Disguise, I see thou art wickedness, Wherein the pregnant enemy does much; How easy is it for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we. The feminine cowardice of Viola, which will not allow her even to affect a courage becoming her attire,--her horror at the idea of drawing a sword, is very natural and characteristic; and produces a most humorous effect, even at the very moment it charms and interests us. Contrasted with the deep, silent, patient love of Viola for the Duke, we have the lady-like wilfulness of Olivia; and her sudden passion, or rather fancy, for the disguised page, takes so beautiful a coloring of poetry and sentiment, that we do not think her forward. Olivia is like a princess of romance, and has all the privileges of one; she is, like Portia, high born and high bred, mistress over her servants--but not like Portia, "queen o'er herself." She has never in her life been opposed; the first contradiction, therefore, rouses all the woman in her, and turns a caprice into a headlong passion; yet she apologizes for herself. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honor too unchary out; There's something in me that reproves my fault; But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof! And in the midst of her self-abandonment, never allows us to contemn, even while we pity her:-- What shall you ask of me that I'll deny. That honor, saved, may upon asking give? The distance of rank which separates the Countess from the youthful page--the real sex of Viola--the dignified elegance of Olivia's deportment, except where passion gets the better of her pride--her consistent coldness towards the Duke--the description of that "smooth, discreet, and stable bearing" with which she rules her household--her generous care for her steward Malvolio, in the midst of her own distress,--all these circumstances raise Olivia in our fancy, and render her caprice for the page a source of amusement and interest, not a subject of reproach. _Twelfth Night_ is a genuine comedy;--a perpetual spring of the gayest and the sweetest fancies. In artificial society men and women are divided into castes and classes, and it is rarely that extremes in character or manners can approximate. To blend into one harmonious picture the utmost grace and refinement of sentiment, and the broadest effects of humor; the most poignant wit, and the most indulgent benignity;--in short, to bring before us in the same scene, Viola and Olivia, with Malvolio and Sir Toby, belonged only to Nature and to Shakspeare. OPHELIA. A woman's affections, however strong, are sentiments, when they run smooth; and become passions only when opposed.