Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • Title: Twelfth Night (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editors: David Carnegie, Mark Houlahan
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-372-4

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editors: David Carnegie, Mark Houlahan
    Peer Reviewed

    Twelfth Night (Folio 1, 1623)

    655Scaena Secunda.
    Enter Viola and Maluolio, at seuerall doores.
    Mal. Were not you eu'n now, with the Countesse O-
    Vio. Euen now sir, on a moderate pace, I haue since a-
    660riu'd but hither.
    Mal. She returnes this Ring to you (sir) you might
    haue saued mee my paines, to haue taken it away your
    selfe. She adds moreouer, that you should put your Lord
    into a desperate assurance, she will none of him. And one
    665thing more, that you be neuer so hardie to come againe
    in his affaires, vnlesse it bee to report your Lords taking
    of this: receiue it so.
    Vio. She tooke the Ring of me, Ile none of it.
    Mal. Come sir, you peeuishly threw it to her: and
    670her will is, it should be so return'd: If it bee worth stoo-
    ping for, there it lies, in your eye: if not, bee it his that
    findes it. Exit.
    Vio. I left no Ring with her: what meanes this Lady?
    Fortune forbid my out-side haue not charm'd her:
    675She made good view of me, indeed so much,
    That me thought her eyes had lost her tongue,
    For she did speake in starts distractedly.
    She loues me sure, the cunning of her passion
    Inuites me in this churlish messenger:
    680None of my Lords Ring? Why he sent her none;
    I am the man, if it be so, as tis,
    Poore Lady, she were better loue a dreame:
    Disguise, I see thou art a wickednesse,
    Wherein the pregnant enemie does much.
    685How easie is it, for the proper false
    In womens waxen hearts to set their formes:
    Alas, O frailtie is the cause, not wee,
    For such as we are made, if such we bee:
    How will this fadge? My master loues her deerely,
    690And I (poore monster) fond asmuch on him:
    And she (mistaken) seemes to dote on me:
    What will become of this? As I am man,
    My state is desperate for my maisters loue:
    As I am woman (now alas the day)
    695What thriftlesse sighes shall poore Oliuia breath?
    O time, thou must vntangle this, not I,
    It is too hard a knot for me t'vnty.