Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 4

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.

Give me some music. Now, good morning, friends. Now, good Cesario, just that bit of song, that old, old-fashioned song we heard last night. It seemed to me it eased my suffering a great deal, more than the light tunes and studied phrases of these quick, dizzy-paced times. Come, just one verse.

He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.

The man who should sing it is not here, if it please your lordship.

Who was it?

Who was it?

Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house.

Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia's father took a lot of pleasure in. He is somewhere about the house.

Seek him out, and play the tune the while.

Go find him, and play the tune in the meantime.

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?

Come here, boy. If you ever fall in love, remember me in its sweet pains, for all true lovers are as I am: unsteady and restless in every other impulse, except in the unchanging image of the one who is loved. How do you like this tune?

It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned.

It echoes exactly from the throne where love sits enthroned.

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?

You speak like an expert. I'll stake my life on it: young as you are, your eye has settled on some face it loves. Hasn't it, boy?

A little, by your favour.

A little, by your leave.

What kind of woman is’t?

What sort of woman is she?

Of your complexion.

She looks like you.

She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?

Then she isn't worth you. What age, honestly?

About your years, my lord.

About your age, my lord.

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.

Too old, by heaven! A woman should always take a man older than herself; that way she adapts to him, that way she keeps her balance in her husband's heart. For, boy, however much we praise ourselves, our desires are more dizzy and unsteady, more craving, more changeable, more quickly spent and worn out, than women's are.

I think it well, my lord.

I think that's true, my lord.

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.

Then let your beloved be younger than you are, or your affection won't keep its tension. For women are like roses: once their lovely flower is open, it drops that very hour.

And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow!

And so they are. What a pity they are so, to die just when they come to their perfection!

O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age.

Oh, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Pay attention to it, Cesario. It is old and simple. The women spinning thread and the women knitting out in the sun, and the carefree girls who weave their thread with bone bobbins, usually sing it. It is the plain truth, and it plays with the innocence of love the way people did in the old days.

Are you ready, sir?

Are you ready, sir?

Ay; prithee, sing.

Yes. Please, sing.

Come away, come away, death. And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death no one so true Did share it.

Come to me, come to me, death, and let me be laid in a coffin of gloomy cypress wood. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am killed by a beautiful, cruel girl. My white shroud, all stuck with sprigs of yew — oh, get it ready! No one so faithful ever played my part in dying.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there.

Not a flower, not one sweet flower, let be scattered on my black coffin. Not a friend, not one friend, come to greet my poor body where my bones will be thrown. To spare a thousand thousand sighs, lay me, oh, where no sad true lover will ever find my grave, to weep there.

There’s for thy pains.

There's payment for your trouble.

No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.

No trouble, sir. I take pleasure in singing, sir.

I’ll pay thy pleasure, then.

Then I'll pay for your pleasure.

Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.

True, sir, and pleasure does get paid for one time or another.

Give me now leave to leave thee.

Now give me permission to leave you.

Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

Now may the god of melancholy protect you, and may the tailor make your jacket out of shot silk that changes colour, because your mind is exactly like an opal. I'd like men of such constancy sent to sea, so their business could be everything and their destination everywhere, because that's what always makes a good voyage out of nothing. Goodbye.

Let all the rest give place.

Let everyone else withdraw.

Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty. Tell her my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, Tell her I hold as giddily as fortune; But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.

Once more, Cesario, go to that same royal cruelty. Tell her my love, nobler than the world, sets no value on acres of dirty land. The wealth that fortune has given her I hold as lightly as fortune itself, tell her; but it is that miracle, that queen of jewels, which nature has dressed her in that draws my soul.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

But what if she cannot love you, sir?

I cannot be so answer’d.

I cannot accept such an answer.

Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d?

Truly, but you must. Suppose some lady — as perhaps there is — has as great an ache of the heart for love of you as you have for Olivia. You cannot love her; you tell her so. Must she not accept that answer?

There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia.

There is no woman's body that can endure the pounding of as strong a passion as love gives my heart. No woman's heart is big enough to hold so much; they have no capacity to keep it. Unfortunately, their love can only be called appetite — no stirring of the deepest feelings, but of the taste buds, which can be overfed, sickened and disgusted. But mine is as hungry as the sea, and can digest as much. Make no comparison between the love a woman can feel for me and the love I have for Olivia.

Ay, but I know—

Yes, but I know—

What dost thou know?

What do you know?

Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.

Only too well what love women can feel for men. In truth, they are as faithful of heart as we are. My father had a daughter who loved a man, just as I might, perhaps, if I were a woman, love your lordship.

And what’s her history?

And what is her story?

A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.

A blank page, my lord. She never told her love, but let secrecy, like a grub in the flower bud, feed on her rose-pink cheek. She wasted away in brooding, and with a sickly green and yellow sadness she sat like the statue of Patience on a tomb, smiling at grief. Wasn't that love, truly? We men may say more, swear more, but in fact our displays are greater than our real feelings, for we always prove great in our promises and small in our love.

But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

But did your sister die of her love, my boy?

I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady?

I am all the daughters of my father's house, and all the sons too — and yet I don't know. Sir, shall I go to this lady?

Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say My love can give no place, bide no denay.

Yes, that's the point. Go to her quickly. Give her this jewel; tell her my love can give way to nothing and endure no refusal.