A Room in 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. |
Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. |
Duke. Who was it? |
Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the Lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house. |
Duke. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [Exit CURIO. Music. |
Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love, |
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? |
Vio. 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? |
Vio. A little, by your favour. |
Duke. What kind of woman is't? |
Vio. Of your complexion. |
Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith? |
Vio. About your years, my lord. |
Duke. Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take |
An elder than herself, so wears she to him, |
So sways she level in her husband's heart: |
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, |
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, |
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, |
Than women's are. |
Vio. I think it well, my lord. |
Duke. Then, let thy love be younger than thyself, |
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent; |
For women are as roses, whose fair flower |
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour. |
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so; |
To die, even when they to perfection grow! |
|
Re-enter CURIO with 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. |
Clo. Are you ready, sir? |
Duke. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music. |
Clo. | 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 corse, 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. |
Clo. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. |
Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then. |
Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another. |
Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee. |
Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal! I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything and their intent everywhere; for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [Exit. |
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. |
Vio. But if she cannot love you, sir? |
Duke. I cannot be so answer'd. |
Vio. 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. |
Vio. Ay, but I know,— |
Duke. What dost thou know? |
Vio. Too well what love women to men may owe: |
In faith, they are as true of heart as we. |
My father had a daughter lov'd a man, |
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, |
I should your lordship. |
Duke. And what's her history? |
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, |
But let concealment, like a worm i' the 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? |
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father's house, |
And all the brothers too; and yet I know not, |
Sir, shall I to this lady? |
Duke. Ay, that's the theme. |
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say |
My love can give no place, bide no denay. [Exeunt. |
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