shall take note of it; and assure
thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in
man's commendation with woman than report of valour.
FABIAN. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
AGUECHEEK. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
SIR TOBY. Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is
no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention.
Taunt him with the license of ink; if thou thou'st him some
thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in
thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down; go about it. Let there be
gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no
matter. About it.
AGUECHEEK. Where shall I find you?
SIR TOBY. We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
Exit SIR ANDREW
FABIAN. This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY. I have been dear to him, lad- some two thousand strong,
or so.
FABIAN. We shall have a rare letter from him; but you'll not
deliver't?
SIR TOBY. Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth
to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them
together. For Andrew, if he were open'd and you find so much
blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the
rest of th' anatomy.
FABIAN. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great
presage of cruelty.
Enter MARIA
SIR TOBY. Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.
MARIA. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian that means to be saved by
believing rightly can ever believe such impossible passages of
grossness. He's in yellow stockings.
SIR TOBY. And cross-garter'd?
MARIA. Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' th'
church. I have dogg'd him like his murderer. He does obey every
point of the letter that I dropp'd to betray him. He does smile
his face into more lines than is in the new map with the
augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as
'tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady
will strike him; if she do, he'll smile and take't for a great
favour.
SIR TOBY. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. Exeunt
SCENE III.
A street
Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO
SEBASTIAN. I would not by my will have troubled you;
But since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
ANTONIO. I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you- though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage-
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.
SEBASTIAN. My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns
Are shuffl'd off with such uncurrent pay;
But were my worth as is my conscience firm,
You should find better dealing. What's to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
ANTONIO. To-morrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.
SEBASTIAN. I am not weary, and 'tis long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.
ANTONIO. Would you'd pardon me.
I do not without danger walk these streets:
Once in a sea-fight 'gainst the Count his galleys
I did some service; of such note, indeed,
That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answer'd.
SEBASTIAN. Belike you slew great number of his people.
ANTONIO.Th' offence is not of such a bloody nature;
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answer'd in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,
Most of our city did. Only myself stood out;
For which, if I be lapsed in this place,
I shall pay dear.
SEBASTIAN. Do not then walk too open.
ANTONIO. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse;
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.
SEBASTIAN. Why I your purse?
ANTONIO. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
SEBASTIAN. I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for
An hour.
ANTONIO. To th' Elephant.
SEBASTIAN. I do remember. Exeunt
SCENE IV.
OLIVIA'S garden
Enter OLIVIA and MARIA
OLIVIA. I have sent after him; he says he'll come.
How shall I feast him? What bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.
I speak too loud.
Where's Malvolio? He is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.
Where is Malvolio?
MARIA. He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner.
He is sure possess'd, madam.
OLIVIA. Why, what's the matter? Does he rave?
MARIA. No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your ladyship were
best to have some guard about you if he come; for sure the man is
tainted in's wits.
OLIVIA. Go call him hither. Exit MARIA
I am as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.
Re-enter MARIA with MALVOLIO
How now, Malvolio!
MALVOLIO. Sweet lady, ho, ho.
OLIVIA. Smil'st thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
MALVOLIO. Sad, lady? I could be sad. This does make some
obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering; but what of that?
If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true
sonnet is: 'Please one and please all.'
OLIVIA. Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee?
MALVOLIO. Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.
It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed.
I think we do know the sweet Roman hand.
OLIVIA. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO. To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I'll come to thee.
OLIVIA. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand
so oft?
MARIA. How do you, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO. At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws!
MARIA. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
MALVOLIO. 'Be not afraid of greatness.' 'Twas well writ.
OLIVIA. What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio?
AIALVOLIO. 'Some are born great,'-
OLIVIA. Ha?
MALVOLIO. 'Some achieve greatness,'-
OLIVIA. What say'st thou?
MALVOLIO. 'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'
OLIVIA. Heaven restore thee!
MALVOLIO. 'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings,'-
OLIVIA. 'Thy yellow stockings?'
MALVOLIO. 'And wish'd to see thee cross-garterd.'
OLIVIA. 'Cross-garter'd?'
MALVOLIO. 'Go to, thou an made, if thou desir'st to be so';-
OLIVIA. Am I made?
MALVOLIO. 'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'
OLIVIA. Why, this is very midsummer madness.
Enter SERVANT
SERVANT. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is
return'd; I could hardly entreat him back; he attends your
ladyship's pleasure.
OLIVIA. I'll come to him. [Exit SERVANT] Good Maria, let this
fellow be look'd to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of my
people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry
for the half of my dowry.
Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA
MALVOLIO. O, ho! do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir
Toby to look to me! This concurs directly with the letter: she
sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she
incites me to that in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says
she. 'Be opposite with kinsman, surly with servants; let thy
tongue tang with arguments of state; put thyself into the trick
of singularity' and consequently sets down the manner how, as: a
sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of
some sir of note, and so forth. I have lim'd her; but it is
Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away
now- 'Let this fellow be look'd to.' 'Fellow,' not 'Malvolio' nor
after my degree, but 'fellow.' Why, everything adheres together,
that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle,
no incredulous or unsafe circumstance- What can be said?
