.
The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing
constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,
that cons state without book and utters it by great
swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so
crammed, 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 colour 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 colour.
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 adored 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'
the 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.
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.
He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it.
Who was it?
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady
Olivia's father took much delight in. He is