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.

Don't worry, I'm coming. If I miss the tiniest scrap of this fun, let me be boiled to death in melancholy.

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 sheep-biter suffer some spectacular humiliation?

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 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 aren't worth pitying.

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

Here comes the little villain. How are you, 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 behind the box-tree. Malvolio is coming down this path; he's been over there in the sun for the last half hour practising his manners on his own shadow. Watch him, for the love of mockery, because I know this letter will turn him into a meditating idiot. Keep hidden, 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 ever fell in love it would be with someone of my sort. Besides, she treats me with a more elevated respect than anyone else in her service. What am I to think of it?

Here’s an overweening rogue!

What a conceited rogue!

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

Oh, be quiet! Brooding turns him into a magnificent turkey-cock; look how he struts under his spread feathers!

’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!

By God's light, how I'd like to beat the rogue!

Peace, I say.

Quiet, I say.

To be Count Malvolio.

To be Count Malvolio.

Ah, rogue!

Ah, rogue!

Pistol him, pistol him.

Shoot him with a pistol, 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 servant of the wardrobe.

Fie on him, Jezebel!

Shame on him, the Jezebel!

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

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

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

Three months married to her, sitting in my chair of state—

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

Oh, for a stone-bow 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.

Calling my officers around me, in my embroidered velvet gown, having just got up from a day-bed 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 put on the manner of a great man, and after a grave, slow sweep of my eyes over them, telling them I know my place as I'd like them to know theirs, I ask for my kinsman 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 jump up obediently and go looking for him. Meanwhile I frown, and perhaps wind up my watch, or play with some expensive jewel. Toby comes up; he 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 is dragged out of us with teams of horses, still be 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 in the mouth at that point?

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

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

What, what?

What? What?

‘You must amend your drunkenness.’

'You must correct 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're squandering the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—'

That’s me, I warrant you.

That's me, I promise you.

‘One Sir Andrew.’

'A certain 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 trap.

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

Oh, quiet! And may the spirit of whims prompt him to read it out loud!

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 that's how she makes her capital P's. Beyond any question, it's her handwriting.

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

Her C's, her U's and her T's. What about 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.' Exactly her way of putting things! With your permission, sealing wax. Gently! And the stamp is her Lucrece, the one she always seals with: it's my lady. Who can this be to?

This wins him, liver and all.

This hooks 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 man must know.

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

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

Marry, hang thee, brock!

Indeed, go hang yourself, 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 command the one I adore, but silence, like Lucrece's knife, stabs my heart without drawing blood; M.O.A.I. rules my life.

A fustian riddle!

A pompous, empty riddle!

Excellent wench, say I.

A first-rate 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's cooked up for him!

And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

And look how eagerly 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 command the one I adore.' Well, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is obvious to anyone with ordinary intelligence. There's no difficulty in this. And the ending—what can that arrangement of letters mean? If only I could make it match something in myself! 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.

Sowter will still bay after it in spite of all this, even though the scent stinks like a fox.

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

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

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

Didn't I say he'd puzzle it out? The dog is excellent at picking up a lost scent.

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

"M"—But then there's no agreement in what comes next; it breaks down when you test it: "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 "O!"

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 scorn at your heels than good fortune 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 neat 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. [Reads.] If this falls into your hand, think it over. In my position by birth I am above you, but don't be afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Your fates are holding out their hands to you; let your passion and spirit take hold of them. And, to get used to what you are likely to become, throw off your humble skin like a snake and appear new. Be contrary with a kinsman, rude with servants. Let your tongue ring out with matters of state; adopt the manner of a man who is out of the ordinary. This is the advice of the woman who sighs for you. Remember who praised your yellow stockings, and wished to see you always cross-gartered. I say, remember. Come on, your fortune is made, if you want it to be. If not, then let me go on seeing you as a steward still, the companion of servants, and not fit to touch Fortune's fingers. Goodbye. From the woman who would exchange positions of service with you, 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 clear. I will be proud, I will read books on statecraft, I will humiliate Sir Toby, I will scrub away low acquaintances, I will be perfect in every detail, exactly the man she wants. I'm not deceiving myself now, letting my imagination trick me; for every argument points to this, that my lady loves me. She did praise my yellow stockings recently, she did praise my leg with the cross-garters on it, and in this letter she reveals herself to my love, and with a kind of command she pushes me into these clothes that she likes. I thank my stars, I am fortunate. I will be aloof, haughty, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, as fast as I can put them on. Praise be to Jove and my stars!—Here's a postscript as well. [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 in my presence always smile, my dear sweet one, I beg you. 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 give up my share in this entertainment for a pension of thousands paid by the Sophy.

I could marry this wench for this device.

I could marry this girl for thinking up this trick.

So could I too.

So could I.

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

And ask for no dowry with her except another joke like it.

Nor I neither.

Neither would I.

Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

Here comes my noble catcher 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 too?

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

Shall I gamble my freedom away at tray-trip, and become your slave?

I’ faith, or I either?

Honestly, or shall I too?

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

Why, you've 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 brandy 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.

If you want to see the results of the joke, then watch how he first approaches my lady: he'll come to her in yellow stockings, and it's a colour she loathes, and cross-gartered, a fashion she can't stand; and he'll smile at her, which will be so out of keeping with her mood right now, given how devoted she is to her melancholy, that it can't help but earn him serious 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.