William Shakespeare

Twelfth Night, or, What You Will

Warsaw 2019

Contents

Actus Primus

Actus Secundus

Actus Tertius

Actus Quartus

Actus Quintus

Actus Primus

Scæna Prima.

Enter Orsino Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other
Lords.

Duke.
If Musicke be the food of Loue, play on,
Giue me excesse of it: that surfetting,
The appetite may sicken, and so dye.
That straine agen, it had a dying fall:
O, it came ore my eare, like the sweet sound
That breathes vpon a banke of Violets;
Stealing, and giuing Odour. Enough, no more,
‘Tis not so sweet now, as it was before.
O spirit of Loue, how quicke and fresh art thou,
That notwithstanding thy capacitie,
Receiueth as the Sea. Nought enters there,
Of what validity, and pitch so ere,
But falles into abatement, and low price
Euen in a minute; so full of shapes is fancie,
That it alone, is high fantasticall.

Cu.
Will you go hunt my Lord?

Du.
What Curio?

Cu.
The Hart.

Du.
Why so I do, the Noblest that I haue:
O when mine eyes did see Oliuia first,
Me thought she purg’d the ayre of pestilence;
That instant was I turn’d into a Hart,
And my desires like fell and cruell hounds,
Ere since pursue me. How now what newes from her?

Enter Valentine.

Val.
So please my Lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do returne this answer:
The Element it selfe, till seuen yeares heate,
Shall not behold her face at ample view:
But like a Cloystresse she will vailed walke,
And water once a day her Chamber round
With eye-offending brine: all this to season
A brothers dead loue, which she would keepe fresh
And lasting, in her sad remembrance.

Du.
O she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of loue but to a brother,
How will she loue, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill’d the flocke of all affections else
That liue in her. When Liuer, Braine, and Heart,
These soueraigne thrones, are all supply’d and fill’d
Her sweete perfections with one selfe king:
Away before me, to sweet beds of Flowres,
Loue-thoughts lye rich, when canopy’d with bowres.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Viola, a Captaine, and Saylors.

Vio.
What Country (Friends) is this?

Cap.
This is Illyria Ladie.

Vio.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elizium,
Perchance he is not drown’d: What thinke you saylors?

Cap.
It is perchance that you your selfe were saued.

Vio.
O my poore brother, and so perchance may he be.

Cap.
True Madam, and to comfort you with chance,
Assure your selfe, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poore number saued with you,
Hung on our driuing boate: I saw your brother
Most prouident in perill, binde himselfe,
(Courage and hope both teaching him the practise)
To a strong Maste, that liu’d vpon the sea:
Where like Orion on the Dolphines backe,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waues,
So long as I could see.

Vio.
For saying so, there’s Gold:
Mine owne escape vnfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serues for authoritie
The like of him. Know’st thou this Countrey?

Cap.
I Madam well, for I was bred and borne
Not three houres trauaile from this very place.

Vio.
Who gouernes heere?

Cap.
A noble Duke in nature, as in name.

Vio.
What is his name?

Cap.
Orsino.

Vio.
Orsino: I haue heard my father name him.
He was a Batchellor then.

Cap.
And so is now, or was so very late:
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then ’twas fresh in murmure (as you know
What great ones do, the lesse will prattle of,)
That he did seeke the loue of faire Oliuia.

Vio.
What’s shee?

Cap.
A vertuous maid, the daughter of a Count
That dide some tweluemonth since, then leauing her
In the protection of his sonne, her brother,
Who shortly also dide: for whose deere loue
(They say) she hath abiur’d the sight
And company of men.

Vio.
O that I seru’d that Lady,
And might not be deliuered to the world

Till I had made mine owne occasion mellow
What my estate is.

Cap.
That were hard to compasse,
Because she will admit no kinde of suite,
No, not the Dukes.

