Twelfth Night: Act 1, Scene 5

Give us the place alone. We will hear this
divinity.
Now sir, what is your text?
Most sweet lady—
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said
of it. Where lies your text?
In Orsino's bosom.
In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom?
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more
to say?
Good madam, let me see your face.
Have you any commission from your lord to
negotiate with my face?
You are now out of your text.
But we will draw the curtain and show you the
picture.
Look you, sir, such a
one I was this present.
Is ’t not well done?
Excellently done, if God did all.
’Tis in grain, sir, ’twill endure wind and
Weather.
Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy.
O, I will not be so hard-hearted, sir!
I will give out divers schedules of my beauty.
It shall be inventoried, and every
particle and utensil labeled to my will,
as, item, two lips indifferent red;
item, two eyes, with lids to them;
item, one neck, one chin and so forth.
Were you sent hither to praise me?
I see you what you are. You are too proud.
But if you were the devil you are fair.
My lord and master loves you.
Your lord does know my mind: I cannot love him.
He might have took his answer long ago.
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.
Why, what would you?
Make me a willow cabin at your gate
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemnèd love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Hallow 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.
You might do much.
What is your parentage?
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well.
I am a gentleman.
Get you to your lord.
I cannot love him; Let him send no more.