O, fellow, come, the song we had last night
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
Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.
Are you ready, sir?
Ay, prithee, sing.
Music. The Song.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath,
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there.
Orsino, giving money
There's for thy pains.
No pains, sir. I take pleasure in singing, sir.
I'll pay thy pleasure, then.
Fool Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or
Give me now leave to leave thee.
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. He exits.
Let all the rest give place.