twelfth night: "No more cakes and ale"
An excerpt from Act 2, Scene 3, of Shakespeare's comedy. Three of the comic ("low") characters are celebrating Twelfth Night together by getting good and drunk when Malvolio, the steward of Lady Olivia's household, takes them to task.
[Enter MARIA]
Maria. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
Sir Toby Belch. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally. Lady!
[Sings]
'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'
Feste. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
Sir Toby Belch. [Sings] 'O, the twelfth day of December,'--
Maria. For the love o' God, peace!
[Enter MALVOLIO]
Malvolio. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?
Sir Toby Belch. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
Malvolio. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
Sir Toby Belch. 'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'
Maria. Nay, good Sir Toby.
Feste. 'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'805
Malvolio. Is't even so?
Sir Toby Belch. 'But I will never die.'
Feste. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Malvolio. This is much credit to you.
Sir Toby Belch. 'Shall I bid him go?'
Feste. 'What an if you do?'
Sir Toby Belch. 'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'
Feste. 'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'
Sir Toby Belch. Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Feste. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.
Sir Toby Belch. Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!
Malvolio. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit]
Maria. Go shake your ears.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.
Sir Toby Belch. Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Maria. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the youth of the count's was today with thy lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.
Sir Toby Belch. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
Maria. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!
Sir Toby Belch. What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.
Maria. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
Sir Toby Belch. What wilt thou do?
Maria. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
Sir Toby Belch. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I have't in my nose too.
Sir Toby Belch. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in
love with him.
Maria. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. And your horse now would make him an ass.
Maria. Ass, I doubt not.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. O, 'twill be admirable!
Maria. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [Exit]
Sir Toby Belch. Good night, Penthesilea.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Before me, she's a good wench.
Sir Toby Belch. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o' that?
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I was adored once too.
Sir Toby Belch. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
Sir Toby Belch. Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
Sir Toby Belch. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt]
This prompts the comic sub-plot of the play, which will result in Malvolio becoming more absurd as he becomes infatuated with Lady Olivia, thanks to forged love-notes. The entire play, by virtue of its title and setting, is an obvious choice for Twelfth Night and Epiphany, especially because it deals with a temporary reversal (or confusion) of order followed by an unmasking/revelation. It should be said, though, that this is the pattern most of Shakespeare's comedies follow, and I wonder if celebrations of the Christmas season, with its Twelfth Night revelry and Epiphanic solemnity, didn't do something to bake the ingredients for a good comedy right into his psyche from a young age. The scene is appropriate because it mocks the two opposite (and rather silly) extreme reactions to Christmas celebrations: dissipation, on the one hand, and prudish refusal to have fun on the other.
I've put the entire play below. Not bad, Shakespeare. Not bad.
[Enter MARIA]
Maria. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.
Sir Toby Belch. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally. Lady!
[Sings]
'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'
Feste. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
Sir Toby Belch. [Sings] 'O, the twelfth day of December,'--
Maria. For the love o' God, peace!
[Enter MALVOLIO]
Malvolio. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?
Sir Toby Belch. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
Malvolio. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.
Sir Toby Belch. 'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'
Maria. Nay, good Sir Toby.
Feste. 'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'805
Malvolio. Is't even so?
Sir Toby Belch. 'But I will never die.'
Feste. Sir Toby, there you lie.
Malvolio. This is much credit to you.
Sir Toby Belch. 'Shall I bid him go?'
Feste. 'What an if you do?'
Sir Toby Belch. 'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'
Feste. 'O no, no, no, no, you dare not.'
Sir Toby Belch. Out o' tune, sir: ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Feste. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too.
Sir Toby Belch. Thou'rt i' the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria!
Malvolio. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [Exit]
Maria. Go shake your ears.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him.
Sir Toby Belch. Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge: or I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Maria. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight: since the youth of the count's was today with thy lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.
Sir Toby Belch. Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
Maria. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. O, if I thought that I'ld beat him like a dog!
Sir Toby Belch. What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I have no exquisite reason for't, but I have reason good enough.
Maria. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
Sir Toby Belch. What wilt thou do?
Maria. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
Sir Toby Belch. Excellent! I smell a device.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I have't in my nose too.
Sir Toby Belch. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in
love with him.
Maria. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. And your horse now would make him an ass.
Maria. Ass, I doubt not.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. O, 'twill be admirable!
Maria. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [Exit]
Sir Toby Belch. Good night, Penthesilea.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Before me, she's a good wench.
Sir Toby Belch. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o' that?
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. I was adored once too.
Sir Toby Belch. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
Sir Toby Belch. Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut.
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will.
Sir Toby Belch. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. [Exeunt]
This prompts the comic sub-plot of the play, which will result in Malvolio becoming more absurd as he becomes infatuated with Lady Olivia, thanks to forged love-notes. The entire play, by virtue of its title and setting, is an obvious choice for Twelfth Night and Epiphany, especially because it deals with a temporary reversal (or confusion) of order followed by an unmasking/revelation. It should be said, though, that this is the pattern most of Shakespeare's comedies follow, and I wonder if celebrations of the Christmas season, with its Twelfth Night revelry and Epiphanic solemnity, didn't do something to bake the ingredients for a good comedy right into his psyche from a young age. The scene is appropriate because it mocks the two opposite (and rather silly) extreme reactions to Christmas celebrations: dissipation, on the one hand, and prudish refusal to have fun on the other.
I've put the entire play below. Not bad, Shakespeare. Not bad.
