La Nuit des rois (Twelfth Night), de William Shakespeare : de la mélancolie résultant du dépit amoureux.

« Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown ;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown :
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there. » (Feste, II, 4)

        Dans Twelfth Night, la comédie de l’amour prend un tour mélancolique résolument marqué qui contraste, voire est parfois éclipsé, par les situations comiques engendrées par le travestissement de Viola déguisée en homme sous le nom de Cesario et les multiples facéties des membres de la maisonnée d’Olivia, à savoir son oncle Sir Toby, joyeux buveur et fêtard, son compère froussard mais bienveillant Andrew Aguecheek, la malicieuse Maria, servante d’Olivia, et surtout Feste, dont la répartie et la virtuosité verbale, lui qui se proclame « corrupter of words », en font l’un des Fous les plus marquants du répertoire shakespearien. Le ton mélancolique de la pièce est d'ailleurs d’emblée introduit par la première réplique de la pièce, une tirade d’Orsino qui, depuis longtemps semble-t-il rejeté par Olivia dont il sollicite les faveurs, en a assez de la mélancolie dans laquelle il est plongé, espérant enfin en être débarrassé.

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again, it had a dying fall :
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. […]
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea. Nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe’er,
But falls into abatement and low price
Even in a minute ; so full of shapes is fancy,
That is alone is high fantastical. (I, 1)

Give me some music. […]
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night ;
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. (II, 4)

Orsino ne semble plus guère avoir goût pour quoi que ce soit, est d’humeur solitaire, et ne trouve qu’un relatif réconfort en la personne de Viola/Cesario. Il est constamment aigri par les refus répétés qu’Olivia lui oppose, au point de lui souhaiter qu’elle vive une situation similaire à la sienne auprès de l’être qu’elle aimera (ce qui arrivera en effet), mais surtout est même prêt à tuer Viola/Cesario par dépit et dans l’unique but de se venger quelque peu mesquinement d’Olivia.

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still.
But this your minion, whom I know you love, 
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.
Come, boy, with me, my thoughts are ripe in mischief :
I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. (V, 1)

Le dépit et la mélancolie d’Orsino seront à divers degrés vécus par d’autres personnages de la pièce, tel un fil conducteur reliant pratiquement tous les personnages de la pièce : Olivia qui tombe amoureuse de Viola/Cesario, et surtout Viola/Cesario qui tombe amoureuse d’Orsino, et est prête à tout pour lui, y compris courtiser une femme en son honneur, et même se sacrifier pour assouvir la vengeance d’Orsino envers Olivia.
Mais pensons aussi à Antonio, nourrissant une affection, un amour sans doute homosexuel envers Sebastian, et qui se croit victime, dans une scène poignante, de l’ingratitude de ce dernier lorsqu’il rencontre Viola/Cesario qu'il défend d'un duel avec Aguecheek poussé et manipulé par Sir Toby.

Will you deny me now ?
Is’t possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion ? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you. [...]
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.

And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion. [...]
But O, how vile an idole proves this god !
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there’s no blemish but the mind ;
None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind :
Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o’erflourish’d by the devil. (III, 4)

        Et, bien qu’ils soient davantage secondaires, Malvolio et Andrew Aguecheek sont tous deux manipulés à nourrir des espérances irréalistes envers Olivia, respectivement par Maria et Sir Toby.

Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance – what can be said ? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. (III, 4)

Et que dire aussi peut-être de Feste, dont la chanson est d'une mélancolie énigmatique (voir citation en tête de cette note), contrastant avec la manière dont il raille, avec une justesse et une lucidité confondantes, les diverses folies dont l'homme est capable à tout moment.

        Ainsi donc, chaque personnage de la pièce, victime de son désir amoureux, en vient à souhaiter ardemment la réalisation de ce dernier au point de commettre des actions les égarant de leur dignité, voire presque folles, ne trouvant plus le repos depuis que leur amour est né : si l’amour fou que nourrissent Orsino et Olivia les amène à être insistants de manière régulière, au point d’en être fort importuns, celui de Viola s’en différencie franchement, étant à la fois le plus noble et le moins égoïste, en témoigne sa tirade voilée à l’adresse d’Orsino (voir II, 4).

- And what’s her history ?

