. Shakespeare's Twelfth night;. [Exit Curio. Music hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,In the sweet pangs of it remember me;For such as I am all true lovers are,Unstaid and skittish in all motions04 else,Save in the constant image of the creatureThat is beloved. How dost thou like this tune ? 20 Vio. It gives a very echo to the seatWhere Love is throned. Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:My life upon t, young though thou art, thine eyeHath stayd upon some favour0 that it loves:Hath it not, boy ? Vio. A little, by your favourN. Duke. What kind of woman is t ? Vio. Of your complexion04.
. Shakespeare's Twelfth night;. [Exit Curio. Music hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,In the sweet pangs of it remember me;For such as I am all true lovers are,Unstaid and skittish in all motions04 else,Save in the constant image of the creatureThat is beloved. How dost thou like this tune ? 20 Vio. It gives a very echo to the seatWhere Love is throned. Duke. Thou dost speak masterly:My life upon t, young though thou art, thine eyeHath stayd upon some favour0 that it loves:Hath it not, boy ? Vio. A little, by your favourN. Duke. What kind of woman is t ? Vio. Of your complexion04. Duke. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i faith ? Vio. About your years, my lord. Duke. Too old, by heaven: let still the woman take 30An elder than herself: so wears she to him,So sways she level in her husbands heart:For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,Our fancies06 are more giddy and unfirm,More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,Than womens are. Vio. I think it well, my lord. SCENE IV TWELFTH NIGHT 43 Yto. SPINSTERS AND KNITTERS Duke. Then let thy love be younger than thyself,Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;For women are as roses, whose fair flowerBeing once displayd, doth fall that very hour. Vio. And so they are : alas, that they are so;To die, even when they to perfection grow ! Re-enter Curio, with Clown. Duke. O, fellow, come, the song we had last it, Cesario, it is old and plain;The spinsters0 and the knitters in the sunAnd the free maids that weave their thread with bonesNDo use to chant it: it is silly soothN,And dallies with the innocence of love,Like the old age. 40 44 TWELFTH NIGHT [act ii Clo. Are you ready, sir ? 50 Duke. Ay; prithee, sing. [Music. Clo. Song. Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress1* let me be laid;Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it!My part of death, no one so trueDid share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, 60 On my blac
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