Vio.
There is a faire behauiour in thee Captaine,
And though that nature, with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution: yet of thee
I will beleeue thou hast a minde that suites
With this thy faire and outward charracter.
I prethee (and Ile pay thee bounteously)
Conceale me what I am, and be my ayde,
For such disguise as haply shall become
The forme of my intent. Ile serue this Duke,
Thou shalt present me as an Eunuch to him,
It may be worth thy paines: for I can sing,
And speake to him in many sorts of Musicke,
That will allow me very worth his seruice.
What else may hap, to time I will commit,
Onely shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Cap.
Be you his Eunuch, and your Mute Ile bee,
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.

Vio.
I thanke thee: Lead me on.

Exeunt.

Scæna Tertia.

Enter Sir Toby, and Maria.

Sir To.
What a plague meanes my Neece to take the
death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemie to
life.

Mar.
By my troth sir Toby, you must come in earlyer
a nights: your Cosin, my Lady, takes great exceptions
to your ill houres.

To.
Why let her except, before excepted.

Ma.
I, but you must confine your selfe within the
modest limits of order.

To.
Confine? Ile confine my selfe no finer then I am:
these cloathes are good enough to drinke in, and so bee
these boots too: and they be not, let them hang themselues
in their owne straps.

Ma.
That quaffing and drinking will vndoe you: I
heard my Lady talke of it yesterday: and of a foolish
knight that you brought in one night here, to be hir woer

To.
Who, Sir Andrew Ague-cheeke?

Ma.
I he.

To.
He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.

Ma.
What’s that to th’ purpose?

To.
Why he ha’s three thousand ducates a yeare.

Ma.
I, but hee’l haue but a yeare in all these ducates:
He’s a very foole, and a prodigall.

To.
Fie, that you’l say so: he playes o’th Viol-de-gamboys,
and speaks three or four languages word for word
without booke, & hath all the good gifts of nature.

Ma.
He hath indeed, almost naturall: for besides that
he’s a foole, he’s a great quarreller: and but that hee hath
the gift of a Coward, to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling,
‘tis thought among the prudent, he would quickely
haue the gift of a graue.

Tob.
By this hand they are scoundrels and substractors
that say so of him. Who are they?

Ma.
They that adde moreour, hee’s drunke nightly
in your company.

To.
With drinking healths to my Neece: Ile drinke
to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, & drinke
in Illyria: he’s a Coward and a Coystrill that will not
drinke to my Neece, till his braines turne o’th toe, like a
parish top. What wench? Castiliano vulgo: for here coms
Sir Andrew Agueface.

Enter Sir Andrew.

And.
Sir Toby Belch. How now sir Toby Belch?

To.
Sweet sir Andrew.

And.
Blesse you faire Shrew.

Mar.
And you too sir.

Tob.
Accost Sir Andrew, accost.

And.
What’s that?

To.
My Neeces Chamber-maid.

Ma.
Good Mistris accost, I desire better acquaintance

Ma.
My name is Mary sir.

And.
Good mistris Mary, accost.

To.
You mistake knight: Accost, is front her, boord
her, woe her, assayle her.

And.
By my troth I would not vndertake her in this
company. Is that the meaning of Accost?

Ma.
Far you well Gentlemen.

To.
And thou let part so Sir Andrew, would thou
mightst neuer draw sword agen.

And.
And you part so mistris, I would I might neuer
draw sword agen: Faire Lady, doe you thinke you haue
fooles in hand?

Ma.
Sir, I haue not you by’th hand.

An.
Marry but you shall haue, and heeres my hand.

Ma.
Now sir, thought is free: I pray you bring your
hand to’th Buttry barre, and let it drinke.

An.
Wherefore (sweet-heart?) What’s your Metaphor?

Ma.
It’s dry sir.

And.
Why I thinke so: I am not such an asse, but I
can keepe my hand dry. But what’s your iest?

Ma.
A dry iest Sir.

And.
Are you full of them?

Ma.
I Sir, I haue them at my fingers ends: marry now
I let go your hand, I am barren.

Exit Maria

To.
O knight, thou lack’st a cup of Canarie: when did
I see thee so put downe?

An.
Neuer in your life I thinke, vnlesse you see Canarie
put me downe: mee thinkes sometimes I haue no
more wit then a Christian, or an ordinary man ha’s: but I
am a great eater of beefe, and I beleeue that does harme
to my wit.

