Act I, Scene iii

OLIVIA'S house.

[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]

SIR TOBY:

What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother

thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

MARIA:

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your

cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

SIR TOBY:

Why, let her except before excepted.

MARIA:

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of

order.

SIR TOBY:

Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes

are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they

be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

MARIA:

That quaffing and drinking will undo you. I heard my lady talk of

it yesterday, and of a foolish knight that you brought in one

night here to be her wooer.

SIR TOBY:

Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

MARIA:

Ay, he.

SIR TOBY:

He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

MARIA:

What's that to th' purpose?

SIR TOBY:

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

MARIA:

Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very

fool and a prodigal.

SIR TOBY:

Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, and

speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and

hath all the good gifts of nature.

MARIA:

He hath indeed, almost natural; for, besides that he's a fool,

he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a

coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought

among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

SIR TOBY:

By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of

him. Who are they?

MARIA:

They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

SIR TOBY:

With drinking healths to my niece. I'll drink to her as long as

there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria: he's a

coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece

till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!

Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.

[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK.]

SIR ANDREW:

Sir Toby Belch; how now, Sir Toby Belch!

SIR TOBY:

Sweet Sir Andrew!

SIR ANDREW:

Bless you, fair shrew.

MARIA:

And you too, sir.

SIR TOBY:

Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

SIR ANDREW:

What's that?

SIR TOBY:

My niece's chambermaid.

SIR ANDREW:

Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

MARIA:

My name is Mary, sir.

SIR ANDREW:

Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

SIR TOBY:

You mistake, knight; 'accost' is front her, board her, woo her,

assail her.

SIR ANDREW:

By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that

the meaning of 'accost'?

MARIA:

Fare you well, gentlemen.

SIR TOBY:

An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw

sword again.

SIR ANDREW:

And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword

again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

MARIA:

Sir, I have not you by th' hand.

SIR ANDREW:

Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

MARIA:

Now, sir, 'thought is free.' I pray you, bring your hand to th'

buttery-bar and let it drink.

SIR ANDREW:

Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?

MARIA:

It's dry, sir.

SIR ANDREW:

Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry.

But what's your jest?

MARIA:

A dry jest, sir.

SIR ANDREW:

Are you full of them?

MARIA:

Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends; marry, now I let go

your hand, I am barren.

[Exit.]

SIR TOBY:

O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary; when did I see thee so

put down?

SIR ANDREW:

Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down.

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an

ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I

believe that does harm to my wit.

SIR TOBY:

No question.

SIR ANDREW:

And I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow,

Sir Toby.

SIR TOBY:

Pourquoi, my dear knight?

SIR ANDREW:

What is 'pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had bestow'd that

time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and

bear-baiting! O, had I but follow'd the arts!

SIR TOBY:

Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

SIR ANDREW:

Why, would that have mended my hair?

SIR TOBY:

Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.

SIR ANDREW:

But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

SIR TOBY:

Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff.

SIR ANDREW:

Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby. Your niece will not be

seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the

count himself here hard by wooes her.

SIR TOBY:

She'll none o' th' count. She'll not match above her degree,

neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear't. Tut,

there's life in't, man.

SIR ANDREW:

I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' th' strangest mind i'

th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

SIR TOBY:

Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?

SIR ANDREW:

As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my

betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

SIR TOBY:

What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

SIR ANDREW:

Faith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBY:

And I can cut the mutton to't.

SIR ANDREW:

And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in

Illyria.

SIR TOBY:

Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a

curtain before 'em? are they like to take dust, like Mistress

Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and

come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost

thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the

excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star

of a galliard.

SIR ANDREW:

Ay, 't is strong, and it does indifferent well in flame-colour'd

stock. Shall we set about some revels?

SIR TOBY:

What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

SIR ANDREW:

Taurus! That's sides and heart.

SIR TOBY:

No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper. Ha! higher!

ha, ha, excellent!

[Exeunt.]