Nothing
that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my
hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be
thanked.
Re-enter MARIA, with SIR TOBY and FABIAN
SIR TOBY. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the
devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possess'd
him, yet I'll speak to him.
FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir?
SIR TOBY. How is't with you, man?
MALVOLIO. Go off; I discard you. Let me enjoy my private; go off.
MARIA. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! Did not I tell
you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.
MALVOLIO. Ah, ha! does she so?
SIR TOBY. Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently with him.
Let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? How is't with you? What, man,
defy the devil; consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
MALVOLIO. Do you know what you say?
MARIA. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at
heart! Pray God he be not bewitched.
FABIAN. Carry his water to th' wise woman.
MARIA. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I live. My
lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.
MALVOLIO. How now, mistress!
MARIA. O Lord!
SIR TOBY. Prithee hold thy peace; this is not the way. Do you not
see you move him? Let me alone with him.
FABIAN. No way but gentleness- gently, gently. The fiend is rough,
and will not be roughly us'd.
SIR TOBY. Why, how now, my bawcock!
How dost thou, chuck?
MALVOLIO. Sir!
SIR TOBY. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man, 'tis not for gravity
to play at cherrypit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!
MARIA. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.
MALVOLIO. My prayers, minx!
MARIA. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.
MALVOLIO. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle shallow things; I
am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter.
Exit
SIR TOBY. Is't possible?
FABIAN. If this were play'd upon a stage now, I could condemn it as
an improbable fiction.
SIR TOBY. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device,
man.
MARIA. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.
FABIAN. Why, we shall make him mad indeed.
MARIA. The house will be the quieter.
SIR TOBY. Come, we'll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece
is already in the belief that he's mad. We may carry it thus, for
our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of
breath, prompt us to have mercy on him; at which time we will
bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a finder of
madmen. But see, but see.
Enter SIR ANDREW
FABIAN. More matter for a May morning.
AGUECHEEK. Here's the challenge; read it. I warrant there's vinegar
and pepper in't.
FABIAN. Is't so saucy?
AGUECHEEK. Ay, is't, I warrant him; do but read.
SIR TOBY. Give me. [Reads] 'Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art
but a scurvy fellow.'
FABIAN. Good and valiant.
SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do
call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for't.'
FABIAN. A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'Thou com'st to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight
she uses thee kindly; but thou liest in thy throat; that is not
the matter I challenge thee for.'
FABIAN. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense- less.
SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'I will waylay thee going home; where if it be
thy chance to kill me'-
FABIAN. Good.
SIR TOBY. 'Thou kill'st me like a rogue and a villain.'
FABIAN. Still you keep o' th' windy side of the law. Good!
SIR TOBY. [Reads] 'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of
our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better,
and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy
sworn enemy,
ANDREW AGUECHEEK.'
If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. I'll give't him.
MARIA. You may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some
commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.
SIR TOBY. Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the
orchard, like a bum-baily; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw;
and as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft
that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd
off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would
have earn'd him. Away.
AGUECHEEK. Nay, let me alone for swearing. Exit
SIR TOBY. Now will not I deliver his letter; for the behaviour of
the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and
breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms
no less. Therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant,
will breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes from a
clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of
mouth, set upon Aguecheek notable report of valour, and drive the
gentleman- as know his youth will aptly receive it- into a most
hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity.
This
will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the
look, like cockatrices.
Re-enter OLIVIA. With VIOLA
FABIAN. Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take
leave, and presently after him.
SIR TOBY. I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
challenge.
Exeunt SIR TOBY, FABIAN, and MARIA
OLIVIA. I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary out;
There's something in me that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is
That it but mocks reproof.
VIOLA. With the same haviour that your passion bears
Goes on my master's griefs.
OLIVIA. Here, wear this jewel for me; 'tis my picture.
Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you.
And I beseech you come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me that I'll deny,
That honour sav'd may upon asking give?
VIOLA. Nothing but this- your true love for my master.
OLIVIA. How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
VIOLA. I will acquit you.
OLIVIA. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well;
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. Exit
Re-enter SIR TOBY and SIR FABIAN
SIR TOBY. Gentleman, God save thee.
VIOLA. And you, sir.
SIR TOBY. That defence thou hast, betake thee tot. Of what nature
the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy
intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends
thee at the orchard end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy
preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly.
VIOLA. You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me;
my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence
done to any man.
SIR TOBY. You'll find it otherwise, I assure you; therefore, if you
hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your
opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can
furnish man withal.
VIOLA. I pray you, sir, what is he?
