Chapter: ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I.


                                

                            _The Sea-coast._

      _Enter_ VIOLA, ROBERTO, _and two Sailors, carrying a Trunk_.

    _Vio._ What country, friends, is this?

    _Rob._ This is Illyria, lady.

    _Vio._ And what should I do in Illyria?
  My brother he is in Elysium.
  Perchance, he is not drown'd:--What think you, sailors?

    _Rob._ It is perchance, that you yourself were saved.

    _Vio._ O my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be.

    _Rob._ True, madam; and, to comfort you with chance,
  Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
  When you, and that poor number saved with you,
  Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
  Most provident in peril, bind himself
  (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)
  To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;
  Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
  I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves,
  So long as I could see.

    _Vio._ Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
  Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
  The like of him. Know'st thou this country?

    _Rob._ Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born,
  Not three hours travel from this very place.

    _Vio._ Who governs here?

    _Rob._ A noble duke, in nature,
  As in his name.

    _Vio._ What is his name?

    _Rob._ Orsino.

    _Vio._ Orsino!--I have heard my father name him:
  He was a bachelor then.

    _Rob._ And so is now,
  Or was so very late: for but a month
  Ago I went from hence; and then 'twas fresh
  In murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do,
  The less will prattle of,) that he did seek
  The love of fair Olivia.

    _Vio._ What is she?

    _Rob._ A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
  That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
  In the protection of his son, her brother,
  Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,
  They say, she hath abjured the company
  And sight of men.

    _Vio._ Oh, that I served that lady!
  And might not be deliver'd to the world,
  Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
  What my estate is!

    _Rob._ That were hard to compass;
  Because she will admit no kind of suit,
  No, not the duke's.

    _Vio._ There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
  And, I believe, thou hast a mind that suits
  With this thy fair and outward character.
  I pray thee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
  Conceal me what I am; and be my aid
  For such disguise as, haply, shall become
  The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke;
  Thou shalt present me as a page unto him,
  Of gentle breeding, and my name, Cesario:--
  That trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother,
  Will furnish man's apparel to my need:--
  It may be worth thy pains: for I can sing,
  And speak to him in many sorts of music,
  That will allow me very worth his service.
  What else may hap, to time I will commit;
  Only shape thou thy silence to my wit.

    _Rob._ Be you his page, and I your mute will be;
  When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see!

    _Vio._ I thank thee:--Lead me on.                         [_Exeunt._



SCENE II.


_A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.

_The Duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ CURIO, _and Gentlemen_.

    _Duke._ [_Music._] If music be the food of love, play on,
  Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
  The appetite may sicken, and so die.----
  [_Music._] That strain again;--it had a dying fall:
  O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
  That breathes upon a bank of violets,
  Stealing, and giving odours.--
  [_Music._] Enough; no more;                           [_He rises._
  'Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.

    _Cur._ Will you go hunt, my lord?

    _Duke._ What, Curio?

    _Cur._ The hart.

    _Duke._ Why, so I do, the noblest that I have:
  O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
  Methought, she purged the air of pestilence;
  That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
  And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
  E'er since pursue me.

                           _Enter_ VALENTINE.

  How now? what news from my Olivia?--speak.

    _Val._ So please my lord, I might not be admitted;
  But from her handmaid do return this answer;
  The element itself, till seven years heat,
  Shall not behold her face at ample view;
  But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk,
  And water once a day her chamber round
  With eye-offending brine: all this, to season
  A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh,
  And lasting, in her sad remembrance.

    _Duke._ O, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame,
  To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
  How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
  Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
  That live in her!--
  Away before me to sweet beds of flowers;
  Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers.
                                                              [_Exeunt._



SCENE III.


                     _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.

                  _Enter_ MARIA _and_ SIR TOBY BELCH.

    _Sir To._ What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her
brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life.

    _Mar._ By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights;
your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

    _Sir To._ Why, let her except before excepted.

    _Mar._ Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of
order.

    _Sir To._ Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am: these
clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they
be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

    _Mar._ That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady
talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in
here, to be her wooer.

    _Sir To._ Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?

    _Mar._ Ay, he.

    _Sir To._ He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

    _Mar._ What's that to the purpose?

    _Sir To._ Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year.

    _Mar._ Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a
very fool, and a prodigal.

    _Sir To._ Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo,
and hath all the good gifts of nature.

    _Mar._ He hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a
fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a
coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the
prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

    _Sir To._ By this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that
say so of him. Who are they?

