VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?
We men may say more, swear more, but indeed,
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
DUKE.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
VIOLA.
I am all the daughters of my father’s house,
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.
Sir, shall I to this lady?
DUKE.
Ay, that’s the theme.
To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE V. Olivia’s garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian.
SIR TOBY.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
FABIAN.
Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
SIR TOBY.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?