Twelfth Night: Or What You Will Page #4

- I am.

- I will on with my speech in your praise

- Come to what is important in't: I forgive you the praise.

- Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical.

- It is the more like to be feigned...

I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed

your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you.

If you be not mad, be gone

if you have reason, be brief.

Will you hoist sail, sir?

Here lies your way.

No, good swabber

I am to hull here a little longer.

- Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady?

- Speak your office.

It alone concerns your ear.

I bring no overture of war,

my words are of peace as matter.

Yet you began rudely.

What are you? what would you?

The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I

learned from my entertainment.

What I am, and what I would,

are as secret as maidenhead...

to your ears, divinity,

to any other's, profanation.

Give us the place alone...

we will hear this divinity.

Now Sir, what is your text?

- Most sweet lady,

-A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it.

-Where lies your text?

-In Orsino's bosom.

- In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?

-in the first of his heart.

O, I have read it: it is heresy.

-Have you no more to say?

-Good madam, let me see your face.

Have you any commission from your lord

to negotiate with my face?

You are now out of your text: but

we will draw the curtain and show you the picture.

Look you, sir, such a one I was this present:

is't not well done?

Excellently done,

if God did all.

'Tis in grain, sir

'twill endure wind and weather.

'Tis beauty truly blent,

Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,

If you will lead these graces to the grave

And leave the world no copy.

O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted.

I will giveout divers schedules of my beauty:

it shall be inventoried,

and every particle and utensil labelled to my will:

as, item, two lips, indifferent red

item, two brown eyes, with lids to them

item, one neck, one chin, and so forth.

I see you what you are, you are too proud

But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you:

O, such love could be but recompensed,

though you were crown'd the nonpareil of beauty!

How does he love me?

With adorations

fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love,

with sighs of fire.

Your lord does know my mind

I cannot love him:

Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,

Of great estate,

of fresh and stainless youth

learn'd and valiant

but yet I cannot love him

If I did love you in my master's flame,

With such a suffering,

such a deadly life,

In your denial I would find no sense

I would not understand it.

Why, what would you?

Make me a willow cabin

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