Twelfth Night, Act 1, Scene 4

If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger.

If the duke keeps showing you these favours, Cesario, you're likely to be promoted a great deal. He's only known you three days, and already you're no outsider.

You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

You must be afraid either of his moods or of my carelessness, since you question whether his affection will last. Is he changeable, sir, in the favour he shows?

No, believe me.

No, believe me.

I thank you. Here comes the Count.

Thank you. Here comes the Count.

Who saw Cesario, ho?

Hello—who has seen Cesario?

On your attendance, my lord, here.

Right here, my lord, ready to serve you.

Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario, Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d 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, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience.

The rest of you stand back a while.—Cesario, you know everything, no less than all of it; I have opened up to you the very book of my secret soul. So, good young man, take yourself to her, don't let them refuse you entry, stand at her doors, and tell them that your foot will stay planted there and take root until you are given a hearing.

Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me.

Surely, my noble lord, if she has given herself over to her grief as completely as people say, she will never let me in.

Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return.

Make a noise and leap over all the limits of politeness, rather than come back with nothing gained.

Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?

Suppose I do speak with her, my lord—what then?

O then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith; It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect.

Oh, then lay out the passion of my love, astonish her with an account of my devoted faithfulness. It will suit you well to perform my sorrows; she'll pay more attention to it coming from someone as young as you than from a messenger with a more serious look.

I think not so, my lord.

I don't think so, my lord.

Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman’s part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair. Some four or five attend him: All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company. Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine.

Dear boy, believe it. Anyone who says you are a man is telling lies about your happy young years. Diana's lip is not smoother or redder; your small voice is like a girl's, high and clear, and everything about you is like a woman's role. I know your birth-star is exactly right for this business. Four or five of you go with him—all of you, if you like; I'm at my best when I have the least company. Succeed in this, and you shall live as freely as your master, and call his fortunes your own.

I’ll do my best To woo your lady. [Aside.] Yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife.

I'll do my best to court your lady. [Aside.] Yet what an obstructed struggle! Whoever I court, I'd want to be his wife myself.