SIR TOBY. He is knight, dubb'd with unhatch'd rapier and on carpet
consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and
bodies hath he divorc'd three; and his incensement at this moment
is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of
death and sepulchre. Hob-nob is his word- give't or take't.
VIOLA. I will return again into the house and desire some conduct
of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men
that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour;
belike this is a man of that quirk.
SIR TOBY. Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very
competent injury; therefore, get you on and give him his desire.
Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with
me which with as much safety you might answer him; therefore on,
or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that's
certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.
VIOLA. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you do me this
courteous office as to know of the knight what my offence to him
is: it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
SIR TOBY. I Will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman
till my return. Exit SIR TOBY
VIOLA. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
FABIAN. I know the knight is incens'd against you, even to a mortal
arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
VIOLA. I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
FABIAN. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form,
as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is
indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that
you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you
walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can.
VIOLA. I shall be much bound to you for't. I am one that would
rather go with sir priest than sir knight. I care not who knows
so much of my mettle. Exeunt
Re-enter SIR TOBY With SIR ANDREW
SIR TOBY. Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a
firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he
gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion that it is
inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet
hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the
Sophy.
AGUECHEEK. Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.
SIR TOBY. Ay, but he will not now be pacified; Fabian can scarce
hold him yonder.
AGUECHEEK. Plague on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so
cunning in fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I'd have
challeng'd him. Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him
my horse, grey Capilet.
SIR TOBY. I'll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on't;
this shall end without the perdition of souls. [Aside] Marry,
I'll ride your horse as well as I ride you.
Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA
[To FABIAN] I have his horse to take up the quarrel; I have
persuaded him the youth's a devil.
FABIAN. [To SIR TOBY] He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants
and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels.
SIR TOBY. [To VIOLA] There's no remedy, sir: he will fight with you
for's oath sake. Marry, he hath better bethought him of his
quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of.
Therefore draw for the supportance of his vow; he protests he
will not hurt you.
VIOLA. [Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me
tell them how much I lack of a man.
FABIAN. Give ground if you see him furious.
SIR TOBY. Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will,
for his honour's sake, have one bout with you; he cannot by the
duello avoid it; but he has promis'd me, as he is a gentleman and
a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to't.
AGUECHEEK. Pray God he keep his oath! [They draw]
Enter ANTONIO
VIOLA. I do assure you 'tis against my will.
ANTONIO. Put up your sword. If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me:
If you offend him, I for him defy you.
SIR TOBY. You, sir! Why, what are you?
ANTONIO. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
SIR TOBY. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
[They draw]
Enter OFFICERS
FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers.
SIR TOBY. [To ANTONIO] I'll be with you anon.
VIOLA. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.
AGUECHEEK. Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promis'd you, I'll be
as good as my word. He will bear you easily and reins well.
FIRST OFFICER. This is the man; do thy office.
SECOND OFFICER. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino.
ANTONIO. You do mistake me, sir.
FIRST OFFICER. No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.
Take him away; he knows I know him well.
ANTONIO. I Must obey. [To VIOLA] This comes with seeking you;
But there's no remedy; I shall answer it.
What will you do, now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you
Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz'd;
But be of comfort.
SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, away.
ANTONIO. I must entreat of you some of that money.
VIOLA. What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have show'd me here,
And part being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I'll lend you something. My having is not much;
I'll make division of my present with you;
Hold, there's half my coffer.
ANTONIO. Will you deny me now?
Is't possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
VIOLA. I know of none,
Nor know I you by voice or any feature.
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.
ANTONIO. O heavens themselves!
SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, I pray you go.
ANTONIO. Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death,
Reliev'd him with such sanctity of love,
And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
FIRST OFFICER. What's that to us? The time goes by; away.
ANTONIO. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god!
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there's no blemish but the mind:
None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind.
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.
FIRST OFFICER. The man grows mad. Away with him.
Come, come, sir.
ANTONIO. Lead me on. Exit with OFFICERS
VIOLA. Methinks his words do from such passion fly
That he believes himself; so do not I.
Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!
SIR TOBY. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian; we'll whisper
o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.
VIOLA. He nam'd Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such and so
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! Exit
SIR TOBY. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a
hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in
necessity and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask
Fabian.
FABIAN. A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
AGUECHEEK. 'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.
SIR TOBY. Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.
AGUECHEEK. And I do not- Exit
FABIAN. Come, let's see the event.
SIR TOBY. I dare lay any money 'twill be nothing yet.
Exeunt
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Before OLIVIA'S house
Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN
CLOWN. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
SEBASTIAN. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; let me be clear
of thee.
CLOWN. Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not
sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your
name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither.
Nothing that is so is so.
SEBASTIAN. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else.
Thou know'st not me.
CLOWN. Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and
now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great
lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird
thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall
I vent to her that thou art coming?
SEBASTIAN. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me;
There's money for thee; if you tarry longer
I shall give worse payment.
CLOWN. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that
give fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen
years' purchase.
Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN
AGUECHEEK. Now, sir, have I met you again?
[Striking SEBASTIAN] There's for you.
SEBASTIAN. Why, there's for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad?
SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
[Holding SEBASTIAN]
CLOWN. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of
your coats for two-pence. Exit
SIR TOBY. Come on, sir; hold.
AGUECHEEK. Nay, let him alone. I'll go another way to work with
him; I'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any
law in Illyria; though I struck him first, yet it's no matter for
that.
SEBASTIAN. Let go thy hand.
SIR TOBY. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier,
put up your iron; you are well flesh'd. Come on.
SEBASTIAN. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?
If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword. [Draws]
SIR TOBY. What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this
malapert blood from you. [Draws]
Enter OLIVIA
OLIVIA. Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee hold.
SIR TOBY. Madam!
OLIVIA. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! Out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario-
Rudesby, be gone!
Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN
I prithee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me!
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
SEBASTIAN. What relish is in this? How runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
OLIVIA. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou'dst be rul'd by me!
SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will.
OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be! Exeunt
SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S house
Enter MARIA and CLOWN
MARIA. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him
believe thou art Sir Topas the curate; do it quickly. I'll call
Sir Toby the whilst. Exit
CLOWN. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in't; and
I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I
am not tall enough to become the function well nor lean enough to
be thought a good student; but to be said an honest man and a
good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a careful man and a
great scholar. The competitors enter.
Enter SIR TOBY and MARIA
SIR TOBY. Jove bless thee, Master Parson.
CLOWN. Bonos dies, Sir Toby; for as the old hermit of Prague, that
never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to niece of King
Gorboduc 'That that is is'; so I, being Master Parson, am
Master
Parson; for what is 'that' but that, and 'is' but is?
SIR TOBY. To him, Sir Topas.
CLOWN. What ho, I say! Peace in this prison!
SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
MALVOLIO. [Within] Who calls there?
CLOWN. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the
lunatic.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
CLOWN. Out, hyperbolical fiend! How vexest thou this man!
Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
SIR TOBY. Well said, Master Parson.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas,
do not think I am mad; they have laid me here in hideous darkness.
CLOWN. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest
terms, for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil
himself with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark?
MALVOLIO. As hell, Sir Topas.
CLOWN. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the
clerestories toward the south north are as lustrous as ebony; and
yet complainest thou of obstruction?
MALVOLIO. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark.
CLOWN. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but
ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in
their fog.
MALVOLIO. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though
ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man
thus abus'd. I am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it
in any constant question.
CLOWN. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?
MALVOLIO. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
CLOWN. What think'st thou of his opinion?
MALVOLIO. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his
opinion.
CLOWN. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt
hold th' opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits; and
fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy
grandam. Fare thee well.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas!
SIR TOBY. My most exquisite Sir Topas!
CLOWN. Nay, I am for all waters.
MARIA. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown: he
sees thee not.
SIR TOBY. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou
find'st him. I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may
be conveniently deliver'd, I would he were; for I am now so far
in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety
this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.
Exit with MARIA
CLOWN. [Sings] Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.
MALVOLIO. Fool!
CLOWN. [Sings] My lady is unkind, perdy.
MALVOLIO. Fool!
CLOWN. [Sings] Alas, why is she so?
MALVOLIO. Fool I say!
CLOWN. [Sings] She loves another- Who calls, ha?
MALVOLIO. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand,
help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a
gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for't.
CLOWN. Master Malvolio?
MALVOLIO. Ay, good fool.
CLOWN. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
MALVOLIO. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abus'd;
I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art.
CLOWN. But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in
your wits than a fool.
MALVOLIO. They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send
ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my
wits.
CLOWN. Advise you what. you say: the minister is here.
[Speaking as SIR TOPAS] Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore!
Endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble.
MALVOLIO. Sir Topas!
CLOWN. Maintain no words with him, good fellow.- Who, I, sir?
Not I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas.- Marry, amen.- I will sir, I
will.
MALVOLIO. Fool, fool, fool, I say!
CLOWN. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for
speaking to you.
MALVOLIO. Good fool, help me to some light and some paper.
I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.
CLOWN. Well-a-day that you were, sir!
MALVOLIO. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and
light; and convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall
advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did.
CLOWN. I will help you to't. But tell me true, are you not mad
indeed, or do you but counterfeit?
MALVOLIO. Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.
CLOWN. Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains.
I will fetch you light and paper and ink.
MALVOLIO. Fool, I'll requite it in the highest degree; I prithe be
gone.
CLOWN. [Singing]
I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I'll be with you again,
In a trice,
Like to the old Vice,
Your need to sustain;
Who with dagger of lath,
In his rage and his wrath,
Cries, Ah, ha! to the devil,
Like a mad lad,
Pare thy nails, dad.
Adieu, goodman devil. Exit
SCENE III.
