DUKE.
Here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.
But for thee, fellow,— fellow, thy words are madness;
Three months this youth hath tended upon me;
But more of that anon. Take him aside.
OLIVIA.
What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
VIOLA.
Madam!
DUKE.
Gracious Olivia,—
OLIVIA.
What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,—
VIOLA.
My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
OLIVIA.
If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.
DUKE.
Still so cruel?
OLIVIA.
Still so constant, lord.
DUKE.
What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull'st off'rings have breath'd out
That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?