VIOLA. I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! She made good view of me, indeed, so much, That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none. I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see thou art a 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, For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master’s love; As I am woman (now alas the day!) What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I, It is too hard a knot for me t’untie! [_Exit._] SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know’st. SIR ANDREW. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late. SIR TOBY. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four elements? SIR ANDREW. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking. SIR TOBY. Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine. Enter Clown. SIR ANDREW. Here comes the fool, i’ faith. CLOWN. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”? SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. SIR ANDREW. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it? CLOWN. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. SIR ANDREW. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. SIR TOBY. Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song. SIR ANDREW. There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a— CLOWN. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song. SIR ANDREW. Ay, ay. I care not for good life.