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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 band.
Mar. 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.
Mar. Ay, sir; I have thein at my fingers' ends : marry, 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 bestowed that time in the tongues, that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting : 0, had I but fol. lowed 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 quest. on; 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 distaito; and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.
Şir 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 count himself, here hard by, wooes her.
Sir To. She'll none o'the count: 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 kickshaws, knight?
Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
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? are they like to take dust, like mistress Mall's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard.
Sir And. Ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-coloured 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!—+xcellent! [Exeunt.
SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke's Palace. Enter ValenTINE, and Viola in Man's Attire.
Val. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanc'd; be hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.
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.
Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.
Sure, my noble lord,
Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord; what then?
Duke. Ö, then unfold the passion of my love,
Dear lad, believe it;
I'll do my best,
Enter MARIA and Clown.
Clo. Let her hang me: he, that is well hanged in this world, needs to fear no colours.
Mar. Make that good.
Mar. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that saying was born, of, I fear no colours.
Clo. Where, good mistress Mary?
Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
Člo. Well, God give them wisdom, that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
Mar. Yet you will be hanged, for being so long absent: or, to be turned 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. You are résolute then?
Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your gaskins fall.
Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.
Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o'that; here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.
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. God bless thee, lady!
Oli. Take the fool away.
Oli. Go to, you are 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 mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher rhend him: any thing, that's mended, is but patched; virtue, that transgresses, is but patched with sin; and sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue: if that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but caJamity, so beauty's a flower :-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 any brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
Oli. Can you do it?
Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna; good my mouse of rtue, answer me.
Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll 'bide your proof.
Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
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 mak the better fool.