Twelfth-Night; or, What You Will. Act V. Scene I. William Shakespeare. 1914. The Oxford Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare (1564–1616). The Oxford Shakespeare. 1914.

Twelfth-Night; or, What You Will

Act V. Scene I.

The Street before OLIVIA’S House.

Enter Clown and FABIAN.

Fab. Now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter.

Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.

Fab. Anything.

Clo. Do not desire to see this letter.

Fab. This is, to give a dog, and, in recompense desire my dog again.

Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and Attendants.

Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?

Clo. Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.

Duke. I know thee well: how dost thou, my good fellow?

Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.

Duke. Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.

Clo. No, sir, the worse.

Duke. How can that be?

Clo. Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes.

Duke. Why, this is excellent.

Clo. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

Duke. Thou shalt not be the worse for me: there’s gold.

Clo. But that it would be double-dealing, sir,

I would you could make it another.

Duke. O, you give me ill counsel.

Clo. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it.

Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s another.

Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is, ‘the third pays for all:’ the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.

Duke. You can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may a wake my bounty further.

Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness; but as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon. [Exit.

Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

Enter ANTONIO and Officers.

Duke. That face of his I do remember well;

Yet when I saw it last, it was besmear’d

As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.

A bawbling vessel was he captain of,

For shallow draught and hulk unprizable;

With which such scathful grapple did he make

With the most noble bottom of our fleet,

That very envy and the tongue of loss

Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter?

First Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio

That took the Phœnix and her fraught from Candy;

And this is he that did the Tiger board,

When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.

Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,

In private brabble did we apprehend him.

Vio. He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side;

But in conclusion put strange speech upon me:

I know not what ’twas but distraction.

Duke. Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!

What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies

Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,

Hast made thine enemies?

Ant. Orsino, noble sir,

Be pleas’d that I shake off these names you give me:

Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,

Though I confess, on base and ground enough,

Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:

That most ingrateful boy there by your side,

From the rude sea’s enrag’d and foamy mouth

Did I redeem; a wrack past hope he was:

His life I gave him, and did thereto add

My love, without retention or restraint,

All his in dedication; for his sake

Did I expose myself, pure for his love,

Into the danger of this adverse town;

Drew to defend him when he was beset:

Where being apprehended, his false cunning,

Not meaning to partake with me in danger,

Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,

And grew a twenty years removed thing

While one would wink, denied me mine own purse,

Which I had recommended to his use

Not half an hour before.

Vio. How can this be?

Duke. When came he to this town?

Ant. To-day, my lord; and for three months before,—

No interim, not a minute’s vacancy,—

Both day and night did we keep company.

Enter OLIVIA and Attendants.

Duke. Here comes the countess: now heaven walks on earth!

But for thee, fellow; fellow, thy words are madness:

Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

But more of that anon. Take him aside.

Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not have,

Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?

Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

Vio. Madam!

Duke. Gracious Olivia.—

Oli. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,—

Vio. My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.

Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,

It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear

As howling after music.

Duke. Still so cruel?

Oli. Still so constant, lord.

Duke. What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,

To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breath’d out

That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall become him.

Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,

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Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,

Kill what I love? a savage jealousy

That sometimes savours nobly. But hear me this:

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,

And that I partly know the instrument

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That screws me from my true place in your favour,

Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant still;

But this your minion, whom I know you love,

And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,

Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,

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Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.

Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief;

I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,

To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. [Going.

Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,

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To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. [Following.

Oli. Where goes Cesario?

Vio. After him I love

More than I love these eyes, more than my life,

More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife.

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If I do feign, you witnesses above

Punish my life for tainting of my love!

Oli. Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d!

Vio. Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong?

Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long?

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Call forth the holy father. [Exit an Attendant.

Duke. [To VIOLA.] Come away.

Oli. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.

Duke. Husband?

Oli. Ay, husband: can he that deny?

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Duke. Her husband, sirrah?

Vio. No, my lord, not I.

Oli. Alas! it is the baseness of thy fear

That makes thee strangle thy propriety.

Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up;

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Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art

As great as that thou fear’st.

Enter Priest.

O, welcome, father!

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,

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Here to unfold,—though lately we intended

To keep in darkness what occasion now

Reveals before ’tis ripe,—what thou dost know

Hath newly pass’d between this youth and me.

Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love,

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Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands,

Attested by the holy close of lips,

Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings;

And all the ceremony of this compact

Seal’d in my function, by my testimony:

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Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave

I have travell’d but two hours.

Duke. O, thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be

When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case?

Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow

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That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?

Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet

Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

Vio. My lord, I do protest,—

Oli. O! do not swear:

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Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.

Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK, with his head broken.

Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon! send one presently to Sir Toby.

Oli. What’s the matter?

Sir And. He has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home.

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Oli. Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

Sir And. The count’s gentleman, one Cesario: we took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate.

Duke. My gentleman, Cesario?

Sir And. Od’s lifelings! here he is. You broke my head for nothing! and that that I did, I was set on to do ’t by Sir Toby.

Vio. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:

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You drew your sword upon me without cause;

But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not.

Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting;

Enter SIR TOBY BELCH, drunk, led by the Clown.

you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink he would have tickled you othergates than he did.

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Duke. How now, gentleman! how is ’t with you?

Sir To. That’s all one: he has hurt me, and there’s the end on ’t. Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot?

Clo. O! he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone: his eyes were set at eight i’ the morning.

Sir To. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy-measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue.

Oli. Away with him! Who hath made this havoc with them?

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Sir And. I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together.

Sir To. Will you help? an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull!

Oli. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look’d to. [Exeunt Clown, FABIAN, SIR TOBY, and SIR ANDREW.

Enter SEBASTIAN.

