For women are as rofes, whofe fair flower,
Being once difplay'd, doth fall that very hour.
Vio. And fo they are: alas, that they are so,
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Enter Curio and Clown.

Duke. O fellow, come.-The fong we had laft night,

Mark it, Cefario, it is old and plain;

The fpinsters and the knitters in the fun,

8

And the free maids that weave their thread with

bones,

Do use to chaunt it: it is filly footh*,

And dallies with the innocence of love",
Like the old age'.

Clo. Are you ready, Sir?
Duke. Ay; pr'ythee, fing.

SONG.

Come away, come away, death,
And in fad cyprefs let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath,

I am flain by a fair cruel maid.
My fbrowd of white, ftuck all with yew,
O, prepare it.

My part of death no one so true

Did fhare it.

Free is, perhaps, vacant, unengaged, eafy in mind.

Silly footh.] It is plain, fimple truth.

9 And dallies with the innocence of love, Dallies has no fenfe. We should read, TALLIES, . e. agrees with; is of a

piece with.

[Mufick

WARBURTON. The old age is the ages paft, the times of fimplicity.

2 My part of death no one so true

Did fhare it.] Though Death is a part in which every one acts his hare, yet of all thefe actors no one is fo true as I.

Not

Not a flower, not a flower fweet,

On my black coffin let there be ftrown: Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corps, where my bones fhall be thrown.
A thousand thousand fighs to fave,
Lay me, O! where

True lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

Duke. There's for thy pains.

Clo. No pains, Sir; I take pleasure in finging, Sir. Duke. I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, Sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or other.

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the taylor make thy doublet of changeable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal! I would have men of fuch conftancy put to fea, that their bufinefs might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewel.

3

SCENE VI.

[Exit.

Duke. Let all the reft give place.

[Exeunt.

Once more, Cefario,

Get thee to yond fame fovereign cruelty:

2 a very opal!] A precious ftone of almost all colours.

POPE.

man who fuffers himself to run with every wind, and fo makes his bufinefs every where, cannot be faid to have any intent; for that word fignifies a determination of the mind to fomething. Befides, the conclufion of making a good voyage out of nothing, and their directs to this emendation. Because a

3 that their business might be every thing, and their intent EVERY where;] Both the prefervation of the antithefis, and the recovery of the fenfe, require we fhould read,intent No where.

Ce 3

WARBURTON

Tell

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:

4

But 'tis that miracle, and Queen of Gems,

That nature pranks her in, attracts my foul.
Vio. But if the cannot love you, Sir-
Duke. I cannot be fo anfwer'd.

Vio. Sooth, but you must.

Say, that fome 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 fo; muft fhe not then be anfwer'd?
Duke. There is no woman's fides

Can bide the beating of fo ftrong a paffion,
As love doth give my heart: no woman's heart
So big to hold fo much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite:
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That fuffers furfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digeft as much; make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.

Duke. What doft thou know?

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

Duke. And what's her history?

Vio. A blank, my Lord: She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i'th' bud, Feed on her damask cheek: fhe pin'd in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She fat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at Grief. Was not this love indeed?

5 She fat like Patience on a mo

nument,

Smiling at Grief] Mr. Theobald fuppofes this might poffibly be borrowed from Chaucer.

And her befidis wonder difcretlie · Dame Pacience fittinge there I fonde

With face pale, upon an hill of fonde.

We

her who fat like Patience. To give Patience a pale face, was proper: and had Shakespeare defcribed her, he had done it as Chaucer did. But Shakespeare is speaking of a marble itatue of Patience; Chaucer, of Patience herfelf. And the two reprefentations of her, are in quite different views. Our Poet, fpeaking of a defpairing lover, judicioufly compares her to Patience exercised on the death of friends and relations; which affords him the beautiful picture of Patience on a monument. The old Bard speaking of Patience herself, di rectly, and not by comparison, as judiciously draws her in that circumftance where he is most exercifed, and has occafion for all her virtue; that is to fay, under the loffes of shipwreck. And now we see why she is reprefented as fitting on an bill of fand, to deign the fcene to be the feafhore. It is finely imagined; and one of the noble fimplicities of that admirable Poet. But the Cc 4 Critick

And adds, If he was indebted, however, for the first rude draught, bow amply has he repaid that debt, in beightning the picture! How much does the green and yellow melancholy transcend the old bard's pale face; the monument his hill of fand! -I hope this Critick does not imagine Shakespeare meant to give us a picture of the face of Patience, by his green and yellow melanchoy; becaufe, he fays, it tranfcends the pale face of Patience given us by Chaucer. To throw Patience into a fit of melancholy, would be indeed very extraordinary. The green and yellow then belonged not to Patience, but to

We men may fay more, fwear more, but, indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.

Duke. But dy'd the fifter of her love, my boy?
Vio. I'm all the daughters of my father's house",
And all the brothers too-and yet I know not-
Sir, fhall I to this Lady?

Duke. Ay, that's the theme.

To her in hafte; give her this jewel: fay,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.

SCENE VII.

Changes to Olivia's Garden.

[Exeunt.

Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.

Sir To.

OME thy ways, Signior Fabian. Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lofe a fcruple of this fport, let me be boil'd to death with melancholy.

not be glad to have the

raised fufpicion. This has the
appearance of a direct answer,
that the fifier died of her love;
the (who paffed for a man) fay-
ing, fhe was all the daughters
of her father's houfe. But the
Oxford Editor, a great enemy,
as should feem, to all equivocati-
on, obliges her to answer thus,
She's all the daughters of my fa
ther's houfe,
And I am all the fons-
But if it fhould be afked now,
how the Duke came to take this
for an answer to his question, to
be fure the Editor can tell us.

WARBURTON.

niggardly