The Complete Works of William Shakespeare · William Shakespeare
SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace.
Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and others. DUKE. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night; Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse. CURIO. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. DUKE. Who was it? CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house. DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [_Exit Curio. Music plays._] Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me: For such as I am, all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune? VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned. DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy? VIOLA. A little, by your favour. DUKE. What kind of woman is’t? VIOLA. Of your complexion. DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?
VIOLA. About your years, my lord. DUKE. Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are. VIOLA. I think it well, my lord. DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. VIOLA. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! Enter Curio and Clown. DUKE. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age. CLOWN. Are you ready, sir? DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing. [_Music._] The Clown’s song. _ Come away, come away, death. And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death no one so true Did share it._
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.