Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/Twelfe Night/Act 2 Scene 4
Scena Quarta.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.
Du.Giue me some Musick; Now good morow frends.Now good Cesario, but that peece of song,That old and Anticke song we heard last night;Me thought it did releeue my passion much,More then light ayres, and recollected termesOf these most briske and giddy-paced times.Come, but one verse.
Cur.He is not heere (so please your Lordshippe) that should sing it?
Du.Who was it?
Cur.Feste the Iester my Lord, a foole that the Ladie Oliuiaes Father tooke much delight in. He is about the house.
Du.Seeke him out, and play the tune the while. Musicke playes.Come hither Boy, if euer thou shalt loueIn the sweet pangs of it, remember me:For such as I am, all true Louers are,Vnstaid and skittish in all motions else,Saue in the constant image of the creatureThat is belou'd. How dost thou like this tune?
Vio.It giues a verie eccho to the seateWhere loue is thron'd.
Du.Thou dost speake masterly,My life vpon't, yong though thou art, thine eyeHath staid vpon some fauour that it loues:Hath it not boy?
Vio.A little, by your fauour.
Du.What kinde of woman ist?
Vio.Of your complection.
Du.She is not worth thee then. What yeares ifaith?
Vio.About your yeeres my Lord.
Du.Too old by heauen: Let still the woman takeAn elder then her selfe, so weares she to him;So swayes she leuell in her husbands heart:For boy, howeuer we do praise our selues,Our fancies are more giddie and vnfirme,More longing, wauering, sooner lost and worne,Then womens are.
Vio.I thinke it well my Lord.
Du.Then let thy Loue be yonger then thy selfe,Or thy affection cannot hold the bent:For women are as Roses, whose faire flowreBeing once displaid, doth fall that verie howre.
Vio.And so they are: alas, that they are so:To die, euen when they to perfection grow.
Enter Curio & Clowne.
Du.O fellow come, the song we had last night:Marke it Cesario, it is old and plaine;The Spinsters and the Knitters in the Sun,And the free maides that weaue their thred with bones,Do vse to chaunt it: it is silly sooth,And dallies with the innocence of loue,Like the old age.
Clo.Are you ready Sir?
Duke. Musicke.I prethee sing.
The Song.Come away, come away death,And in sad cypresse let me be laide.Fye away, fie away breath,I am slaine by a faire cruell maide:My shrowd of white, stuck all with Ew, O prepare it.My part of death no one so true did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweeteOn my blacke coffin, let there be strewne:Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poore corpes, where my bones shall be throwne:A thousand thousand sighes to saue, lay me o whereSad true louer neuer find my graue, to weepe there.
Du.There's for thy paines.
Clo.No paines sir, I take pleasure in singing sir.
Du.Ile pay thy pleasure then.
Clo.Truely sir, and pleasure will be paide one time, or another.
Du.Giue me now leaue, to leaue thee.
Clo.Now the melancholly God protect thee, and the Tailor make thy doublet of changeable Taffata, for thy minde is a very Opall. I would haue men of such constancie put to Sea, that their businesse might be euery thing, and their intent euerie where, for that's it, that alwayes Exit.makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
Du.Let all the rest giue place: Once more Cesario,Get thee to yond same soueraigne crueltie:Tell her my loue, more noble then the worldPrizes not quantitie of dirtie lands,The parts that fortune hath bestow'd vpon her:Tell her I hold as giddily as Fortune:But 'tis that miracle, and Queene of IemsThat nature prankes her in, attracts my soule.
Vio.But if she cannot loue you sir.
Du.It cannot be so answer'd.
Vio.Sooth but you must.Say that some Lady, as perhappes there is,Hath for your loue as great a pang of heartAs you haue for Oliuia: you cannot loue her:You tel her so: Must she not then be answer'd?
Du.There is no womans sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion,As loue doth giue my heart: no womans heartSo bigge, to hold so much, they lacke retention.Alas, their loue may be call'd appetite,No motion of the Liuer, but the Pallat,That suffer surfet, cloyment, and reuolt,But mine is all as hungry as the Sea,And can digest as much, make no compareBetweene that loue a woman can beare me,And that I owe Oliuia.
Vio.I but I know.
Du.What dost thou knowe?
Vio.Too well what loue women to men may owe:In faith they are as true of heart, as we.My Father had a daughter lou'd a manAs it might be perhaps, were I a womanI should your Lordship.
Du.And what's her history?
Vio.A blanke my Lord: she neuer told her loue,But let concealment like a worme i'th buddeFeede on her damaske cheeke: she pin'd in thought,And with a greene and yellow melancholly,She sate like Patience on a Monument,Smiling at greefe. Was not this loue indeede?We men may say more, sweare more, but indeedOur shewes are more then will: for still we proueMuch in our vowes, but little in our loue.
Du.But di'de thy sister of her loue my Boy?
Vio.I am all the daughters of my Fathers house,And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.Sir, shall I to this Lady?
Du.I that's the Theame,To her in haste: giue her this Iewell: say,exeuntMy loue can giue no place, bide no denay.