Twelfth Night, Act 2, Scene 5

Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.

Come along, Signior Fabian.

Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

No, I'm coming. If I miss the smallest scrap of this fun, let me be boiled to death in gloom.

Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?

Wouldn't you be glad to see that stingy, rascally dog of a sneak brought to some remarkable disgrace?

I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here.

I'd be overjoyed, man. You know he got me out of favour with my lady over a bear-baiting here.

To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew?

To make him angry we'll have the bear here again, and we'll make a fool of him black and blue, won't we, Sir Andrew?

And we do not, it is pity of our lives.

If we don't, our lives are a waste.

Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India?

Here comes the little villain. Well now, my gold of India?

Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk; he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.] Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

All three of you get into the box-tree. Malvolio's coming down this path; he's been over there in the sun for the last half hour practising poses to his own shadow. Watch him, for the love of mockery, because I know this letter will turn him into a daydreaming idiot. Keep close, in the name of joking! [The men hide themselves.] You lie there; [Throws down a letter] because here comes the trout that has to be caught by tickling.

’Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me, and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t?

It's only luck, everything is luck. Maria once told me she was fond of me, and I've heard her come this close to saying that if she were to fall in love, it would be with someone of my looks. Besides, she treats me with more raised respect than anyone else who serves her. What am I to think of it?

Here’s an overweening rogue!

What an arrogant rogue!

O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!

Oh, quiet! Brooding turns him into a fine turkey-cock; look how he struts with his feathers raised!

’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

By God's light, I could give that rogue such a beating!

Peace, I say.

Quiet, I say.

To be Count Malvolio.

To be Count Malvolio.

Ah, rogue!

Ah, the rogue!

Pistol him, pistol him.

Shoot him, shoot him.

Peace, peace.

Quiet, quiet.

There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

There's a precedent for it. The lady of the Strachy married the man who looked after the wardrobe.

Fie on him, Jezebel!

Shame on him, the proud creature!

O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.

Oh, quiet! Now he's deep in it; look how imagination puffs him up.

Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state—

Having been married to her three months, sitting in my chair of state—

O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye!

Oh, for a catapult to hit him in the eye!

Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.

Summoning my officers around me, in my velvet gown with its branching pattern; having just got up from a couch where I've left Olivia sleeping.

Fire and brimstone!

Fire and brimstone!

O, peace, peace.

Oh, quiet, quiet.

And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby.

And then to take on the manner of a great man; and after a grave sweep of my eyes over them, telling them I know my position as I would like them to know theirs, I ask for my relative Toby.

Bolts and shackles!

Bolts and shackles!

O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now.

Oh, quiet, quiet, quiet! Now, now.

Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me—

Seven of my servants, flinching into obedience, go off to fetch him. Meanwhile I frown, and maybe wind up my watch, or play with some expensive jewel. Toby comes up; bows to me there—

Shall this fellow live?

Is this fellow to be allowed to live?

Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace!

Even if our silence has to be dragged out of us with wagons, still keep quiet!

I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control—

I hold out my hand to him like this, putting out my usual friendly smile with a stern look of authority—

And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then?

And doesn't Toby give you a punch on the mouth then?

Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech—’

Saying, 'Cousin Toby, since my luck has joined me to your niece, allow me this right to speak—'

What, what?

What, what?

‘You must amend your drunkenness.’

'You must cure your drunkenness.'

Out, scab!

Get out, you scab!

Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.

No, be patient, or we'll snap the sinews of our plot.

‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—’

'Besides, you throw away the treasure of your time on a foolish knight—'

That’s me, I warrant you.

That's me, I promise you.

‘One Sir Andrew.’

'One Sir Andrew.'

I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool.

I knew it was me, because plenty of people call me a fool.

[Taking up the letter.] What employment have we here?

[Taking up the letter.] What business have we here?

Now is the woodcock near the gin.

Now the woodcock is close to the snare.

O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!

Oh, quiet! And may the spirit of whims suggest to him that he read it aloud!

By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s, and thus makes she her great P’s. It is in contempt of question, her hand.

On my life, this is my lady's handwriting: these are exactly her C's, her U's and her T's, and this is how she makes her capital P's. Beyond any question, it's her hand.

Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that?

Her C's, her U's and her T's. Why does he say that?

[Reads.] To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes. Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be?

[Reads.] 'To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes.' Her very own way of putting it! With your permission, wax. Gently! And the stamp is her figure of Lucrece, the one she always seals with: it's my lady. Who can this be for?

This wins him, liver and all.

This catches him, liver and all.

[Reads.] Jove knows I love, But who? Lips, do not move, No man must know.

[Reads.] 'Jove knows I love, but who? Lips, don't move, no one must know.'

‘No man must know.’ What follows? The numbers alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio?

'No one must know.' What comes next? The metre has changed! 'No one must know.' — What if this should be you, Malvolio?

Marry, hang thee, brock!

Oh, go and hang, you badger!

