Twelfth Night William Shakespeare (best management books of all time TXT) 📖

write very like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. Sir Toby Excellent! I smell a device. Sir Andrew 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. Sir Andrew And your horse now would make him an ass. Maria Ass, I doubt not. Sir Andrew 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. Sir Andrew Before me, she’s a good wench. Sir Toby She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o’ that? Sir Andrew I was adored once too. Sir Toby Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money. Sir Andrew If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Sir Toby Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i’ the end, call me cut. Sir Andrew 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 beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

Viola

It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is throned.

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 worn,
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 flower
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. Song. Clown

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 every thing 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. Curio and Attendants retire. 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 a 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