An. If I do not, neuer trust me, take it how you will To. Come, come, Ile go burne some Sacke, tis too late to go to bed now: Come knight, come knight. Exeunt. Scena Quarta. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio, and others Du. Giue me some Musick; Now good morow frends. Now good Cesario, but that peece of song, That old and Anticke song we heard last night; Me thought it did releeue my passion much, More then light ayres, and recollected termes Of these most briske and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse Cur. He is not heere (so please your Lordshippe) that should sing it? Du. Who was it? Cur. Feste the Iester my Lord, a foole that the Ladie Oliuiaes Father tooke much delight in. He is about the house Du. Seeke him out, and play the tune the while. Musicke playes. Come hither Boy, if euer thou shalt loue In the sweet pangs of it, remember me: For such as I am, all true Louers are, Vnstaid and skittish in all motions else, Saue in the constant image of the creature That is belou'd. How dost thou like this tune? Vio. It giues a verie eccho to the seate Where loue is thron'd Du. Thou dost speake masterly, My life vpon't, yong though thou art, thine eye Hath staid vpon some fauour that it loues: Hath it not boy? Vio. A little, by your fauour Du. What kinde of woman ist? Vio. Of your complection Du. She is not worth thee then. What yeares ifaith? Vio. About your yeeres my Lord Du. Too old by heauen: Let still the woman take An elder then her selfe, so weares she to him; So swayes she leuell in her husbands heart: For boy, howeuer we do praise our selues, Our fancies are more giddie and vnfirme, More longing, wauering, sooner lost and worne, Then womens are Vio. I thinke it well my Lord Du. Then let thy Loue be yonger then thy selfe, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as Roses, whose faire flowre Being once displaid, doth fall that verie howre Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so: To die, euen when they to perfection grow. Enter Curio & Clowne. Du. O fellow come, the song we had last night: Marke it Cesario, it is old and plaine; The Spinsters and the Knitters in the Sun, And the free maides that weaue their thred with bones, Do vse to chaunt it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of loue, Like the old age Clo. Are you ready Sir? Duke. I prethee sing. Musicke. The Song. Come away, come away death, And in sad cypresse let me be laide. Fye away, fie away breath, I am slaine by a faire cruell maide: My shrowd of white, stuck all with Ew, O prepare it. My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweete On my blacke coffin, let there be strewne: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poore corpes, where my bones shall be throwne: A thousand thousand sighes to saue, lay me o where Sad true louer neuer find my graue, to weepe there Du. There's for thy paines Clo. No paines sir, I take pleasure in singing sir