[Enter MALVOLIO.]
MALVOLIO. ‘T is but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on ‘t?
SIR TOBY.
Here ‘s an overweening rogue!
FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanc’d plumes!
SIR ANDREW.
‘Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio!
SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!
SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.
SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace!
MALVOLIO. There is example for’t: the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
FABIAN.
O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.
MALVOLIO.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,—
SIR TOBY.
O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branch’d velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,—
SIR TOBY.
Fire and brimstone!
FABIAN.
O, peace, peace!
MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour of state; and, after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place, as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby,—
SIR TOBY.
Bolts and shackles!
FABIAN.
O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my— some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me,—
SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?
FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,—
SIR TOBY.
And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips, then?
MALVOLIO. Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech,’—
SIR TOBY.
What, what?
MALVOLIO.
‘You must amend your drunkenness.’—
SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!
FABIAN.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
MALVOLIO. ‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,’—
SIR ANDREW.
That’s me, I warrant you.
MALVOLIO.
‘One Sir Andrew.’
SIR ANDREW.
I knew ‘t was I; for many do call me fool.
MALVOLIO.
What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter.]
FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
SIR TOBY. O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!
MALVOLIO.
By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her
U’s, and her T’s; and thus makes she her great P’s. It is, in
contempt of question, her hand.
SIR ANDREW.
Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s; why that?
MALVOLIO. [Reads] To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes:— her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal; ‘t is my lady. To whom should this be?
FABIAN.
This wins him, liver and all.
MALVOLIO.
[Reads]
Jove knows I love;
But who?
Lips, do not move;
No man must know.
‘No man must know.’ What follows? the numbers alter’d!
‘No man must know.’ If this should be thee, Malvolio?
SIR TOBY.
Marry, hang thee, brock!
MALVOLIO.
[Reads]
I may command where I adore;
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.
FABIAN.
A fustian riddle!
SIR TOBY.
Excellent wench, say I.
MALVOLIO. ‘M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.’ Nay, but first, let me see, let me see, let me see.
FABIAN.
What dish o’ poison has she dress’d him!
SIR TOBY.
And with what wing the staniel checks at it!
MALVOLIO. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me; I serve her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity; there is no obstruction in this: and the end,— what should that alphabetical position portend? if I could make that resemble something in me!— Softly! M, O, A, I,—
SIR TOBY.
O, ay, make up that; he is now at a cold scent.
FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon ‘t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.
MALVOLIO.
M,— Malvolio; M,—why, that begins my name.
FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is excellent at faults.
MALVOLIO. M,— but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: A should follow, but O does.
FABIAN.
And O shall end, I hope.
SIR TOBY.
Ay, or I ‘ll cudgel him, and make him cry O!
MALVOLIO.