    _Mar._ They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

    _Sir To._ With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as
long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a
coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains
turn o' the toe like a parish-top--See, here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

                                     [SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK, _without_.

    _Sir And._ Sir Toby Belch! how now, Sir Toby Belch?

    _Sir To._ Sweet Sir Andrew!

                          _Enter_ SIR ANDREW.

    _Sir And._ Bless you, fair shrew.

    _Mar._ And you too, sir.

    _Sir To._ Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

    _Sir And._ What's that?

    _Sir To._ My niece's chamber-maid.

    _Sir And._ Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

    _Mar._ My name is Mary, sir.

    _Sir And._ Good Mistress Mary Accost,----

    _Sir To._ You mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo
her, assail her.

    _Sir And._ By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company.
Is that the meaning of accost?

    _Mar._ Fare you well, gentlemen.

    _Sir To._ An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, 'would thou might'st
never draw sword again.

    _Sir And._ An you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw
sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?

    _Mar._ Sir, I have not you by the hand.

    _Sir And._ Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

    _Mar._ [_Takes his hand._] Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you,
bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink.

    _Sir And._ Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?

    _Mar._ It's dry, sir.

    _Sir And._ Why, I think so; I am not such an ass, but I can keep my
hand dry. But what's your jest?

    _Mar._ A dry jest, sir.

    _Sir And._ Are you full of them?

    _Mar._ Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_Lets go
his hand._] now I let go your hand, I am barren.          [_Exit_ MARIA.

    _Sir To._ O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: When did I see
thee so put down?

    _Sir And._ Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me
down: Methinks, sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian, or an
ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that
does harm to my wit.

    _Sir To._ No question.

    _Sir And._ An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home
to-morrow, Sir Toby.

    _Sir To._ _Pourquoy_, my dear knight?

    _Sir And._ What is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? I would I had bestow'd
that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and
bear-baiting: O, had I but follow'd the arts!

    _Sir To._ Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.

    _Sir And._ Why, would that have mended my hair?

    _Sir To._ Past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by
nature.

    _Sir And._ But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

    _Sir To._ Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to
see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.

    _Sir And._ 'Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby: your niece will
not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke
himself, here hard by, wooes her.

    _Sir To._ She'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her
degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear it.
Tut, there's life in't, man.

    _Sir And._ I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest
mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

    _Sir To._ Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight?

    _Sir And._ As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree
of my betters; and yet I'll not compare with an old man.

    _Sir To._ What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

    _Sir And._ 'Faith, I can cut a caper.

    _Sir To._ And I can cut the mutton to't.

    _Sir And._ And, I think, I have the back-trick, simply as strong as
any man in Illyria.

    _Sir To._ Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts
a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and
come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost thou
mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--I did think, by the excellent
constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard.

    _Sir And._ Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
flame-colour'd stock. Shall we set about some revels?

    _Sir To._ What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?

    _Sir And._ Taurus? that's sides and heart.

    _Sir To._ No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee
caper:--Ha! higher:--Ha, ha!--excellent!

                                                              [_Exeunt._



SCENE IV.


                  _A Room in_ DUKE ORSINO'S _Palace_.

         _Enter_ VALENTINE, _and_ VIOLA _in Man's Attire_.

    _Val._ If the duke continue these favors towards you, Cesario, you
are like to be much advanced.

    _Vio._ You either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call
in question the continuance of his love: Is he inconstant, sir, in his
favours?

    _Val._ No, believe me.

    _Vio._ I thank you.--Here comes the duke.

                 _Enter_ DUKE, CURIO, _and Gentlemen_.

    _Duke._ Who saw Cesario, ho?

    _Vio._ On your attendance, my lord; here.

    _Duke._ Stand you awhile aloof.--Cesario,
  Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
  To thee the book even of my secret soul:
  Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
  Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
  And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
  Till thou have audience.

    _Vio._ Sure, my noble lord,
  If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
  As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

    _Duke._ Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
  Rather than make unprofited return.

    _Vio._ Say, I do speak with her, my lord. What then?

    _Duke._ O, then unfold the passion of my love.
  Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
  It shall become thee well to act my woes;
  She will attend it better in thy youth,
  Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.

    _Vio._ I think not so, my lord.

    _Duke._ Dear lad, believe it;
  For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
  That say, thou art a man: Diana's lip
  Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
  Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound:
  I know, thy constellation is right apt
  For this affair:--Go:--prosper well in this,
  And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
  To call his fortunes thine.

