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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 to untie!

       [Exit.]

      SCENE III. OLIVIA’S house [Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW.]

       SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes; and ‘diluculo surgere,’ thou know’st—

       SIR ANDREW. 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 life consist of the four elements?

       SIR ANDREW. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

       SIR TOBY. Thou ‘rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

       [Enter CLOWN.]

       SIR ANDREW.

       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.

       SIR ANDREW. 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 spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ‘t was 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.

       SIR ANDREW. 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.

       SIR ANDREW.

       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.

       SIR ANDREW.

       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.

       SIR ANDREW.

       Excellent good, i’ faith.

       SIR TOBY.

       Good, good.

       CLOWN.

       [Sings.]

       What is love? ‘T is 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.

       SIR ANDREW.

       A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

       SIR TOBY.

       A contagious breath.

       SIR ANDREW.

       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?

       SIR ANDREW.

       And you love me, let’s do ‘t; I am dog at a catch.

       CLOWN.

       By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

       SIR ANDREW.

       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.

       SIR ANDREW.

       ‘Tis not the first time I have constrain’d one to call me knave.

       Begin, fool: it begins, ‘Hold thy peace.’

       CLOWN.

       I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.

       SIR ANDREW.

       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 ‘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.

       SIR ANDREW. 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 alehouse 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 kinsman, 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.

       ‘Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.’

       MARIA.

       Nay, good Sir Toby.

      

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