Act II, 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?

SIR ANDREW:

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! Lie thou there[throws down aletter], for here comes the trout that must be caught with

tickling.

[Exit.]

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO:

'T is 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!

SIR ANDREW:

'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

SIR TOBY:

Peace, I say.

MALVOLIO:

To be Count Malvolio!

SIR TOBY:

Ah, rogue!

SIR ANDREW:

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.

SIR ANDREW:

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,'—

SIR ANDREW:

That's me, I warrant you.

MALVOLIO:

'One Sir Andrew.'

SIR ANDREW:

I knew 't was 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.

SIR ANDREW:

Her C's, her U's, and her T's; why that?

MALVOLIO:

[Reads]

To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes:—her very

phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her

Lucrece, with which she uses to seal; 't is 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.

SIR ANDREW:

So could I too.

SIR TOBY:

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

SIR ANDREW:

Nor I neither.

FABIAN:

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

[Re-enter MARIA.]

SIR TOBY:

Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW:

Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY:

Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW:

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-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA:

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 't is 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!

SIR ANDREW:

I'll make one too.

[Exeunt.]