Author: William ShakespeareEditors: David Carnegie, Mark HoulahanPeer Reviewed
Twelfth Night (Folio 1, 1623)
250Enter Valentine, and Viola in mans attire. 251Val. If the Duke continue the
se fauours towards you
252Cesario, you are like to be much aduanc'd, he hath known
253you but three dayes, and already you are no
stranger.
254Vio. You either feare his humour, or my negligence,
255that you call in que
stion the continuance of his loue. Is
256he incon
stant
sir, in his fauours.
Val. No beleeue me.
257Enter Duke, Curio, and Attendants. 258Vio. I thanke you: heere comes the Count.
259Duke. Who
saw
Cesario hoa?
260Vio. On your attendance my Lord heere.
261Du. Stand you a-while aloofe.
Cesario, 262Thou know
st no le
sse, but all: I haue vncla
sp'd
263To thee the booke euen of my
secret
soule.
264Therefore good youth, addre
sse thy gate vnto her,
265Be not deni'de acce
sse,
stand at her doores,
266And tell them, there thy
fixed foot
shall grow
267Till thou haue audience.
268Vio. Sure my Noble Lord,
269If
she be
so abandon'd to her
sorrow
270As it is
spoke,
she neuer will admit me.
271Du, Be clamorous, and leape all ciuill bounds,
272Rather then make vnpro
fited returne,
273Vio. Say I do
speake with her (my Lord) what then?
274Du. O then, vnfold the pa
ssi}on of my loue,
275Surprize her with di
scour
se of my deere faith;
276It
shall become thee well to a
ct my woes:
277She will attend it better in thy youth,
278Then in a Nuntio's of more graue a
spe
ct.
279Vio. I thinke not
so, my Lord.
280Du. Deere Lad, beleeue it;
281For they
shall yet belye thy happy yeeres,
282That
say thou art a man:
Dianas lip
283Is not more
smooth, and rubious: thy
small pipe
284Is as the maidens organ,
shrill, and
sound,
285And all is
semblatiue a womans part.
286I know thy con
stellation is right apt
287For this a
ffayre:
some foure or
fiue attend him,
288All if you will: for I my
selfe am be
st 289When lea
st in companie: pro
sper well in this,
290And thou
shalt liue as freely as thy Lord,
291To call his fortunes thine.
293To woe your Lady: yet a barrefull
strife,
294Who ere I woe, my
selfe would be his wife.
Exeunt.