OLIVIA'S garden
Enter SEBASTIAN
SEBASTIAN. This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel't and see't;
And though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 'tis not madness. Where's Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant;
Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service;
For though my soul disputes well with my sense
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad,
Or else the lady's mad; yet if 'twere so,
She could not sway her house, command her followers,
Take and give back affairs and their dispatch
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As I perceive she does. There's something in't
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.
Enter OLIVIA and PRIEST
OLIVIA. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by; there, before him
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the fun assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth. What do you say?
SEBASTIAN. I'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine
That they may fairly note this act of mine! Exeunt
ACT V. SCENE I.
Before OLIVIA's house
Enter CLOWN and FABIAN
FABIAN. Now, as thou lov'st me, let me see his letter.
CLOWN. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.
FABIAN. Anything.
CLOWN. Do not desire to see this letter.
FABIAN. This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog
again.
Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and LORDS
DUKE. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
CLOWN. Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings.
DUKE. I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow?
CLOWN. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my
friends.
DUKE. Just the contrary: the better for thy friends.
CLOWN. No, sir, the worse.
DUKE. How can that be?
CLOWN. Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me. Now my
foes tell me plainly I am an ass; so that by my foes, sir, I
profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused;
so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make
your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and
the better for my foes.
DUKE. Why, this is excellent.
CLOWN. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my
friends.
DUKE. Thou shalt not be the worse for me. There's gold.
CLOWN. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could
make it another.
DUKE. O, you give me ill counsel.
CLOWN. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let
your flesh and blood obey it.
DUKE. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer.
There's another.
CLOWN. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying
is 'The third pays for all.' The triplex, sir, is a good tripping
measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind-
one, two, three.
DUKE. You can fool no more money out of me at this throw; if you
will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring
her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.
CLOWN. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go,
sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having
is the sin of covetousness. But, as you say, sir, let your bounty
take a nap; I will awake it anon. Exit
Enter ANTONIO and OFFICERS
VIOLA. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
DUKE. That face of his I do remember well;
Yet when I saw it last it was besmear'd
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.
A baubling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable,
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet
That very envy and the tongue of los
Cried fame and honour on him. What's the matter?
FIRST OFFICER. Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy;
And this is he that did the Tiger board
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.
VIOLA. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;
But in conclusion put strange speech upon me.
I know not what 'twas but distraction.
DUKE. Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief!
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies?
ANTONIO. Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleas'd that I shake off these names you give me:
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,
Though I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there by your side
From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was.
His life I gave him, and did thereto ad
My love without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication; for his sake,
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him when he was beset;
Where being apprehended, his false cunning,
Not meaning to partake with me in danger,
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
And grew a twenty years removed thing
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,
Which I had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.
VIOLA. How can this be?
DUKE. When came he to this town?
ANTONIO. To-day, my lord; and for three months before,
No int'rim, not a minute's vacancy,
Both day and night did we keep company.
Enter OLIVIA and ATTENDANTS
DUKE. Here comes the Countess; now heaven walks on earth.
But for thee, fellow- fellow, thy words are madness.
Three months this youth hath tended upon me-
But more of that anon. Take him aside.
OLIVIA. What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
VIOLA. Madam?
DUKE. Gracious Olivia-
OLIVIA. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord-
VIOLA. My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
OLIVIA. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.
DUKE. Still so cruel?
OLIVIA. Still so constant, lord.
DUKE. What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull'st off'rings hath breath'd out
That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?
OLIVIA. Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.
DUKE. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love?- a savage jealousy
That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this:
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still;
But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crowned in his master's spite.
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief:
I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love
To spite a raven's heart within a dove.
VIOLA. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
OLIVIA. Where goes Cesario?
VIOLA. After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above
Punish my life for tainting of my love!
OLIVIA. Ay me, detested! How am I beguil'd!
VIOLA. Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong?
OLIVIA. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?
Call forth the holy father. Exit an ATTENDANT
DUKE. Come, away!
OLIVIA. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.
DUKE. Husband?
OLIVIA. Ay, husband; can he that deny?
DUKE. Her husband, sirrah?
VIOLA. No, my lord, not I.
OLIVIA. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear
That makes thee strangle thy propriety.
Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up;
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear'st.
Enter PRIEST
O, welcome, father!
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,
Here to unfold- though lately we intended
To keep in darkness what occasion now
Reveals before 'tis ripe- what thou dost know
Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me.
PRIEST. A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strength'ned by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony;
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave,
I have travell'd but two hours.
DUKE. O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be,
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
VIOLA. My lord, I do protest-
OLIVIA. O, do not swear!
Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.
Enter SIR ANDREW
AGUECHEEK. For the love of God, a surgeon!
Send one presently to Sir Toby.
OLIVIA. What's the matter?
AGUECHEEK. Has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a
bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help! I had rather
than forty pound I were at home.
OLIVIA. Who has done this, Sir Andrew?
