MARIA. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter. Observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea. SIR ANDREW. Before me, she’s a good wench. SIR TOBY. She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that? SIR ANDREW. I was adored once too. SIR TOBY. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money. SIR ANDREW. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut. SIR ANDREW. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. SIR TOBY. Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight, come, knight. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and others. DUKE. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night; Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse. CURIO. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. DUKE. Who was it? CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house. DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [_Exit Curio. Music plays._] Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me: For such as I am, all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune? VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned. DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy? VIOLA. A little, by your favour. DUKE. What kind of woman is’t? VIOLA. Of your complexion. DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith? VIOLA. About your years, my lord. DUKE. Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are. VIOLA. I think it well, my lord. DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. VIOLA. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! Enter Curio and Clown.