Twelfth Night — Act 2, Scene 4 · Shakespeare for Bharat

DUKE ORSINO

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 termsOf 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 ORSINO

Who was it?

CURIO

Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the ladyOlivia's father took much delight in. He is about the house.

DUKE ORSINO

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

DUKE ORSINO

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 creatureThat is beloved. How dost thou like this tune?

VIOLA

It gives a very echo to the seatWhere Love is throned.

DUKE ORSINO

Thou dost speak masterly:My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eyeHath stay'd upon some favour that it loves:Hath it not, boy?

VIOLA

A little, by your favour.

DUKE ORSINO

What kind of woman is't?

VIOLA

Of your complexion.

DUKE ORSINO

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?

VIOLA

About your years, my lord.

DUKE ORSINO

Too old by heaven: let still the woman takeAn 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 ORSINO

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;For women are as roses, whose fair flowerBeing 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!

DUKE ORSINO

O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;The spinsters and the knitters in the sunAnd the free maids that weave their thread with bonesDo 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 ORSINO

Ay; prithee, sing.

DUKE ORSINO

SONG.

Clown

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 trueDid share it.Not a flower, not a flower sweetOn my black coffin let there be strown;Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:A thousand thousand sighs to save,Lay me, O, whereSad true lover never find my grave,To weep there!

DUKE ORSINO

There's for thy pains.

Clown

No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

DUKE ORSINO

I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Clown

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

DUKE ORSINO

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clown

Now, the melancholy god protect thee; and thetailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, forthy mind is a very opal. I would have men of suchconstancy put to sea, that their business might beevery thing and their intent every where; for that'sit that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

DUKE ORSINO

Let all the rest give place.

DUKE ORSINO

Once more, Cesario,Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:Tell her, my love, more noble than the world,Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;But 'tis that miracle and queen of gemsThat nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

VIOLA

But if she cannot love you, sir?

DUKE ORSINO

I cannot be so answer'd.

VIOLA

Sooth, but you must.Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,Hath for your love a great a pang of heartAs you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;You tell her so; must she not then be answer'd?

DUKE ORSINO

There is no woman's sidesCan bide the beating of so strong a passionAs love doth give my heart; no woman's heartSo big, to hold so much; they lack retentionAlas, their love may be call'd appetite,No motion of the liver, but the palate,That suffer surfeit, cloyment and revolt;But mine is all as hungry as the sea,And can digest as much: make no compareBetween that love a woman can bear meAnd that I owe Olivia.

VIOLA

Ay, but I know--

DUKE ORSINO

What dost thou know?

VIOLA

Too well what love women to men may owe:In faith, they are as true of heart as we.My father had a daughter loved a man,As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,I should your lordship.

DUKE ORSINO

And what's her history?

VIOLA

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,And with a green and yellow melancholyShe sat like patience on a monument,Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?We men may say more, swear more: but indeedOur shows are more than will; for still we proveMuch in our vows, but little in our love.

DUKE ORSINO

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

VIOLA

I am all the daughters of my father's house,And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.Sir, shall I to this lady?

DUKE ORSINO

Ay, that's the theme.To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,My love can give no place, bide no denay.