Ass, I doubt not.

SIR AND. O, 'twill be admirable!

MAR. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.

 

Exit.

 

SIR TO. Good night, Penthesilea.

SIR AND. Before me, she's a good wench.

SIR TO. She's a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?

SIR AND. I was ador'd once too.

SIR TO. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.

SIR AND. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.

SIR TO. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end, call me cut.

SIR AND. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.

SIR TO. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight, come, knight.

 

Exeunt.

 

 

Scene IV

Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others.

 

DUKE.

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 terms

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.

Come, but one verse.

CUR. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

DUKE. Who was it?

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

DUKE.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

 

[Exit Curio.] Music plays.

 

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 creature

That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?

VIO.

It gives a very echo to the seat

Where Love is thron'd.

DUKE.

Thou dost speak masterly.

My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stay'd upon some favor that it loves.

Hath it not, boy?

VIO.

A little, by your favor.

DUKE.

What kind of woman is't?

VIO.

Of your complexion.

DUKE.

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

VIO.

About your years, my lord.

DUKE.

Too old, by heaven. Let still the woman take

An 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.

VIO.

I think it well, my lord.

DUKE.

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,

Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;

For women are as roses, whose fair flow'r

Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

VIO.

And so they are; alas, that they are so!

To die, even when they to perfection grow!

 

Enter Curio and Clown.

 

DUKE.

O fellow, come, the song we had last night.

Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain.

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chaunt it.