AGUECHEEK. The Count's gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a
coward, but he's the very devil incardinate.
DUKE. My gentleman, Cesario?
AGUECHEEK. Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for
nothing; and that that did, I was set on to do't by Sir Toby.
VIOLA. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you.
You drew your sword upon me without cause;
But I bespake you fair and hurt you not.
Enter SIR TOBY and CLOWN
AGUECHEEK. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me; I think
you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting;
you shall hear more; but if he had not been in drink, he would
have tickl'd you othergates than he did.
DUKE. How now, gentleman? How is't with you?
SIR TOBY. That's all one; has hurt me, and there's th' end on't.
Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot?
CLOWN. O, he's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at
eight i' th' morning.
SIR TOBY. Then he's a rogue and a passy measures pavin. I hate a
drunken rogue.
OLIVIA. Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them?
AGUECHEEK. I'll help you, Sir Toby, because we'll be dress'd
together.
SIR TOBY. Will you help- an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave, a
thin fac'd knave, a gull?
OLIVIA. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to.
Exeunt CLOWN, FABIAN, SIR TOBY, and SIR ANDREW
Enter SEBASTIAN
SEBASTIAN. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;
But, had it been the brother of my blood,
I must have done no less with wit and safety.
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you.
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
DUKE. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!
A natural perspective, that is and is not.
SEBASTIAN. Antonio, O my dear Antonio!
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me
Since I have lost thee!
ANTONIO. Sebastian are you?
SEBASTIAN. Fear'st thou that, Antonio?
ANTONIO. How have you made division of yourself?
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?
OLIVIA. Most wonderful!
SEBASTIAN. Do I stand there? I never had a brother;
Nor can there be that deity in my nature
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister
Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd.
Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What countryman, what name, what parentage?
VIOLA. Of Messaline; Sebastian was my father.
Such a Sebastian was my brother too;
So went he suited to his watery tomb;
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.
SEBASTIAN. A spirit I am indeed,
But am in that dimension grossly clad
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,
And say 'Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!'
VIOLA. My father had a mole upon his brow.
SEBASTIAN. And so had mine.
VIOLA. And died that day when Viola from her birth
Had numb'red thirteen years.
SEBASTIAN. O, that record is lively in my soul!
He finished indeed his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years.
VIOLA. If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurp'd attire,
Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola; which to confirm,
I'll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserv'd to serve this noble Count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
SEBASTIAN. [To OLIVIA] So Comes it, lady, you have been mistook;
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid;
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv'd;
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.
DUKE. Be not amaz'd; right noble is his blood.
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck.
[To VIOLA] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
VIOLA. And all those sayings will I overswear;
And all those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbed continent the fire
That severs day from night.
DUKE. Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.
VIOLA. The captain that did bring me first on shore
Hath my maid's garments. He, upon some action,
Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit,
A gentleman and follower of my lady's.
OLIVIA. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither;
And yet, alas, now I remember me,
They say, poor gentleman, he's much distract.
Re-enter CLOWN, with a letter, and FABIAN
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banish'd his.
How does he, sirrah?
CLOWN. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave's end as well
as a man in his case may do. Has here writ a letter to you; I
should have given 't you to-day morning, but as a madman's
epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are
deliver'd.
OLIVIA. Open't, and read it.
CLOWN. Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the
madman. [Reads madly ] 'By the Lord, madam-'
OLIVIA. How now! Art thou mad?
CLOWN. No, madam, I do but read madness. An your ladyship will have
it as it ought to be, you must allow vox.
OLIVIA. Prithee read i' thy right wits.
CLOWN. So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read
thus; therefore perpend, my Princess, and give ear.
OLIVIA. [To FABIAN] Read it you, sirrah.
FABIAN. [Reads] 'By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world
shall know it. Though you have put me into darkness and given
your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my
senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that
induced me to the semblance I put on, with the which I doubt not
but to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of me as you
please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of
my injury.
THE MADLY-US'D MALVOLIO'
OLIVIA. Did he write this?
CLOWN. Ay, Madam.
DUKE. This savours not much of distraction.
OLIVIA. See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him hither.
Exit FABIAN
My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown th' alliance on't, so please you,
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
DUKE. Madam, I am most apt t' embrace your offer.
[To VIOLA] Your master quits you; and, for your service done
him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you call'd me master for so long,
Here is my hand; you shall from this time be
You master's mistress.
OLIVIA. A sister! You are she.
Re-enter FABIAN, with MALVOLIO
DUKE. Is this the madman?
OLIVIA. Ay, my lord, this same.
How now, Malvolio!
MALVOLIO. Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.
OLIVIA. Have I, Malvolio? No.
MALVOLIO. Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand;
Write from it if you can, in hand or phrase;
Or say 'tis not your seal, not your invention;
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,
And tell me, in the modesty of honour,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you,
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown
Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people;
And, acting this in an obedient hope,
Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gul
That e'er invention play'd on? Tell me why.