                      [_Exeunt_ DUKE, CURIO, VALENTINE, _and Gentlemen_.

    _Vio._ I'll do my best,
  To woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!--
  Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
                                                               [_Exit._



SCENE V.


                     _A Room in_ OLIVIA'S _House_.

                      _Enter_ CLOWN _and_ MARIA.

    _Mar._ Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open
my lips, so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady
will hang thee for thy absence.

    _Clo._ Let her hang me: he, that is well hang'd in this world, needs
to fear no colours.

    _Mar._ Make that good.

    _Clo._ He shall see none to fear.

    _Mar._ A good lenten answer: Yet you will be hang'd, for being so
long absent; or, to be turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging to
you?

    _Clo._ Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning
away, let summer bear it out.

    _Mar._ Here comes my lady; make your excuse wisely, you were best.
                                                          [_Exit_ MARIA.

    _Clo._ Wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits,
that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am sure
I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: For what says Quinapalus? Better a
witty fool, than a foolish wit.

             _Enter_ OLIVIA, MALVOLIO, _and two Servants_.

Bless thee, lady!

    _Oli._ Take the fool away.

    _Clo._ Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

    _Oli._ Go to, you're a dry fool: I'll no more of you; besides, you
grow dishonest.

    _Clo._ Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend;
for, give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the
dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he
cannot, let the botcher mend him.--The lady bade take away the fool;
therefore, I say again, take her away.

    _Oli._ Sir, I bade them take away you.

    _Clo._ Misprision in the highest degree!--Lady, _Cucullus non facit
monachum_; that's as much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good
madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

    _Oli._ Can you do it?

    _Clo._ Dexterously, good madonna.

    _Oli._ Make your proof.

    _Clo._ I must catechize you for it, madonna: Good my mouse of
virtue, answer me.

    _Oli._ Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.

    _Clo._ Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?

    _Oli._ Good fool, for my brother's death.

    _Clo._ I think, his soul is in hell, madonna.

    _Oli._ I know, his soul is in heaven, fool.

    _Clo._ The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being in heaven.--Take away the fool, gentlemen.

    _Oli._ What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?

    _Mal._ Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him:
Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.

    _Clo._ Heaven send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better
increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn, that I am no fox; but he
will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool.

    _Oli._ How say you to that, Malvolio?

    _Mal._ I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal;
I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more
brain than a stone.--Look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless
you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagg'd.--I protest, I take
these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than
the fools' zanies.

    _Oli._ O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
distemper'd appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem
cannon-bullets: There is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do
nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do
nothing but reprove.

    _Clo._ Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well
of fools!

                             _Enter_ MARIA.

    _Mar._ Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires
to speak with you.

    _Oli._ From the Duke Orsino, is it?

    _Mar._ I know not, madam.

    _Oli._ Who of my people hold him in delay?

    _Mar._ Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

    _Oli._ Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: Fye
on him!                                                   [_Exit_ MARIA.
Go you, Malvolio:--if it be a suit from the duke, I am sick, or not at
home; what you will, to dismiss it.
                                 [_Exeunt_ MALVOLIO, _and two Servants_.
Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it.

    _Clo._ Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should
be a fool.

    _Sir To._ [_Without._] Where is she? where is she?

    _Clo._ Whose skull Jove cram with brains!--for here he comes, one of
thy kin, has a most weak _pia mater_.

                           _Enter_ SIR TOBY.

    _Oli._ By mine honour, half drunk.--What is he at the gate, uncle?

    _Sir To._ A gentleman.

    _Oli._ A gentleman? What gentleman?

    _Sir To._ 'Tis a gentleman here,--How now, sot?

    _Clo._ Good Sir Toby,----

    _Oli._ Uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

    _Sir To._ Lechery! I defy lechery.--There's one at the gate.

    _Oli._ Ay, marry; what is he?

    _Sir To._ Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not: give me
faith, say I. Well, it's all one.--A plague o' these pickle-herrings.
                                                       [_Exit_ SIR TOBY.

    _Oli._ What's a drunken man like, fool?

    _Clo._ Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman; one draught above
heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

    _Oli._ Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my uncle;
for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go, look after
him.

    _Clo._ He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
madman.                                                   [_Exit_ CLOWN.

                           _Enter_ MALVOLIO.

    _Mal._ Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I
told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and
therefore comes to speak with you: I told him you were asleep; he seems
to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with
you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.

    _Oli._ Tell him, he shall not speak with me.

    _Mal._ He has been told so; and, he says, he'll stand at your door
like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak
with you.