To.
No question.

An.
And I thought that, I’de forsweare it. Ile ride
home to morrow sir Toby.

To.
Pur-quoy my deere knight?

An.
What is purquoy? Do, or not do? I would I had
bestowed that time in the tongues, that I haue in fencing
dancing, and beare-bayting: O had I but followed the
Arts.

To.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of haire.

An.
Why, would that haue mended my haire?

To.
Past question, for thou seest it will not coole my nature.

An.
But it becoms me wel enough, dost not?

To.
Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaffe: & I hope
to see a huswife take thee between her legs, & spin it off.

An.
Faith Ile home to morrow sir Toby, your niece wil
not be seene, or if she be it’s four to one, she’l none of me:
the Count himselfe here hard by, wooes her.

To.
Shee’l none o’th Count, she’l not match aboue hir
degree, neither in estate, yeares, nor wit: I haue heard her
swear’t. Tut there’s life in’t man.

And.
Ile stay a moneth longer. I am a fellow o’th
strangest minde i’th world: I delight in Maskes and Reuels
sometimes altogether.

To.
Art thou good at these kicke-chawses Knight?

And.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoeuer he be, vnder
the degree of my betters, & yet I will not compare with
an old man.

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

And.
Faith, I can cut a caper.

To.
And I can cut the Mutton too’t.

And.
And I thinke I haue the backe-tricke, simply as
strong as any man in Illyria.

To.
Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore haue
these gifts a Curtaine before ’em? Are they like to take
dust, like mistris Mals picture? Why dost thou not goe
to Church in a Galliard, and come home in a Carranto?
My verie walke should be a Iigge: I would not so much
as make water but in a Sinke-a-pace: What dooest thou
meane? Is it a world to hide vertues in? I did thinke by
the excellent constitution of thy legge, it was form’d vnder
the starre of a Galliard.

And.
I, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a
dam’d colour’d stocke. Shall we sit about some Reuels?

To.
What shall we do else: were we not borne vnder
Taurus?

And.
Taurus? That sides and heart.

To.
No sir, it is leggs and thighes: let me see thee caper.
Ha, higher: ha, ha, excellent.

Exeunt.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Valentine, and Viola in mans attire.

Val.
If the Duke continue these fauours towards you
Cesario, you are like to be much aduanc’d, he hath known
you but three dayes, and already you are no stranger.

Vio.
You either feare his humour, or my negligence,
that you call in question the continuance of his loue. Is
he inconstant sir, in his fauours.

Val.
No beleeue me.

Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants.

Vio.
I thanke you: heere comes the Count.

Duke.
Who saw Cesario hoa?

Vio.
On your attendance my Lord heere.

Du.
Stand you a-while aloofe. Cesario,
Thou knowst no lesse, but all: I haue vnclasp’d
To thee the booke euen of my secret soule.
Therefore good youth, addresse thy gate vnto her,
Be not deni’de accesse, stand at her doores,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow
Till thou haue audience.

Vio.
Sure my Noble Lord,
If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she neuer will admit me.

Du.
Be clamorous, and leape all ciuill bounds,
Rather then make vnprofited returne,

Vio.
Say I do speake with her (my Lord) what then?

Du.
O then, vnfold the passion of my loue,
Surprize her with discourse of my deere faith;
It shall become thee well to act my woes:
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Then in a Nuntio’s of more graue aspect.

Vio.
I thinke not so, my Lord.

Du.
Deere Lad, beleeue it;
For they shall yet belye thy happy yeeres,
That say thou art a man: Dianas lip
Is not more smooth, and rubious: thy small pipe
Is as the maidens organ, shrill, and sound,
And all is semblatiue a womans part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affayre: some foure or fiue attend him,
All if you will: for I my selfe am best
When least in companie: prosper well in this,
And thou shalt liue as freely as thy Lord,
To call his fortunes thine.

Vio.
Ile do my best
To woe your Lady: yet a barrefull strife,
Who ere I woe, my selfe would be his wife.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta.