A blank, my lord : she never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’th’bud,
Feed on her damask cheek ; she pin’d in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ?
We men may say more, swear more, but indeed,
Our shows are more than will : for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love. (II, 4)

        En effet, Viola n’entreprend jamais rien pour forcer l’amour d’Orsino, se contentant d’allusions voilées, contrainte de plus par son déguisement, et se sacrifie totalement à la volonté de l’être aimé, contrairement aux deux autres qui entreprennent tout ce qui est en leur pouvoir pour voir leur désir se réaliser. Cet amour patient, altruiste, constant, contraste avec celui d’Orsino, égoïste, insistant, et au final inconstant (ce que Feste, dans sa clairvoyance, avait bien observé, voir citation ci-dessous), lui qui ironiquement avait quelque peu moqué la faiblesse de l’amour féminin au profit du sien (II, 4)

Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere ; for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. (II, 4)

          Shakespeare joue habilement aussi du thème de la folie/raison tout au long de la pièce, en lien avec le désir amoureux : Orsino mène une cour assidue et vouée à l’échec à Olivia par l’entremise de Viola/Cesario, ne renonçant pas malgré l’évidente non-réciprocité de son amour. Tel Oberon dans Le Songe d'une nuit d'été, il est prêt à enlever l’objet aimé de celle qu’il aime, devenu son rival, allant même jusqu’au meurtre. Olivia fera tout pour revoir Cesario/Viola, et le forcer à l’épouser, ce qu’elle ne parvient à faire que lorsqu’elle prend Sebastian par erreur pour Cesario/Viola, dans un mariage si rapide et précipité que Sebastian la prend à demi pour une folle (IV, 1), bien qu’il y consente dans son émerveillement.

Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad ? (IV, 1)

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 ! (IV, 1)

Malvolio incarnera le mieux la folie que notre imagination, nos fantasmes peuvent nous amener à faire, nous plongeant hors de nous, dans l'obscurité dont le motif revient tout au long de la pièce, lui qui est symboliquement enfermé dans une cave en raison de la prétendue folie qu'on lui a diagnostiquée :

do not think I am mad : they have laid me here in hideous darkness. (IV, 2)

They have here propertied me ; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits. (IV, 2)

Mais peut-être que plus largement que le simple désir amoureux, Twelfth Night est-elle une pièce nous interrogeant, nous montrant les extrêmes, les folies auxquels nous sommes prêts lorsque nous voulons voir se concrétiser un désir ou croire en sa réalité, quelque irréaliste qu’il soit, et à quel point ce désir vient, naît d'une chimère, d'une illusion, d'une image à laquelle l'homme, être sensible, peut à tout moment en être la victime.

Now he’s deeply in : look how imagination blows him. (II, 5)

Orsino loue sans cesse, dans un jeu pétrarquiste tourné en dérision par Shakespeare comme il en a l'habitude, la beauté d'Olivia, par l'intermédiaire de son page Viola/Cesario. Olivia elle-même tombe amoureuse d'une image de Sebastian à travers sa soeur Viola/Cesario qui l'imite en tous points dans son travestissement. Ce motif de l'image, de l'illusion est lui aussi omniprésent tout au long de la pièce :

O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence ;
That instant was I turn’d into a hart,
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E’er since pursue me. (I, 1)

I do I know not what, and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force, ourselves we do not owe :
What is decreed must be ; and be this so ! (I, 5)

I am the man ! If it be so, as ‘tis,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy it is for the proper-false
In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms !
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be. (II, 2)

thou hast put him in such a dream, that, when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad. (II, 5)

He named Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass : even such and so
In favour was my brother, and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love ! (III, 4)

Malvolio cependant ne peut guère être vu comme un personnage amoureux, comme le sont les autres personnages de la pièce. Imbu de lui-même, son amour pour Olivia n’en est pas un, mais plutôt de la position que son mariage avec elle lui donnera. Enflammé par un signe semble-t-il encourageant d’un amour d’Olivia envers lui (la lettre de Maria contrefaisant l'écriture de sa maîtresse), il est prêt, tout comme Viola/Cesario pourrait-on dire, à tout faire pour plaire à cette dernière, malgré les consignes et conseils ridicules de la fausse lettre. Andrew Aguecheek est lui aussi amené à nourrir d’illusoires espérances envers Olivia, par son compère Sir Toby. Néanmoins, Aguecheek se révèle, malgré sa vantardise et couardise, être un homme bon et compatissant, préoccupé de l’état de son ami Toby à la fin de la pièce lorsque ce dernier est blessé par Sebastian, qui le lui rend bien mal, et qui révèle, de manière assez inquiétante, un caractère aigri et méprisant sous ses dehors affables et rieurs, comme le souligne Tony Tanner dans son essai consacré à la pièce. Sir Toby en effet semble, à mesure que la pièce avance, montrer un caractère plus mélancolique et égoïste : les tours qu’il joue à Malvolio et son ami Aguecheek finissent par l’ennuyer, voire par l’aigrir, et il se révèle de moins en moins drôle et sympathique après des premières scènes où il se montrait, sous le coup de l’ivresse, davantage comme un joyeux drille.

