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Sir To Poffefs us, poffefs us; tell us fomething of him.
Mar. Marry, fir, fometimes he is a kind of a puritan.
Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog.
Sir To. What, for being a puritan? thy exquifite reason, dear

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

Mar. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser, an affected ass, that cons ftate without book, and utters it by great swarths. The best perfuaded of himself: fo cram'd, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his ground 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 To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way fome obfcure epiftles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expreffure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he fhall find himself moft feelingly perfonated: I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make diftinction of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent! I fmell a device.

Sir And. I have't in my nose too.

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

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
Sir And. And your horse now would make him an ass.
Mar. Afs, I doubt not.

Sir And. O, 'twill be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my phyfick will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his conftruction of it: for this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewel.


Sir To. Good night, Penthifilea.

Sir And. Before me, she's a good wench.

Sir To. She's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o'that?

Sir And. I was ador'd once too.


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Sir To. Let's to bed, knight: thou hadft need send for more money.

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Sir To. Send for money, knight; if thou haft her not i'th' end, call me, cut.

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

Sir To. Come, come; I'll go burn fome fack, 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight, come, knight.



The Palace.

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

Duke. NIVE me fome mufick; now, good-morrow, friends:
Now, good Cefario, but that piece of fong,
That old and antique fong we heard last night:
Methought, it did relieve my passion much;
More than light airs, and recollected terms,
Of these most brisk and giddy-pated times.
Come, but one verse.

Cur. He is not here, fo please your lordship, that should fing it. Duke. Who was it?

Cur. Fefte 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. [Ex. Curio.


Come hither, boy; if ever thou fhalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it, remember me;
For, fuch as I am, all true lovers are,
Unftaid and fkittish in all motions elfe,
Save in the conftant image of the creature
That is belov'd. How doft thou like this tune?

Vio. It gives a very echo to the feat Where love is thron'd.



Duke. Thou doft speak masterly.

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon fome favour that it loves:
Hath it not, boy?

Vio. A little, by your favour.
Duke. What kind of woman is't?

Vio. Of your complexion.

Duke. She is not worth thee then. What years, i'faith?
Vio. About your years, my lord.

Duke. Too old, by heav'n; let ftill the woman take
An elder than herself, fo wears the to him;

So fways the level in her husband's heart.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, fooner loft and won,
Than women's are.

Vio. I think it well, my lord.

Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:

For women are as rofes, whose fair flower
Being once display'd, doth fall that

very hour. Vio. And fo they are: alas, that they are fo, To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Enter Curio, and Clown.

Duke. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cefario; it is old and plain :

The fpinfters and the knitters in the fun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is filly footh,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.

Clo. Are you ready, fir?
Duke. I pr'ythee, fing.



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Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clo. No pains, fir; I take pleasure in finging, fir.

Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, fir, and pleasure will be pay'd one time or other. Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal! I would have men of fuch conftancy put to fea, that their business might be every thing, and their intent every where, for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.



Duke. Let all the reft give place. Once more, Cefario, Get thee to yond fame 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 foul.
Vio. But, if he cannot love you, fir?
Duke. I cannot be fo anfwer'd.

Vio. Sooth, but you muft.

Say that fome 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 fo; must she not then he answer'd?
Duke. There is no woman's fides

Can bide the beating of fo ftrong a paffion,
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold fo much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite:
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much; make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,

And that I owe Olivia.

Vio. Ay, but I know

Duke. What doft thou know?

Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe;

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

My father had a daughter lov'd a man,

As it might be, perhaps, where I a woman,
I should your lordship.

Duke. What's her history?

Vio. A blank, my lord: fhe never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i'th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: fhe pin'd in thought;
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,


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