    _Oli._ What kind of man is he?

    _Mal._ Why, of man-kind.

    _Oli._ What manner of man?

    _Mal._ Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no.

    _Oli._ Of what personage, and years, is he?

    _Mal._ Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as
a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a coddling when 'tis almost an
apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. He is
very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his
mother's milk were scarce out of him.

    _Oli._ Let him approach: Call in my gentlewoman.

    _Mal._ Gentlewoman, my lady calls.                 [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.




                                 [Illustration]




                                 _Enter_ MARIA.

    _Oli._ Give me my veil.                               [_Exit_ MARIA.
  What means his message to me?
  I have denied his access o'er and o'er:
  Then what means this?

                         _Enter_ MARIA, _with a Veil_.

  Come, throw it o'er my face;
  We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.

                                 _Enter_ VIOLA.

    _Vio._ The honourable lady of the house, which is she?

    _Oli._ Speak to me, I shall answer for her:--Your will?

    _Vio._ Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--I pray you,
tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would
be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well
penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it.

    _Oli._ Whence came you, sir?

    _Vio._ I can say little more than I have studied, and that
question's out of my part.--Good gentle one, give me modest assurance,
if you be the lady of the house.

    _Oli._ If I do not usurp myself, I am.

    _Vio._ Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what
is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve.

    _Oli._ I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allow'd your
approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad,
be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with
me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.--What are you? what would
you?

    _Vio._ What I am, and what I would, are to your ears, divinity; to
any other's, profanation.

    _Oli._ Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity.
                                                         [_Exit_ MARIA.
Now, sir, what is your text?

    _Vio._ Most sweet lady,----

    _Oli._ A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where
lies your text?

    _Vio._ In Orsino's bosom.

    _Oli._ In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?

    _Vio._ To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.

    _Oli._ O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?

    _Vio._ Good madam, let me see your face.

    _Oli._ Have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my
face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and
show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one as I, does this
present.                                                   [_Unveiling._

    _Vio._ 'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
  Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
  Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive,
  If you will lead these graces to the grave,
  And leave the world no copy.

    _Oli._ O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted.

    _Vio._ My lord and master loves you; O, such love
  Could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd
  The nonpareil of beauty!

    _Oli._ How does he love me?

    _Vio._ With adorations, with fertile tears,
  With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

    _Oli._ Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him:
  He might have took his answer long ago.

    _Vio._ If I did love you in my master's flame,
  With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
  In your denial I would find no sense,
  I would not understand it.

    _Oli._ Why, what would you?

    _Vio._ Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
  And call upon my soul within the house;
  Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
  And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
  Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
  And make the babbling gossip of the air
  Cry out, Olivia! O, you should not rest
  Between the elements of air and earth,
  But you should pity me.

    _Oli._ You might do much:--What is your parentage?

    _Vio._ Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
  I am a gentleman.

    _Oli._ Get you to your lord;
  I cannot love him: let him send no more;
  Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
  To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:
  I thank you for your pains:--Spend this for me.

    _Vio._ I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse;
  My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
  Love make his heart of flint, that you shall love;
  And let your fervour, like my master's, be
  Placed in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.             [_Exit_ VIOLA.

    _Oli._ What is your parentage?
  _Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
  I am a gentleman._----I'll be sworn thou art;
  Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
  Do give thee five-fold blazon:--Not too fast:--soft! soft!
  Unless the master were the man.--How now?
  Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
  Methinks, I feel this youth's perfections,
  With an invisible and subtle stealth,
  To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.--
  What ho, Malvolio!--

                           _Enter_ MALVOLIO.

    _Mal._ Here, madam, at your service.

    _Oli._ Run after that same peevish messenger,
  Orsino's man: he left this ring behind him,
  Would I, or not; tell him, I'll none of it.
  Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
  Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him:
  If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
  I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.

    _Mal._ Madam, I will.                              [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.

    _Oli._ I do I know not what; and fear to find
  Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
  Fate, show thy force: Ourselves we do not owe;
  What is decreed, must be; and be this so!
                                                                [_Exit._



SCENE VI.


                  _A Street before_ OLIVIA'S _House_.

               _Enter_ VIOLA, _and_ MALVOLIO _following_.

    _Mal._ Sir, sir,--young gentleman: Were not you even now with the
Countess Olivia?

    _Vio._ Even now, sir.

    _Mal._ She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my
pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds moreover, that you
should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him:
And one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his
affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. Receive it
so.