Enter Maria, and Clowne.

Ma.
Nay, either tell me where thou hast bin, or I will
not open my lippes so wide as a brissle may enter, in way
of thy excuse: my Lady will hang thee for thy absence.

Clo.
Let her hang me: hee that is well hang’de in this
world, needs to feare no colours.

Ma.
Make that good.

Clo.
He shall see none to feare.

Ma.
A good lenton answer: I can tell thee where y
saying was borne, of I feare no colours.

Clo.
Where good mistris Mary?

Ma.
In the warrs, & that may you be bolde to say in
your foolerie.

Clo.
Well, God giue them wisedome that haue it: &
those that are fooles, let them vse their talents.

Ma.
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, preuents a bad marriage:
and for turning away, let summer beare it out.

Ma.
You are resolute then?

Clo.
Not so neyther, but I am resolu’d on two points

Ma.
That if one breake, the other will hold: or if both
breake, your gaskins fall.

Clo.
Apt in good faith, very apt: well go thy way, if
sir Toby would leaue drinking, thou wert as witty a piece
of Eues flesh, as any in Illyria.

Ma.
Peace you rogue, no more o’that: here comes my
Lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

Enter Lady Oliuia, with Maluolio.

Clo.
Wit, and’t be thy will, put me into good fooling:
those wits that thinke they haue thee, doe very oft proue
fooles: and I that am sure I lacke thee, may passe for a
wise man. For what saies Quinapalus, Better a witty foole,
then a foolish wit. God blesse thee Lady.

Ol.
Take the foole away.

Clo.
Do you not heare fellowes, take away the Ladie.

Ol.
Go too, y’are a dry foole: Ile no more of you: besides
you grow dis-honest.

Clo.
Two faults Madona, that drinke & good counsell
wil amend: for giue the dry foole drink, then is the foole
not dry: bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he mend,
he is no longer dishonest; if hee cannot, let the Botcher
mend him: any thing that’s mended, is but patch’d: vertu
that transgresses, is but patcht with sinne, and sin that amends,
is but patcht with vertue. If that this simple
Sillogisme will serue, so: if it will not, what remedy?

As there is no true Cuckold but calamity, so beauties a
flower; The Lady bad take away the foole, therefore I
say againe, take her away.

Ol.
Sir, I bad them take away you.

Clo.
Misprision in the highest degree. Lady, Cucullus
non facit monachum: that’s as much to say, as I weare not
motley in my braine: good Madona, giue mee leaue to
proue you a foole.

Ol.
Can you do it?

Clo.
Dexteriously, good Madona.

Ol.
Make your proofe.

Clo.
I must catechize you for it Madona, Good my
Mouse of vertue answer mee.

Ol.
Well sir, for want of other idlenesse, Ile bide your
proofe.

Clo.
Good Madona, why mournst thou?

Ol.
Good foole, for my brothers death.

Clo.
I thinke his soule is in hell, Madona.

Ol.
I know his soule is in heauen, foole.

Clo.
The more foole (Madona) to mourne for your
Brothers soule, being in heauen. Take away the Foole,
Gentlemen.

Ol.
What thinke you of this foole Maluolio, doth he
not mend?

Mal.
Yes, and shall do, till the pangs of death shake
him: Infirmity that decaies the wise, doth euer make the
better foole.

Clow.
God send you sir, a speedie Infirmity, for the
better increasing your folly: Sir Toby will be sworn that
I am no Fox, but he wil not passe his word for two pence
that you are no Foole.

Ol.
How say you to that Maluolio?

Mal.
I maruell your Ladyship takes delight in such
a barren rascall: I saw him put down the other day, with
an ordinary foole, that has no more braine then a stone.
Looke you now, he’s out of his gard already: vnles you
laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gag’d. I protest
I take these Wisemen, that crow so at these set kinde of
fooles, no better then the fooles Zanies.

Ol.
O you are sicke of selfe-loue Maluolio, and taste
with a distemper’d appetite. To be generous, guiltlesse,
and of free disposition, is to take those things for Bird-bolts,
that you deeme Cannon bullets: There is no slander
in an allow’d foole, though he do nothing but rayle;
nor no rayling, in a knowne discreet man, though hee do
nothing but reproue.

