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VIOLA.
Why, man?
CLOWN.
Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word
might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals,
since bonds disgraced them.
VIOLA.
Thy reason, man?
CLOWN.
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words
are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them.
VIOLA.
I warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest for nothing.
CLOWN.
Not so, sir, I do care for something: but in my conscience,
sir, I do not care for you; if that be to care for nothing, sir,
I would it would make you invisible.
VIOLA.
Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
CLOWN.
No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep
no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands
as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; I am,
indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
VIOLA.
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.
CLOWN.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it
shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be
as oft with your master as with my mistress: I think I saw your
wisdom there.
VIOLA.
Nay, an thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee.
Hold, there's expenses for thee.
CLOWN.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
VIOLA.
By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; though I
would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?
CLOWN.
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
VIOLA.
Yes, being kept together and put to use.
CLOWN.
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a
Cressida to this Troilus.
VIOLA.
I understand you, sir; 'tis well begged.
CLOWN.
The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar:
Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to
them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of
my welkin: I might say element; but the word is overworn.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
This fellow's wise enough to play the fool;
And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art:
For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.]
SIR TOBY.
Save you, gentleman.
VIOLA.
And you, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
VIOLA.
Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
SIR ANDREW.