    _Vio._ She took the ring of me!--I'll none of it.

    _Mal._ Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it
should be so returned.--[_Throws the ring on the ground._] If it be
worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his
that finds it.                                         [_Exit_ MALVOLIO.

    _Vio._ [_Takes up the ring._] I left no ring with her: What means
        this lady?
  Fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her!
  She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
  That, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,
  For she did speak in starts distractedly.
  She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion
  Invites me in this churlish messenger.
  None of my lord's ring!--Why, he sent her none.
  I am the man;--If it be so, (as 'tis,)
  Poor lady! She were better love a dream.
  What will become of this? As I am man,
  My state is desperate for my master's love;
  As I am woman,--now alas the day!--
  What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
  O time, thou must entangle this, not I;
  It is too hard a knot for me to untie.                        [_Exit._

 Count Orsino of Illyria is introduced; he laments that he is lovesick, and wishes that "if music be the food of love," he could kill his unrequited love through an overdose of music. His servant, Curio, asks Orsino if he will go and hunt; Orsino answers with another lovelorn reply, about how his love for the Lady Olivia has been tearing him apart. Orsino's servant Valentine, whom Orsino sent to give his affections to Olivia, returns; Valentine was not allowed to speak directly to Olivia, but Olivia sent a message, via her handmaiden, that Olivia will continue to mourn her dead brother, and will neither allow Orsino to see her or to woo her. Orsino laments that Olivia does not hold the same deeply felt love that he professes to have. Scene 2: Viola lands in Illyria, after a terrible shipwreck in which she was separated from her twin brother, Sebastian. Viola hopes that her brother was saved, as she was; the Captain, who also managed to get ashore, tries to console her of the hopes of finding her brother alive. The Captain recalls seeing her brother in the water after the shipwreck, clinging onto a mast, and riding above the waves. As it happens, the Captain is from Illyria, and tells Viola of Count Orsino, and of his love for Lady Olivia; the Captain also mentions Olivia's recent loss of both her father and her brother, and Viola, having lost her brother as well, commiserates with Olivia's situation. Viola proposes that she serve Orsino, since he is a good and just man; she conspires with the Captain that she may be presented to Orsino as a eunuch, and that her true identity as a foreign woman be concealed. The Captain agrees to help her, and he leads her to Orsino. Scene 3: Sir Toby, Olivia's drunken uncle, is approached by Olivia's handmaiden, Maria, about his late hours and disorderly habits. Maria also objects to one of Sir Toby's drinking buddies, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a rather foolish man who Sir Toby has brought as a potential suitor to Olivia. Sir Toby has great affection for Sir Andrew, but Maria does not; she believes that Sir Andrew is a drunkard and a fool, and not to be suffered. Sir Toby attempts to introduce Sir Andrew to Maria; wordplay ensues from a series of misunderstandings, puns, and differing usages of words. Maria exits, and Sir Toby and Sir Andrew continue to quibble, with some amusing results; at last, they decide to start drinking. Scene 4: Viola has now disguised herself as a boy, Cesario, and has been taken into the service of Count Orsino. Valentine remarks that Orsino and Viola, as Cesario, have become close in the short time that Viola has been employed; indeed, Orsino has already told Viola of his great love for Olivia. Orsino asks Viola to go to Olivia and make Orsino's case to the lady; he believes that Viola/ Cesario, being younger and more eloquent than his other messengers, will succeed. Viola says she will obey, although she confesses in an aside that she already feels love for Orsino, and would rather be his wife than try to woo Olivia for him. Scene 5: Feste's first appearance in the play; unlike Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, who make wordplay by mincing each other's meanings, Feste is more perceptive and quick-witted, and gets into an entertaining argument with the equally quick-witted Maria. Olivia enters, with her attendants, and is somewhat displeased and short with Feste; Feste says she is a fool for mourning her brother, if she knows that her brother is in heaven. Viola/ Cesario arrives at Olivia's house, and is admitted after much waiting, and being examined by both Sir Toby and Malvolio. Viola is brought in to meet Olivia, who finds out Viola is a messenger on Orsino's behalf, and Olivia discourages Viola from wooing her for the Count. Viola tries to make Orsino's suit, though Olivia counters this with elusive and witty remarks; Olivia begins to show interest in Viola as Cesario in this scene, and still insists that she cannot love Orsino. Viola is sent away at last, and Olivia has Malvolio go after Viola, with a ring and an invitation to come back tomorrow.

