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CLOWN.
Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy
doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal!--I
would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business
might be everything, and their intent everywhere; for that's it
that always makes a good voyage of nothing.--Farewell.
[Exit CLOWN.]
DUKE.
Let all the rest give place.--
[Exeunt CURIO and Attendants.]
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty:
Tell her my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems
That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.
VIOLA.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
DUKE.
I cannot be so answer'd.
VIOLA.
'Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so. Must she not then be answer'd?
DUKE.
There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,--
No motion of the liver, but the palate,--
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much: make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.
VIOLA.
Ay, but I know,--
DUKE.
What dost thou know?
VIOLA.
Too well what love women to men may owe.
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter loved a man,
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
DUKE.
And what's her history?
VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
DUKE.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
VIOLA.
I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too;--and yet I know not.--
Sir, shall I to this lady?
DUKE.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste: give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V.
OLIVIA'S garden.