Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 2

Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

Weren't you just now with the Countess Olivia?

Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

Just now, sir; walking at an ordinary pace, I've only got this far since.

She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so.

She returns this ring to you, sir; you could have spared me the trouble by taking it away yourself. She says, besides, that you should make your lord absolutely certain that she will have nothing to do with him. And one more thing: that you never be so bold as to come again on his business, unless it's to report how your lord took this news. Take it on those terms.

She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it.

She took the ring from me: I want nothing to do with it.

Come sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

Come on, sir, you threw it at her in a temper; and her wish is that it should be given back the same way. If it's worth bending down for, there it lies in plain sight; if not, let it belong to whoever finds it.

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!

I left no ring with her; what does this lady mean? Heaven forbid that my appearance has charmed her! She looked me over carefully, indeed so much that I thought her eyes had robbed her of her tongue, because she spoke in fits and starts, distractedly. She loves me, certainly; the craftiness of her passion invites me back through this rude messenger. None of my lord's ring? Why, he sent her none. I am the man she wants; if that's so, as it is, poor lady, she'd do better to love a dream. Disguise, I see you are a wicked thing in which the resourceful devil accomplishes a great deal. How easy it is for handsome deceivers to stamp their images in women's hearts of wax! Alas, our weakness is the cause, not we ourselves, for whatever we are made of, that is what we are. How will this work out? My master loves her dearly, and I, poor monster, am just as much in love with him, and she, mistaken, seems to be infatuated with me. What will come of this? As long as I am a man, there's no hope of my master's love for me; as long as I am a woman — oh, sad day! — how many wasted sighs poor Olivia will breathe! Oh time, you must untangle this, not I; it's too hard a knot for me to untie!