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. I thought it eased my suffering a great deal, more than 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 isn't 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 great delight in. He's 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 agonies. All true lovers are as I am: unsteady and restless in everything else they do, except in the unchanging picture of the one they love. How do you like this tune?

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

It echoes the very place 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'd 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, with your permission.

What kind of woman is’t?

What kind of woman is she?

Of your complexion.

She has your colouring.

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

Then she isn't worthy of you. How old is she, 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 suits herself to him, and that way she keeps her balance in her husband's heart. Because, boy, however much we praise ourselves, our desires are more dizzy and unsteady, more full of longing, more changeable, sooner lost and used up, 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 love be younger than you are, or your affection won't stay stretched at full. 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 — it's a pity they are so — to die just as 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's old and simple. The women spinning and knitting in the sun, and the carefree girls who weave their thread with bone bobbins, are in the habit of singing it. It's plain, simple truth, and it plays with the innocence of love the way the old days did.

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 mournful cypress. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am killed by a beautiful cruel girl. My white shroud, stuck all over with yew — oh, get it ready! No one so faithful ever played my part in death.

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 there be scattered on my black coffin. Not a friend, not one friend, greet my poor body where my bones will be thrown. To save a thousand thousand sighs, lay me, oh, somewhere a sad true lover will never 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 allow me 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 of shot taffeta, because your mind is a real opal. I'd like men of such constancy sent off to sea, so that 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.

Everyone else, leave us.

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 sovereign cruelty. Tell her that my love, nobler than the world, sets no value on acres of dirty land. Tell her I care as little for the possessions that fortune has given her as fortune itself does; it's that miracle and queen of jewels that nature dresses her in that draws my soul.

But if she cannot love you, sir?

But what if she can't love you, sir?

I cannot be so answer’d.

I can't accept that 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?

Honestly, 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 can't love her; you tell her so. Mustn't she then take 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's no woman's body that can endure the pounding of a passion as strong as the one love gives my heart; no woman's heart is big enough to hold so much — they can't keep it in. Sadly, their love can only be called appetite, nothing felt in the liver but only on the palate, and it suffers overeating, sickness and disgust. But mine is as hungry as the sea, and can digest as much. Don't make any comparison between the love a woman can feel for me and what I feel 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.

All too well what love women can feel for men. Truly, they're as faithful in 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's 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, my lord. She never told her love, but let secrecy, like a worm in the flower bud, feed on her rose-pink cheek. She wasted away in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat like Patience carved on a tomb, smiling at grief. Wasn't that love, truly? We men may say more, swear more, but really our displays are greater than our will; we always turn out to be big 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 business in hand. Go to her quickly. Give her this jewel; say my love can't give way, can't put up with a refusal.