        Peut-être au final, en sus de la folie amoureuse dans laquelle chacun peut tomber, même les plus improbables (tels Olivia tombant amoureux de Viola/Cesario alors qu’elle se promettait de se retirer du monde à la suite de la mort de son frère; Antonio, dépeint comme un sanguinaire guerrier, tombant amoureux de Sebastian), Twelfth Night nous invite à ne pas juger ou traiter sévèrement ceux qui en sont les victimes : car les rôles peuvent tout aussi bien s’inverser, autre signe de la précarité de la condition de l'homme, parfois prompt à moquer ou blesser autrui sur la base de ses folies, auxquelles nous sommes cependant tous susceptibles de tomber.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun : it shines everywhere. (III, 1)

Ainsi, Viola invite Olivia à considérer les sentiments d’Orsino, bien que ce dernier se montre également, il est vrai, beaucoup trop insistant ; et Olivia tombera dans une mélancolie similaire à celle d’Orsino lorsque ses avances seront continuellement rejetées par Viola/Cesario ; dans une moindre mesure, Aguecheek est plus ou moins dépité de constater qu’il n’a aucune chance auprès d’Olivia, bien que Sir Toby, de manière de plus en plus sournoise, lui insinue le contraire et finira par se révéler plutôt antipathique.

OLIVIA
I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary on’t :
There’s something in me that reproves my fault ;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is
That is but mocks reproof.

VIOLA
With the same ‘haviour that your passion bears
Goes on my master’s griefs. (III, 4)

        Et c’est peut-être la raison pour laquelle Orsino finira par tomber amoureux de Viola : il constate en effet que cette dernière a fait preuve à son égard d’un amour constant, admirable, désintéressé, qui peut-être l’a touché, un amour sublime si loin du comportement qu’il a eu à l’égard d’Olivia. Les femmes, une nouvelle fois chez Shakespeare, se montreront globalement plus nobles que les hommes : en sus de Viola et de son amour admirable, Olivia éprouvera de la compassion pour Malvolio, lorsque la farce qu’on lui a jouée est portée à sa connaissance, alors que ce dernier crie vengeance et refuse de pardonner les torts qu’on lui a faits, augurant peut-être d'une issue plus dramatique quant au capitaine qui a sauvé Viola et dont le sort dépend de lui, dans une fin qui, comme souvent chez Shakespeare, ne réconcilie pas tous les personnages et laisse planer un doute, une ombre sur leur avenir à court et/ou long terme.

Ci-dessous, un florilège des meilleures citations restantes de la pièce  :

How will she love, when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else
That live in her […]
Away before me to sweet beds of flowers :
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopi’d with bowers. (I, 1)

What great ones do, the less will prattle of (I, 2)

And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character. (I, 2)

… for I can sing,
And speak to him in many sorts of music. (I, 2)

I am sure care’s an enemy to life. (I, 3)

Confine ? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am… (I, 3)

With drinking healths to my niece. I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria : he’s a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’th’toe like a parish-top. (I, 3)

Accost is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her. (I, 3)

I am great eater of beef, and I believe, that does harm to my wit. (I, 3)

Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return. (I, 4)

it shall become thee well to act my woes. (I, 4)

I myself am best / When least in company. (I, 4)

a barful strife ! / Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. (I, 4)

Let her hang me : he that is well hang’d in this world needs to fear no colours. (I, 5)
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage. (I, 5)

Wits, and’t be thy will, put me into good feeling ! Those wits that think they have thee do very oft prove fools, and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus ? ‘’Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.’’ (I, 5)

Anything that’s mended is but patch’d : virtue that transgresses is but patch’d with sin, and sin that amends is but patch’d with virtue. (I, 5)

I know his soul is in heaven, fool. / The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. – Take away the fool, gentlemen. (I, 5)

To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allow’d fool, though he do nothing but rail ; nor no railing in known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. (I, 5)

Fetch him off, I pray you, he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him ! (I, 5)

