Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will

P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.

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

MALVOLIO. [Reads] 'To the unknown belov'd, 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?

FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all.

MALVOLIO. [Reads]

Jove knows I love,
But who?
Lips, do not 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?

SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock!

MALVOLIO. [Reads]

'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.'

FABIAN. A fustian riddle!

SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I.

MALVOLIO. 'M. O. A. I. doth sway my life.'
Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see.

FABIAN. What dish o' poison has she dress'd him!

SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it!

MALVOLIO. '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. -

SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that! He is now at a cold scent.

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

MALVOLIO. M- Malvolio; M- why, that begins my name.

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

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

FABIAN. And O shall end, I hope.

SIR TOBY. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make him cry 'O!'

MALVOLIO. And then I comes behind.

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

MALVOLIO. 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
wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. 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.'
Daylight and champain 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-devise 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