TWELFTH NIGHT. Уильям Шекспир

friends I am abus’d: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why, then the worse for my friends and the better for my foes.

       DUKE.

       Why, this is excellent.

       CLOWN. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends.

       DUKE.

       Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold.

       CLOWN. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another.

       DUKE.

       O, you give me ill counsel.

       CLOWN. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it.

       DUKE. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer; there’s another.

       CLOWN. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind; one, two, three.

       DUKE. You can fool no more money out of me at this throw; if you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further.

       CLOWN. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon.

       [Exit.]

       VIOLA.

       Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.

       [Enter ANTONIO and OFFICERS .]

       DUKE.

       That face of his I do remember well;

       Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear’d

       As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.

       A baubling vessel was he captain of,

       For shallow draught and bulk unprizable;

       With which such scathful grapple did he make

       With the most noble bottom of our fleet

       That very envy and the tongue of loss

       Cried fame and honour on him. What ‘s the matter?

       1 OFFICER.

       Orsino, this is that Antonio

       That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy;

       And this is he that did the Tiger board,

       When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.

       Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,

       In private brabble did we apprehend him.

       VIOLA.

       He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;

       But in conclusion put strange speech upon me;

       I know not what ‘t was but distraction.

       DUKE.

       Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!

       What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,

       Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,

       Hast made thine enemies?

       ANTONIO.

       Orsino, noble sir,

       Be pleas’d that I shake off these names you give me;

       Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,

       Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,

       Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:

       That most ingrateful boy there by your side,

       From the rude sea’s enrag’d and foamy mouth

       Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was.

       His life I gave him, and did thereto ad

       My love, without retention or restraint,

       All his in dedication; for his sake

       Did I expose myself, pure for his love,

       Into the danger of this adverse town;

       Drew to defend him when he was beset:

       Where being apprehended, his false cunning,

       Not meaning to partake with me in danger,

       Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,

       And grew a twenty years removed thing

       While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,

       Which I had recommended to his use

       Not half an hour before.

       VIOLA.

       How can this be?

       DUKE.

       When came he to this town?

       ANTONIO.

       To-day, my lord; and for three months before,

       No interim, not a minute’s vacancy,

       Both day and night did we keep company.

       [Enter OLIVIA and ATTENDANTS.]

       DUKE.

       Here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.

       But for thee, fellow,— fellow, thy words are madness;

       Three months this youth hath tended upon me;

       But more of that anon. Take him aside.

       OLIVIA.

       What would my lord, but that he may not have,

       Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?

       Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.

       VIOLA.

       Madam!

       DUKE.

       Gracious Olivia,—

       OLIVIA.

       What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,—

       VIOLA.

       My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.

       OLIVIA.

       If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,

       It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear

       As howling after music.

       DUKE.

       Still so cruel?

       OLIVIA.

       Still so constant, lord.

       DUKE.

       What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,

       To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars

       My soul the faithfull’st off’rings have breath’d out

       That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do?

       OLIVIA.

       Even what it please my lord that shall become him.

       DUKE.

       Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,

       Like to th’ Egyptian thief at point of death,

       Kill what I love?— a savage jealousy

       That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this:

       Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,

       And that I partly know the instrument

       That screws me from my true place in your favour,

       Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still;

       But this your minion, whom I know you love,

       And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,

       Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,

       Where he