OLIVIA. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,
Though, I confess, much like the character;
But out of question 'tis Maria's hand.
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me thou wast mad; then cam'st in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presuppos'd
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content;
This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee,
But, when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.
FABIAN. Good madam, hear me speak,
And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come
Taint the condition of this present hour,
Which I have wond'red at. In hope it shall not,
Most freely I confess myself and Toby
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceiv'd against him. Maria writ
The letter, at Sir Toby's great importance,
In recompense whereof he hath married her.
How with a sportful malice it was follow'd
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd
That have on both sides pass'd.
OLIVIA. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffl'd thee!
CLOWN. Why, 'Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some
have greatness thrown upon them.' I was one, sir, in this
interlude- one Sir Topas, sir; but that's all one. 'By the
Lord,
fool, I am not mad!' But do you remember- 'Madam, why laugh you
at such a barren rascal? An you smile not, he's gagg'd'? And thus
the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
MALVOLIO. I'll be reveng'd on the whole pack of you.
Exit
OLIVIA. He hath been most notoriously abus'd.
DUKE. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace;
He hath not told us of the captain yet.
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;
For so you shall be while you are a man;
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen.
Exeunt all but the CLOWN
CLOWN sings
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.
Exit
THE END
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End of this Etext of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
Twelfth Night; or What You Will
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John Healey, "The Description of Shee-landt, or Womandeçoia" fr. Discovery of a New World (1609; ed. DWF, 1999)
Chap. 6. Of Doublesex Isle, otherwise called Skrat or Hermaphrodite Island.
Not far from Guaon, the last Isle of the Moluccaes, between Cape Hermose and Cape Beach, lies Doublesex Isle, much like unto our Isle of Man on the coast of Lancashire. In this isle, nature hath so orderly disposed all things to one form that I could find no one plant in all the soil but was of a double kind; no tree, but bear two kind of fruits or one fruit of two several kinds and names: there was your Pear-apple, your Cherry-damson, your Date-almond, your Chestnut-filbert, and a thousand of these conclusions of nature&endash;yea, insomuch that the very inhabitants of the whole island wore all their habits as indices of a coaptation of both sexes in one. Those that bare the most man about them wore spurs, boots and britches from the heels to the haunches; and bodies, rebatoes and periwigs from the crupper to the crown. And for those that were the better sharers in woman-kind, they wear doublets to the rump, and skirts to the remainder. Nay their very names bare notes of their participations of either side: There was Mary-philip, Peter-alice, Jane-andrew, and George-audrey, and many more that I remember not. All of their own nation that have not shown themselves perfect both in begetting, and bringing forth, are made slaves to the rest. And when they take any that are but simply of one sex, Lord what a coil they keep about them, showing them as prodigies and monsters, as we doe those that are borne double-headed, or other such deformed births. Their only glory which they esteem most, is that in their conceit they have the perfection of nature amongst them alone, of all the world besides them.
"For seeing nature, "say they, "hath bestowed two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears and two nostrils to every meaner perfect body, why should not the most excellent creature of all be perfect in two sexes also?" And again: :"The ancient sacrificers to Cybele and the Pathiques of old Rome were fain to use forced means for that which we have given us by nature." Thus are they wont to protect their deformities; and truly, you may observe in them all, besides their shapes, both a man's wit and a woman's craft. ...
Of Shrewes-bourg.
Chap. 7.
In my return from the confines of Gigglot-tangia, being now upon the most western angle of the same, I light (just as my staff fell) into the country of Shrewes-bourg, the only garrison of this feminine government, and the only defense it hath against foreign incursions. Now the country fearing no foe but the Lecheritanians (for the Thrivingois are a quiet nation and never will offer to molest them, and the Foolianders cannot, though they would) do therefore place their forts and towns of garrison upon the eastern frontiers of Lecheritania.
Here was I truly gulled; for espying persons in the habits of men, "Mass," thought I, "this is good! I am now gotten out of Womendecoia!" &endash;but when all came to all, I was flat cozened with a borrowed shape. For in this country women wear britches and long beards, and the men go (with their chins all naked) in kirtles and petticoats, spinning and carding wool, whilst their wives discharge the main affairs of the state.
In this tract is an ancient and ample town seated, generally called Pepuzia, and I do not think but Pepuzian heretics were of this original, who held that women should be both princes and priests as well as men: The barbarians in Aristotle's time never used their women half so imperiously as the men are used here. I had great compassion upon their slavery: Yes, verily had I. The poor snakes dare not so much as wipe their mouths unless their wives bid them: not so much as (saving your presence) go piss, nor pass a word with their best friend, but they must first come to their wives with a writ of Quæso Magistra ("good Mistress, give me leave to go" etc.). I observed this custom to be more strictly looked-unto upon one certain day whilst I was there than at other times by far: and the reason was, because that while some of the better-spirited husbands disdaining to be chained in this unmanly subjection by their wives, had laid a plot amongst themselves to rise on a set night (as it might be this night) in open arms upon the sudden against wives, and so shake off this infamous and disgraceful servitude.
