Twelfth Night

If music be the food of love, play on.
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again! It had a dying fall.
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough; no more.

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
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Andrew
Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch?
Toby
Sweet Sir Andrew!
Andrew, to Maria
Bless you, fair shrew.

Methinks sometimes I have no more wit
than a Christian or an ordinary man has.

Maria 
And you too, sir.
Toby
Accost,
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Viola
On your attendance, my lord, here.
Orsino, to Curio and Attendants
Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario,
Thou know’st no less but all. I have unclasped
To thee the book even of my secret soul.
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her.
Be not denied access. Stand at her doors
And tell them,
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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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Olivia
Tell me your mind.
Viola
I am a messenger.
Olivia
Sure you have some hideous matter to deliver
when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.

I see you what you are. You are too proud.
But if you were the devil you are fair.

Viola
It alone concerns your ear.
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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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