Seb. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;

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But, had it been the brother of my blood,

I must have done no less with wit and safety.

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that

I do perceive it hath offended you:

Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows

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We made each other but so late ago.

Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons;

A natural perspective, that is, and is not!

Seb. Antonio! O my dear Antonio!

How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me

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Since I have lost thee!

Ant. Sebastian are you?

Seb. Fear’st thou that, Antonio?

Ant. How have you made division of yourself?

An apple cleft in two is not more twin

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Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Oli. Most wonderful!

Seb. Do I stand there? I never had a brother;

Nor can there be that deity in my nature,

Of here and every where. I had a sister,

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Whom the blind waves and surges have devour’d.

Of charity, what kin are you to me?

What countryman? what name? what parentage

Vio. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;

Such a Sebastian was my brother too,

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So went he suited to his watery tomb.

If spirits can assume both form and suit

You come to fright us.

Seb. A spirit I am indeed;

But am in that dimension grossly clad

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Which from the womb I did participate.

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,

I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,

And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!’

Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow.

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Seb. And so had mine.

Vio. And died that day when Viola from her birth

Had number’d thirteen years.

Seb. O! that record is lively in my soul.

He finished indeed his mortal act

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That day that made my sister thirteen years.

Vio. If nothing lets to make us happy both

But this my masculine usurp’d attire,

Do not embrace me till each circumstance

Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump

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That I am Viola: which to confirm,

I’ll bring you to a captain in this town,

Where lie my maiden weeds: by whose gentle help

I was preserv’d to serve this noble count.

All the occurrence of my fortune since

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Hath been between this lady and this lord.

Seb. [To OLIVIA.] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook:

But nature to her bias drew in that.

You would have been contracted to a maid;

Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv’d,

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You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.

Duke. Be not amaz’d; right noble is his blood.

If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,

I shall have share in this most happy wrack.

[To VIOLA.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times

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Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear,

And all those swearings keep as true in soul

As doth that orbed continent the fire

That severs day from night.

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Duke. Give me thy hand;

And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.

Vio. The captain that did bring me first on shore

Hath my maid’s garments: he upon some action

Is now in durance at Malvolio’s suit,

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A gentleman and follower of my lady’s.

Oli. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither.

And yet, alas, now I remember me,

They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract.

A most extracting frenzy of mine own

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From my remembrance clearly banish’d his.

Re-enter Clown with a letter, and FABIAN.

How does he, sirrah?

Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may do. He has here writ a letter to you: I should have given it to you to-day morning; but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered.

Oli. Open it, and read it.

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Clo. Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman.

By the Lord, madam,—

Oli. How now! art thou mad?

Clo. No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow vox.

Oli. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits.

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Clo. So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.

Oli. [To FABIAN.] Read it you, sirrah.

Fab. By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury.

THE MADLY-USED MALVOLIO.

Oli. Did he write this?

Clo. Ay, madam.

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Duke. This savours not much of distraction.

Oli. See him deliver’d, Fabian; bring him hither. [Exit FABIAN.

My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,

To think me as well a sister as a wife,

One day shall crown the alliance on ’t, so please you,

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Here at my house and at my proper cost.

Duke. Madam, I am most apt to embrace your offer.

[To VIOLA.] Your master quits you; and, for your service done him,

So much against the mettle of your sex,

So far beneath your soft and tender breeding;

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And since you call’d me master for so long,

Here is my hand: you shall from this time be

Your master’s mistress.

Oli. A sister! you are she.

Re-enter FABIAN, with MALVOLIO.

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Duke. Is this the madman?

Oli. Ay, my lord, this same.

How now, Malvolio!

Mal. Madam, you have done me wrong,

Notorious wrong.

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Oli. Have I, Malvolio? no.

Mal. Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.

You must not now deny it is your hand:

Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase,

Or say ’tis not your seal nor your invention:

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You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,

And tell me, in the modesty of honour,

Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,

Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you,

To put on yellow stockings, and to frown

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Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people;

And, acting this in an obedient hope,

Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d,

Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,

And made the most notorious geck and gull

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That e’er invention play’d on? tell me why.

Oli. Alas! Malvolio, this is not my writing,

Though, I confess, much like the character;

But, out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand:

And now I do bethink me, it was she

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First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling,

And in such forms which here were presuppos’d

Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content:

This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee;

But when we know the grounds and authors of it,

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Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge

Of thine own cause.

Fab. Good madam, hear me speak,

And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come

Taint the condition of this present hour,

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Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not,

Most freely I confess, myself and Toby

Set this device against Malvolio here,

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts

We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ

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The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance;

In recompense whereof he hath married her.

How with a sportful malice it was follow’d,

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d

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That have on both sides past.

Oli. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

Clo. Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir Topas, sir; but that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad:’ But do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he’s gagged:’ and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

Mal. I’ll be reveng’d on the whole pack of you. [Exit.

Oli. He hath been most notoriously abus’d.

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Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace;—

He hath not told us of the captain yet:

When that is known and golden time convents,

A solemn combination shall be made

Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister,

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We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;

For so you shall be, while you are a man;

But when in other habits you are seen,

Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen. [Exeunt all except Clown.

	SONG.

	Clo. When that I was and a little tiny boy,
	With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
	A foolish thing was but a toy,
	For the rain it raineth every day.

	But when I came to man’s estate,
	With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
	’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gates,
	For the rain it raineth every day.

	But when I came, alas! to wive,
	With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
	By swaggering could I never thrive,
	For the rain it raineth every day.

	But when I came unto my beds,
	With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
	With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
	For the rain it raineth every day.

	A great while ago the world begun,
	With hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
	But that’s all one, our play is done,
	And we’ll strive to please you every day.

[Exit.

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