This plot had come to very good effect, had not misfortune crossed it: for one cowardly fellow of their confederacy, being threatened by his wife to be soundly cudgeled for some other private escape that he had made, to procure himself a pardon, went and resealed all the whole platform of the conspiracy, just the evening before the night appointed.
The women sit at meat and the men attend. The women sleep and the men watch. So do they scold and fight, whilst the men are fain to bear off with ears, head and shoulders. Happy may they call that day whereon they are not lambeaked before night. I imagined myself amongst the Turkish slaves but that these distinction of habits assured me this was a more base kind of captivity. Ah, what a beastly sight was it to see a distaff and a spindle in a man's hand, and a sword and buckler in a woman's! Yet I concealed my dislike as well as I could, desiring but to see without suffering.
If any woman use her husband somewhat gentlier than ordinary (as some of them be tender-hearted) she is presently informed against, cited to appear before the Court Parliament of Shrewes-bourg, and there indited of high treason against the state. Her next neighbors give evidence against her with such noise and fury that it is strange to see how far they are overborne with impatience. If she be but convicted by the smallest evidence that is, she is condemned to this punishment: she must first change attires with her husband, and then shave off all her hair, and so being led through the market place must stand for one whole day upon the pillory as an object unto all the fleering scoffs of the beholders. Nor shall the man escape scot-free for being so audacious as to take the favors offered by his wife without a modest refusal; but when the woman comes home (be she all covered with dirt, grains, rotten-eggs, &c.) she may not put off her vesture until she bring a cudgel into the court, all dyed with the fresh blood of her husband's broken pate.
He that outliveth his wife must either marry his maid and be sworn to her service as he was to his former wives, or else he must become slave to the next neighbor's wife. For no man may be the ruler of his own house in this country. When the wife goeth forth, either to wars, consultations, or for pleasure, she leaveth her keys, and therewithal her government, unto her maid or her daughter: Either of which, if the husband but once mutter against, his shoulders are sure to pay for it soundly at his wife's return, unless he can either beg or buy the silence of the deputy governess. They never lie with their husbands but when provender pricks them (a); for that, they hold, would procure too much familiarity. Notwithstanding, if the husband arise not out of his cabin in the entry before the wife be warm in her bed, and coming upstairs barefoot, knock thrice gently at her chamber door, and offer her his service in a soft voice, he is sure to have on the ribs the next day.
The women of this tract observe a fashion directly contrary unto ours, for they clip their hair and let their nails grow long (b). There are also certain amongst them that are proffesitrixes of the Noble Science, and keep free schools, wherein the rest are taught all the wards offensive and defensive, both of heels, nails and teeth; as also the most exact and judicial method of clawing off the skin of men's faces, pulling out eyes, biting of arms, wringing of ears, and tearing of beards: These lectures they are instructed in both by precept and practice.
Now you would think it incredible if I should tell you of the neatness of their houses, yet the men are all their drudges to wash, wipe, scour and sweep all that is done; yea, and dress all the meat besides--so that I imagine that it is but man's esteem of the undecency of such businesses (not any of his unableness to discharge them) that maketh him eschew such employments. There is no foul spot to be found in any house here, saving on the men's clothes--but those are so filthy that they are true notes how they neglect themselves as much as the women neglect them. Notwithstanding, go but abroad into the fields (which are the women's charge to see to) and there you shall find all most beastly: The very walls of the cities are half down and that which standeth is so disgracefully framed, that the very stones seem to beg to be at man's dispose, and to abhor the ordering of womankind.
I know, gentle reader, thou marvelest much how I got safely away from such a dangerous place, and from so mischievous a form of government. Faith, I'll tell thee truly, mine age, my habit, and good advice were my patrons in all this perilous adventure. My habit was manlike, my face womanlike (for I had yet no beard) and besides I met a many of my own countrymen (a strange chance in a region so unknown) whom I knew by sight as well as the beggar knows his dish--verily I did, and these (like true friends at need) gave me such good directions that I, following their advices, got at length (though with much toil and danger) through all the dirty fens of Blubber-ick, over the Mushrumpallian Mountains, and so finally into the confines of Fooliana...
(a) Just court fashion in England
(b) That there may be less hold taken by their assailants, and more by themselves.
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Other texts of interest:
Henry Roberts Pheander, the maiden knight (1595, 1617). STC
21086-7.
Anon. The maydes metamorphosis (1600). STC 17188
[reel 431].
Hic Mulier, pseud. Hic Mulier: or, the man-woman (1620). STC
13374.
Muld Sacke, pseud. Muld Sacke: or the apologie of Hic-Mulier
(1620). STC 21538.