OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feign'd; I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow'd your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief; 't is not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
MARIA.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.
VIOLA. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind; I am a messenger.
OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
VIOLA. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as full of peace as matter.
OLIVIA.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appear'd in me have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as maidenhead; to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.
OLIVIA.
Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.
[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS.] Now, sir, what is your text?
VIOLA.
Most sweet lady,—
OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text?