Scene 4 Twelfth Night
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- Пързалка: 1
- Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; norI am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you comespeak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario;nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.
- Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
- Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow:Let me be clear of thee.
- Vent my folly! he has heard that word of somegreat man and now applies it to a fool. Vent myfolly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world,will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thystrangeness and tell me what I shall vent to mylady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming?
- I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: Thouknow'st not me.
- By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise menthat give fools money get themselves a goodreport--after fourteen years' purchase.
- I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: There'smoney for thee: if you tarry longer, I shall giveworse payment.
- Пързалка: 2
- Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my youngsoldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.
- Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
- Let go thy hand.
- Now, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.
- I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? Ifthou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.
- What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or twoof this malapert blood from you.
- This will I tell my lady straight: I would not bein some of your coats for two pence.
- Пързалка: 3
- What relish is in this? how runs the stream?Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
- Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!Be not offended, dear Cesario.Rudesby, be gone!
- Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee, hold!
- Madam!
- I prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and thou unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go: Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
- Madam, I will.
- Nay, come, I prithee; would thou'ldst be ruled by me!
- O, say so, and so be!
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