Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will

Confine? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am.

If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief.

Lady, you be the cruelest she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemmned love,
And sing them loud, even in the dead of night;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia!

For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit;
But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.

Olivia: Stay: I pr’ythee tell me what thou thinks’t of me.
Viola: That you do think you are not what you are.
Olivia: If so, I think the same of you.
Viola: Then think’st thou right; I am not what I am.
Olivia: Would you were as I would have you be!
Viola: Would it be better, madam, that I am,
I wish it might; for now I am your fool.
Olivia: O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid: love’s night is noon.

I would not by my will have troubled you;
but since you make your pleasure of your pains

I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorial and things of fame
That do renown this city

In nature there’s no blemish but the mind;
None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind

I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove

An apple, cleft in two, is not more twain
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons;
A natural perspective, that is, and is not.

And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.