Speeches (Lines) for Maria in "Twelfth Night; or, What You Will"

Sir Toby Belch. What a plague means my niece, to take the death of
her brother thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.

Maria. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o'
nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great
exceptions to your ill hours.

Sir Toby Belch. Why, let her except, before excepted.

Maria. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest
limits of order.

Sir Toby Belch. Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am:
these clothes are good enough to drink in; and so be
these boots too: an they be not, let them hang
themselves in their own straps.

Maria. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard
my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish
knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer.

Sir Toby Belch. Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Maria. Ay, he.

Sir Toby Belch. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

Maria. What's that to the purpose?

Sir Toby Belch. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Maria. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats:
he's a very fool and a prodigal.

Sir Toby Belch. Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' the
viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages
word for word without book, and hath all the good
gifts of nature.

Maria. He hath indeed, almost natural: for besides that
he's a fool, he's a great quarreller: and but that
he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he
hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent
he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

Sir Toby Belch. By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors
that say so of him. Who are they?

Maria. They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Bless you, fair shrew.

Maria. And you too, sir.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.

Maria. My name is Mary, sir.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this
company. Is that the meaning of 'accost'?

Maria. Fare you well, gentlemen.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. An you part so, mistress, I would I might never
draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have
fools in hand?

Maria. Sir, I have not you by the hand.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.

Maria. Now, sir, 'thought is free:' I pray you, bring
your hand to the buttery-bar and let it drink.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?

Maria. It's dry, sir.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Why, I think so: I am not such an ass but I can
keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

Maria. A dry jest, sir.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Are you full of them?

Maria. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends: marry,
now I let go your hand, I am barren.

Viola. I'll do my best
To woo your lady:
[Aside]
yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.

Maria. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will
not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter in
way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence.

Feste. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this
world needs to fear no colours.

Maria. Make that good.

Feste. He shall see none to fear.

Maria. A good lenten answer: I can tell thee where that
saying was born, of 'I fear no colours.'

Feste. Where, good Mistress Mary?

Maria. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.

Feste. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those
that are fools, let them use their talents.

Maria. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or,
to be turned away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?

Feste. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and,
for turning away, let summer bear it out.

Maria. You are resolute, then?

Feste. Not so, neither; but I am resolved on two points.

Maria. That if one break, the other will hold; or, if both
break, your gaskins fall.

Feste. Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if
Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a
piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

Maria. Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my
lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best.

Feste. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou
speakest well of fools!

Maria. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much
desires to speak with you.

Olivia. From the Count Orsino, is it?

Maria. I know not, madam: 'tis a fair young man, and well attended.

Olivia. Who of my people hold him in delay?

Maria. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

Olivia. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you,
keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates,
and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you
than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if
you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of
moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

Maria. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Good, i' faith. Come, begin.

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. [Sings] 'O, the twelfth day of December,'--

Maria. For the love o' God, peace!

Sir Toby Belch. 'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

Maria. Nay, good Sir Toby.

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.

Maria. Go shake your ears.

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. 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. 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.

Sir Toby Belch. Here comes the little villain.
[Enter MARIA]
How now, my metal of India!

Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the
sun practising behavior to his own shadow this half
hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I
know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of
him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there,
[Throws down a letter]
for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

Sir Toby Belch. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when
the image of it leaves him he must run mad.

Maria. Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

Sir Toby Belch. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

Maria. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark
his first approach before my lady: he will come to
her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she
abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;
and he will smile upon her, which will now be so
unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him
into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow
me.

Sir Toby Belch. Look, where the youngest wren of nine comes.

Maria. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself
into stitches, follow me. 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.

Sir Toby Belch. And cross-gartered?

Maria. Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school
i' the church. I have dogged him, like his
murderer. He does obey every point of the letter
that I dropped to betray him: he does smile his
face into more lines than is in the new map with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such
a thing as 'tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things
at him. I know my lady will strike him: if she do,
he'll smile and take't for a great favour.

Olivia. I have sent after him: he says he'll come;
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.
I speak too loud.
Where is Malvolio? he is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes:
Where is Malvolio?

Maria. He's coming, madam; but in very strange manner. He
is, sure, possessed, madam.

Olivia. Why, what's the matter? does he rave?

Maria. No. madam, he does nothing but smile: your
ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if
he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in's wits.

Olivia. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss
thy hand so oft?

Maria. How do you, Malvolio?

Malvolio. At your request! yes; nightingales answer daws.

Maria. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?

Malvolio. Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private: go
off.

Maria. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not
I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a
care of him.

Malvolio. Do you know what you say?

Maria. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes
it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched!

Fabian. Carry his water to the wise woman.

Maria. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow morning, if I
live. My lady would not lose him for more than I'll say.

Malvolio. How now, mistress!

Maria. O Lord!

Sir Toby Belch. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 'tis not for
gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan: hang
him, foul collier!

Maria. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray.

Malvolio. My prayers, minx!

Maria. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.

Sir Toby Belch. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.

Maria. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.

Fabian. Why, we shall make him mad indeed.

Maria. The house will be the quieter.

Sir Toby Belch. [Reads] 'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon
one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine; but
my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy
friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,
ANDREW AGUECHEEK.
If this letter move him not, his legs cannot:
I'll give't him.

Maria. You may have very fit occasion for't: he is now in
some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart.

Olivia. O, say so, and so be!

Maria. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard;
make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate: do
it quickly; I'll call Sir Toby the whilst.

Feste. Nay, I am for all waters.

Maria. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and
gown: he sees thee not.