Act II, 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:

Go 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 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 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.]