Feste

Maria
Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I
will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter
in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang thee for thy
absence.
Feste
Let her hang me. He that is well hanged in this
world needs to fear no colors.
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Feste
—God bless thee, lady!
Olivia
Take the Fool away.
Feste
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the Lady.
Olivia
Go to, you’re a dry Fool. I’ll no more of you.
Besides, you grow dishonest.
Feste
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel
will amend.
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What is love? ‘Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me sweet and twenty;
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.
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Sir Andrew Aguecheek
Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling when
all is done. Now, a song!
Sir Toby Belch, giving money to the Fool
Come on, there is
sixpence for you. Let’s have a song.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek, giving money to the Fool
There’s a testril of
me, too. If one knight give a—
Fool
Would you have a love song or a song of good
life?
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Malvolio
My masters, are you mad? Or what are you?
Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty but to
gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do you
make an ale-house of my lady’s house, that you
squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation
or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of
place,
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Orsino
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.—
Mark it, Cesario. It is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun
And the free maids that weave their thread with
bones
Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.
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Viola
Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live
by thy tabor?
Fool
No, sir, I live by the church.
Viola
Art thou a churchman?
Fool
No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I
do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.
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Viola
Hold, there’s expenses for thee.
 Giving a coin.
Fool
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,  aside  though I would not have it grow on my
chin.—Is thy lady within?
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Malvolio
Who calls there?
Fool
Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio
the lunatic.
Malvolio
Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to
my lady—

I say there is no darkness but ignorance,
in which thou art more puzzled than
the Egyptians in their fog.
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And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
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