Twelfth Night · William Shakespeare
SCENE V. Olivia’s garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. FABIAN. Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? FABIAN. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here. SIR TOBY. To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew? SIR ANDREW. And we do not, it is pity of our lives. Enter Maria. SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India? MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk; he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._] Lie thou there; [_Throws down a letter_] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [_Exit Maria._] Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. ’Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me, and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t?
SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live? FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace! MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control— SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then? MALVOLIO. Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech—’ SIR TOBY. What, what? MALVOLIO. ‘You must amend your drunkenness.’ SIR TOBY. Out, scab! FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. MALVOLIO. ‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—’ SIR ANDREW. That’s me, I warrant you. MALVOLIO. ‘One Sir Andrew.’ SIR ANDREW. I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool. MALVOLIO. [_Taking up the letter._] What employment have we here? FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin. SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him! MALVOLIO. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s, and thus makes she her great P’s. It is in contempt of question, her hand. SIR ANDREW. Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that? MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes._ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?
FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all. MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _ Jove knows I love, But who? Lips, do not move, No man must know._ ‘No man must know.’ What follows? The numbers alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio? SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock! MALVOLIO. _ I may command where I adore, But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; M.O.A.I. doth sway my life._ FABIAN. A fustian riddle! SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I. MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see. FABIAN. What dish o’ poison has she dressed him! SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it! MALVOLIO. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her, she 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, and 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 desir’st 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 champian 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-device, 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 entertain’st 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.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.