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       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 every where; 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 ‘t is 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.]