Twelfth Night

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 wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest 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-gartered; 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-gartered, 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 entertainest 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 ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, 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.

Act III

Scene I

Olivia’s garden.

	Enter Viola, and Clown with a tabor.
Viola	Save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabor?
Clown	No, sir, I live by the church.
Viola	Art thou a churchman?
Clown	No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
Viola	So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or, the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church.
Clown	You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit: how quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!
Viola	Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.
Clown	I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.
Viola	Why, man?
Clown	Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.
Viola	Thy reason, man?
Clown	Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.
Viola	I warrant thou art a merry fellow and carest for nothing.
Clown	Not so, sir, I do care for something; but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing,