VIOLA.
As the innate dignity of Perdita pierces through her rustic disguise, so the exquisite refinement of Viola triumphs over her masculine attire. Viola is, perhaps, in a degree less elevated and ideal than Perdita, but with a touch of sentiment more profound and heart-stirring; she is "deep-learned in the lore of love,"—at least theoretically,—and speaks as masterly on the subject as Perdita does of flowers.
DUKE.
How dost thou like this tune?
VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is thron'd.
And again,
If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life—
in your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it.
OLIVIA.
Why, what would you do?