A room in Olivia’s house.
(Sir Toby; Sir Andrew; Clown; Maria; Malvolio)
Sir Toby and Sir Andrew sneak back in well after midnight, distinctly un-sober. Toby calls for Maria to bring them more wine. Feste joins them and the three begin to have a merry time. Toby is soon paying Feste to sing for them. Soon they are all drunkenly singing together. Maria comes in to warn them to quiet down, as they have probably woken Olivia by now, and she will have called up Malvolio. They pay absolutely no attention. Malvolio storms in to demand peace and quiet on Olivia’s behalf, and threatens to have Toby kicked out of the house if he doesn’t mend his ways. Toby reminds him that he is only a servant, and he takes it out on Maria, threatening to tell Olivia that Maria aids and abets Sir Toby and his company. He leaves in a huff. They decide to revenge themselves on him, using his own self-importance against him. Maria, whose handwriting looks a great deal like Olivia’s, plans to con him into thinking that the Countess is in love with him, and hereby to make him act like a fool. She leaves as Sir Toby and Sir Andrew admire her. Toby tells Andrew that he’ll need to send for more money; Andrew is a little worried, as if he does not win Olivia’s hand he will have spent a huge amount on nothing. But Toby reassures him on that count. (98 lines)
Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew.
Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes, and “deliculo surgere,” thou know’st—
Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know, to be up late is to be up late.
A false conclusion. I hate it as an unfill’d can. To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is early; so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four elements?
Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.
Th’ art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say, a stoup of wine!
Here comes the fool, i’ faith.
How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”?
Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus. ’Twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman; hadst it?
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Mermidons are no bottle-ale houses.
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now a song.
Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.
There’s a testril of me too. If one knight give a—
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
A love-song, a love-song.
Ay, ay. I care not for good life.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear, your true-love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.
Excellent good, i’ faith.
What is love? ’Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty;
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
A contagious breath.
Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?
And you love me, let’s do’t. I am dog at a catch.
By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Most certain. Let our catch be “Thou knave.”
“Hold thy peace, thou knave,” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight.
’Tis not the first time I have constrain’d one to call me knave. Begin, fool. It begins, “Hold thy peace.”
I shall never begin if I hold my peace.
Good, i’ faith. Come, begin.
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not call’d up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and
“Three merry men be we.”
Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! Lady!
“There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.”
Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.
Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos’d, and so do I too. He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
“O’ the twelfth day of December”—
For the love o’ God, peace!
My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that though she harbors you as her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
“Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.”
Nay, good Sir Toby.
“His eyes do show his days are almost done.”
Is’t even so?
“But I will never die.”
Sir Toby, there you lie.
This is much credit to you.
“Shall I bid him go?”
“What and if you do?”
“Shall I bid him go, and spare not?”
“O no, no, no, no, you dare not.”
Out o’ tune, sir! Ye lie.
Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ th’ mouth too.
Th’ art i’ th’ right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stope of wine, Maria!
Mistress Mary, if you priz’d my lady’s favor at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule. She shall know of it, by this hand.
Go shake your ears.
’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him.
Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge, or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s was today with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into an ayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it.
Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog!
What, for being a puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.
The dev’l a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser, an affection’d ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so cramm’d (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
What wilt thou do?
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the color of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
Excellent, I smell a device.
I have’t in my nose too.
He shall think by the letters that thou wilt drop that they come from my niece, and that she’s in love with him.
My purpose is indeed a horse of that color.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
Ass, I doubt not.
O, ’twill be admirable!
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.
Good night, Penthesilea.
Before me, she’s a good wench.
She’s a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that?
I was ador’d once too.
Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut.
If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight, come, knight.