What’s a drunken man like, fool ? / Like a drown’d man, a fool, and a madman. One draught above heat makes him a fool, the seconds mads him, and a third drowns him. (I, 5)

he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he’ll speak with you. (I, 5)

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy ; as a squash is before ‘tis a peascod, or a codling when ‘tis almost an apple. ‘Tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. (I, 5)

I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. (I, 5)

by the very fangs of malice, I swear, I am not that I play. (I, 5)

if you are she, you do usurp yourself : for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. (I, 5)

Come to what is important in’t : I forgive you the praise. / Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ‘tis poetical. /It is the more like to be feigned ; I pray you keep it in. (I, 5)

Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. (I, 5)

What  I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead : to your ears, divinity ; to any other’s, profanation. (I, 5)

‘Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on :
Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy. (I, 5)

Your lord does know my mind : I cannot love him.
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ;
In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant,
And, in dimension and the shape of nature,
A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him.
He might have took his answer long ago. (I, 5)

If I did love you in my master’s flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense,
I would not understand it. (I, 5)

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house,
Write loyal cantons of contemned 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’ O you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth
But you should pity me. (I, 5)

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,
And let your fervour, like my master’s, be
Plac’d in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty. (I, 5)

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, thy actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast : soft, soft !
Unless the master were the man. How now ?
Even so quickly one catch the plague ?
Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. (I, 5)

my stars shine darkly over me ; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours ; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. (II, 1)

She is drown’d already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. (II, 1)

my bosom is full of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my mother that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. (II, 1)

But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. (II, 1)

Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her !
She made good view of me, indeed so much
That methought her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly. (II, 2)

And I (poor monster), fond as much on him ;
And she (mistaken), seems to dote on me.
What will become of this ? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master’s love ;
As I am woman (now alas the day !),
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe !
O time, thou must untangle this, not I ;
It is too hard a knot for me t’untie ! (II, 2)

not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up betimes […] To be up after midnight and to go to bed then is early ; so that to go to be after midnight is to go to bed betimes. (II, 3)

I think it [our live] rather consists of eating and drinking. (II, 3)

Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know. (II, 3)

What is love ? ‘tis not hereafter,
Present mirth hath present laughter ;
What’s to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty ;
Youth’s a stuff will not endure. (II, 3)

I am dog at a catch. /By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. (II, 3)

What a caterwauling do you keep here ! (II, 3)

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ? (II, 3)

If I do not gull him into an ayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. (II, 3)

The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser : an affection’d ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths. The best persuaded of himself : so cramm’d (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him… (II, 3)

And your horse now would make him an ass. (II, 3)

She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’that ? (II, 3)

Come 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 motions else, [...]
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov’d. (II, 4)

Let still the woman take
An elder than herself ; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband’s heart.
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Than women’s are. (II, 4)

Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent :
For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. (II, 4)
And so they are ; alas, that they are so :
To die, even when they to perfection grow ! (II, 4)

Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another. (II, 4)

Tell her my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands ;
The parts that Fortune hath bestow’d upon her,
Tell her I hold as giddily as Fortune ;
But ‘tis that miracle and queen of gems
That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul. (II, 4)

But if she cannot love you, sir ?
- I cannot be so answer’d.
Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia […]
- There is no woman’s sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart ; no woman’s heart
So big to hold so much ; they lack retention. […]
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. (II, 4)

In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter lov’d a man,
As it might be perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
- And what’s her history ?
A blank, my lord : she never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’th’bud,
Feed on her damask cheek ; she pin’d in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed ?
We men may say more, swear more, but indeed,
Our shows are more than will : for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love. (II, 4)

if I lose a scruple of this sport let me be boil’d to death with melancholy. (II, 5)

the niggardly rascally sheep-biter. (II, 5)

he brought me out o’favour with my ladyn about a bear-baiting here. (II, 5)

he has been yonder i’the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour. (II, 5)

here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. (II, 5)

You must amend your drunkenness. / Out, scab ! (II, 5)

and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is… (II, 5)

I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade me ; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. (II, 5)

I could marry this wench for this device… And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest. (II, 5)

most excellent devil of wit ! (II, 5)

To see this age ! A sentence is but a chev’ril glove to a good wit : how quickly the wrong side may be turn’d outward ! (III, 1)

they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton. / I would therefore my sister had had no name, sir. / Why, man ?/ Why, sir, her name’s a word ; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed words are very rascals, since bonds disgrac’d them. (III, 1)

Words are grown so false I am loath to prove reason with them. (III, 1)