Clo.
Now Mercury indue thee with leasing, for thou
speak’st well of fooles.

Enter Maria.

Mar.
Madam, there is at the gate, a young Gentleman,
much desires to speake with you.

Ol.
From the Count Orsino, is it?

Ma
I know not (Madam) ’tis a faire young man, and
well attended.

Ol.
Who of my people hold him in delay?

Ma.
Sir Toby Madam, your kinsman.

Ol.
Fetch him off I pray you, he speakes nothing but
madman: Fie on him. Go you Maluolio; If it be a suit
from the Count, I am sicke, or not at home. What you
will, to dismisse it.

Exit Maluo.

Now you see sir, how your fooling growes old, & people
dislike it.

Clo.
Thou hast spoke for vs (Madona) as if thy eldest
sonne should be a foole: whose scull, Ioue cramme with
braines, for heere he comes.

Enter Sir Toby.

One of thy kin has a most weake Pia-mater.

Ol.
By mine honor halfe drunke. What is he at the
gate Cosin?

To.
A Gentleman.

Ol.
A Gentleman? What Gentleman?

To.
‘Tis a Gentleman heere. A plague o’these pickle
herring: How now Sot.

Clo.
Good Sir Toby.

Ol.
Cosin, Cosin, how haue you come so earely by
this Lethargie?

To.
Letcherie, I defie Letchery: there’s one at the
gate

Ol.
I marry, what is he?

To.
Let him be the diuell and he will, I care not: giue
me faith say I. Well, it’s all one.

Exit

Ol.
What’s a drunken man like, foole?

Clo.
Like a drown’d man, a foole, and a madde man:
One draught aboue heate, makes him a foole, the second
maddes him, and a third drownes him.

Ol.
Go thou and seeke the Crowner, and let him sitte
o’my Coz: for he’s in the third degree of drinke: hee’s
drown’d: go looke after him.

Clo.
He is but mad yet Madona, and the foole shall
looke to the madman.

Enter Maluolio.

Mal.
Madam, yond young fellow sweares hee will
speake with you. I told him you were sicke, he takes on
him to vnderstand so much, and therefore comes to speak
with you. I told him you were asleepe, he seems to haue
a fore knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to
speake with you. What is to be said to him Ladie, hee’s
fortified against any deniall.

Ol.
Tell him, he shall not speake with me.

Mal.
Ha’s beene told so: and hee sayes hee’l stand at
your doore like a Sheriffes post, and be the supporter to
a bench, but hee’l speake with you.

Ol.
What kinde o’man is he?

Mal.
Why of mankinde.

Ol.
What manner of man?

Mal.
Of verie ill manner: hee’l speake with you, will
you, or no.

Ol.
Of what personage, and yeeres is he?

Mal.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor yong enough
for a boy: as a squash is before tis a pescod, or a Codling
when tis almost an Apple: Tis with him in standing water,
betweene boy and man. He is verie well-fauour’d,
and he speakes verie shrewishly: One would thinke his
mothers milke were scarse out of him.

Ol.
Let him approach: Call in my Gentlewoman.

Mal.
Gentlewoman, my Lady calles.

Exit

Enter Maria.

Ol.
Giue me my vaile: come throw it ore my face,
Wee’l once more heare Orsinos Embassie.

Enter Violenta.

Vio.
The honorable Ladie of the house, which is she?

Ol.
Speake to me, I shall answer for her: your will.

Vio.
Most radiant, exquisite, and vnmatchable beautie.
I pray you tell me if this bee the Lady of the house,
for I neuer saw her. I would bee loath to cast away my
speech: for besides that it is excellently well pend, I haue
taken great paines to con it. Good Beauties, let mee sustaine
no scorne; I am very comptible, euen to the least
sinister vsage.

Ol.
Whence came you sir?

Vio.
I can say little more then I haue studied, & that
question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, giue mee
modest assurance, if you be the Ladie of the house, that

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