Twelfth Night · William Shakespeare
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 chev’ril 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 car’st 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, sir, I would it would make you invisible.
VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool? CLOWN. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till she be married, and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. VIOLA. Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee. CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! VIOLA. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir? VIOLA. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. VIOLA. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged. CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say “element”, but the word is overworn.
SIR ANDREW. That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well. VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. SIR ANDREW. ‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready. OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Maria._] Give me your hand, sir. VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service. OLIVIA. What is your name? VIOLA. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess. OLIVIA. My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment: Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth. VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours. Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me! VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf. OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you. I bade you never speak again of him. But would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres. VIOLA. Dear lady— OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. Under your hard construction must I sit; To force that on you in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours. What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom, Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.