I do care for something ; but in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you ; if that be to care for nothing sir, I would it would make you invisible. (III, 1)

Lady Olivia has no folly : she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married, and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband’s the bigger. I am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (III, 1)

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun : it shines everywhere. (III, 1)

Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard ! (III, 1)

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit.
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time ;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man’s art :
For folly, that he wisely knows, is fit ;
But wise men, folly fall’n, quite taint their wit. (III, 1)

‘Twas never merry word,
Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment… (III, 1)

For him, I think not on him ; for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me ! (III, 1)

But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres. (III, 1)

‘tis a vulgar proof
That very oft we pity enemies. (III, 1)

Why then, methinks ‘tis time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud !
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf ! (III, 1)

Then think you right : I am not what  I am.
- I would you were as I would have you be ! (III, 1)

A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is noon.
- Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,
I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause ;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter :
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. (III, 1)

the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sail’d into the north of my lady’s opinion […] unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt either of valour or policy. (III, 2)

there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour. (III, 2)

I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were open’d and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of th’anatomy. (III, 2)

yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado ; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. (III, 2)

He does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies. (III, 2)

I could not stay behind you : my desire
(More sharp than filed steel) did spur me forth,
And not all love to see you (though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage)
But jealousy what might befall your travel, […]
My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit. (III, 3)

I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks ; and oft good turns
Are shuffl’d off with such uncurrent pay… (III, 3)

How should I feast him ? What bestow on him ?
For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d. (III, 4)

the man is tainted in’s wits. (III, 4)

I’m as mad as he,
If sad and merry sadness equal be. (III, 4)

Why, this is very midsummer madness. (III, 4)

Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance – what can be said ? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. (III, 4)

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. (III, 4)

we may carry it thus for our pleasure, and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him… (III, 4)

for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang’d off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earn’d him. (III, 4)

I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary on’t :
There’s something in me that reproves my fault ;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is
That is but mocks reproof. (III, 4)

With the same ‘haviour that your passion bears
Goes on my master’s griefs. (III, 4)

What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny,
That honour sav’d may upon asking give ? (III, 4)

A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. (III, 4)

Will you deny me now ?
Is’t possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion ? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you. (III, 4)

I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood. (III, 4)

And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion. (III, 4)

But O, how vile an idole proves this god !
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there’s no blemish but the mind ;
None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind :
Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous-evil
Are empty trunks, o’erflourish’d by the devil. (III, 4)

Prove true, imagination, O prove true… (III, 4)

He named Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass : even such and so
In favour was my brother, and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love ! (III, 4)

I am afraid this great lubber the world will prove a cockney. (IV, 1)

Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad ? (IV, 1)

Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne’er were preach’d ! Out of my sight ! (IV, 1)

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 ! (IV, 1)

do not think I am mad : they have laid me here in hideous darkness. (IV, 2)

I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently deliv’d, I would he were ; for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. (IV, 2)

But as well ? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. (IV, 2)

They have here propertied me ; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits. (IV, 2)

But tell me true, are you not mad indeed ? or do you but counterfeit ? (IV, 2)

Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. (IV, 3)

How does thou, , my good fellow ? /
Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends. […]  Marry, sir, they praise me an ass of me ; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass : so that by my foes, sir, I proft in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused ; so that […] the worse for my friends and the better for my foes. (V, 1)

A bawbling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable,
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet
That very envy, and the tongue of loss,
Cried fame and honour on him. (V, 1)

If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music. (V, 1)

Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still.
But this your minion, whom I know you love, 
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.
Come, boy, with me, my thoughts are ripe in mischief :
I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. (V, 1)

And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. (V, 1)

Where goes Cesario ? /
After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. (V, 1)

Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave,
I have travell’d but two hours. (V, 1)

O thou dissembling cub ! What wilt thou be,
When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case ?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ?
Farewell, and take her ; but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. (V, 1)

we took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate. (V, 1)

Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot ? / O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone : his eyes were set at eight i’th’morning. / Then he’s a rogue, and a passy-measures pavin, I hate a drunken rogue. (V, 1)

Will you help, an ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave ? A thin-fac’d knave, a gull ? (V, 1)

One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons,
A natural perspective, that is, and is not. (V, 1)

Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,
And say ‘’Thrice welcome, drowned Viola !’’ (V, 1)

And all those sayings will I overswear ;
And all those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbed continent the fire
That severs day from night. (V, 1)