I may command where I adore, But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.

'I may give orders where I worship, but silence, like a knife such as Lucrece used, stabs my heart without drawing blood; M.O.A.I. rules my life.'

A fustian riddle!

A pompous riddle!

Excellent wench, say I.

An excellent girl, I say.

‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.

'M.O.A.I. rules my life.' — No, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.

What dish o’ poison has she dressed him!

What a dish of poison she has cooked up for him!

And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

And with what a beat of the wings the hawk swoops at it!

‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And the end—what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me! Softly! ‘M.O.A.I.’—

'I may give orders where I worship.' Well, she may give me orders: I serve her, she is my mistress. Why, this is clear to any ordinary intelligence. There's no difficulty here. And the ending — what can that arrangement of letters mean? If only I could make it match something in me! Gently! 'M.O.A.I.' —

O, ay, make up that:—he is now at a cold scent.

Oh, yes, work that out: — he's lost the scent now.

Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox.

The hound will still bay after it, even though the scent is as strong as a fox's.

‘M’—Malvolio; ‘M!’ Why, that begins my name!

"M"—Malvolio; "M!" Why, that's the letter my name starts with!

Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults.

Didn't I say he would puzzle it out? The dog is brilliant at picking up a lost trail.

‘M’—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: ‘A’ should follow, but ‘O’ does.

"M"—but then what comes after doesn't match; it doesn't hold up under testing: "A" ought to follow, but "O" does.

And ‘O’ shall end, I hope.

And "O" is how it will end, I hope.

Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry ‘O!’

Yes, or I'll beat him with a club and make him cry "Oh!"

And then ‘I’ comes behind.

And then "I" comes after.

Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.

Yes, and if you had an eye in the back of your head, you'd see more mockery at your heels than good luck ahead of you.

‘M.O.A.I.’ This simulation is not as the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft, here follows prose. [Reads.] If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so. If not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, The Fortunate Unhappy.

"M.O.A.I." This puzzle isn't as straightforward as the earlier part; and yet, if I force it a little, it would bend to fit me, because every one of these letters is in my name. Wait—prose follows here. [He reads.] If this falls into your hand, think it over. In my position I am above you, but don't be afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness forced on them. Your destiny is holding out its hands to you; let your passion and courage take hold of it. And, to get used to what you are likely to become, throw off your humble skin and appear as something new. Be argumentative with a relative, rude to the servants. Let your tongue ring out with talk of affairs of state; take on the manner of someone remarkable. The woman who sighs for you gives you this advice. Remember who admired your yellow stockings, and wanted to see you always with your garters crossed. I say, remember. Come on, you are a made man, if you want to be. If not, let me go on seeing you as a steward, just another servant, not fit to touch Fortune's fingers. Goodbye. From she who would change places with you in service, The Fortunate Unhappy.

Daylight and champian discovers not more! This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered, and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. [Reads.] Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee. Jove, I thank thee. I will smile, I will do everything that thou wilt have me.

Broad daylight over open country reveals no more than this! This is plain. I will be proud, I will read books on statecraft, I will humiliate Sir Toby, I will scrub away my low-class friends, I will be exactly right, the very man she wants. I'm not fooling myself now, letting my imagination trick me; because every argument points to this, that my lady loves me. She did praise my yellow stockings recently, she did praise my leg with the garters crossed, and in this letter she shows herself to my love, and with a kind of order she drives me to dress the way she likes. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be distant and haughty, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, as fast as I can put them on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here's another note added at the end. [He reads.] You cannot help knowing who I am. If you accept my love, let it show in your smiling; your smiles suit you well. So when I'm there always smile, my dear sweet, please. Jove, I thank you. I will smile, I will do everything you want me to.

I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

I wouldn't trade my share in this fun for a pension of thousands paid by the Shah of Persia.

I could marry this wench for this device.

I could marry this girl for coming up with this trick.

So could I too.

So could I.

And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.

And ask no other dowry with her than another joke like this one.

Nor I neither.

Nor would I.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

Here comes my noble trapper of fools.

Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck?

Will you put your foot on my neck?

Or o’ mine either?

Or on mine, for that matter?

Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

Shall I gamble away my freedom at dice and become your slave?

I’ faith, or I either?

Honestly, or shall I?

Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

Why, you have put him into such a dream that when the vision of it leaves him he'll have to go mad.

Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?

No, but tell me the truth, is it working on him?

Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

Like strong liquor on a midwife.

If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.

Then if you want to see the results of the joke, watch how he first comes up to my lady: he'll come to her in yellow stockings, and it's a colour she hates, and with his garters crossed, a fashion she can't stand; and he'll smile at her, which will be so out of keeping with her mood, given how devoted to sadness she is, that it's bound to make her hold him in open contempt. If you want to see it, follow me.

To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!

To the gates of Tartar, you most excellent devil of wit!

I’ll make one too.

I'll come along too.