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 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