Twelfth Night

by William Shakespeare

How easy is it 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. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, 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 to untie! [Exit.]

Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we.

My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. DUKE. And what's her history? VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy,

CLOWN. Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused: so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes.