Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.
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.
Come, but one verse.
Play some music for me. Hello everyone. Now Cesario, I want that song we heard last night - the old, classical one. I thought it really helped ease my heartache much more than the light, modern songs and polished phrases of our current times. Come on, just sing one verse of it.
I need some music. Hey everyone. Cesario, remember that old song we heard last night? That one really helped with my sadness way more than all these trendy modern songs we usually hear. Just give me one verse, alright?
play some music remember that old song from last night? it helped my sadness so much more than these modern hits we always hear just one verse come on
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.
The person who should sing it is not here, my lord.
He's not around, sir. The singer must be somewhere else.
he's not here
Who was it?
Who was it?
Who was the singer?
who?
Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took
much delight in. He is about the house.
Feste, the jester, my lord - a fool whom Lady Olivia's father really enjoyed. He's somewhere in the house.
It's Feste, sir - he's a comedian that Lady Olivia's father loved. He's probably somewhere around here.
feste the jester, sir lady olivia's father loved him he's around the house somewhere
Seek him out, and play the tune the while.
Find him and play the melody in the meantime.
Go find him and start playing that song while we wait.
find him play the tune while we wait
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. How dost thou like this tune?
Come here, boy. If ever you fall in love, remember me in those sweet pangs of it: for all true lovers like me are unsteady and nervous in everything else, except when focused on the image of the person that is loved. What do you think of this music?
Come here, boy. If you ever fall in love, remember me. That's what all true lovers are like—we're restless and anxious about everything except the one we love. We stay focused only on them. Do you like this music?
come here boy if you ever fall in love remember me true lovers are restless except for the one they love like this tune?
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is throned.
It echoes the very place Where love holds its throne.
It's like it comes straight from Where love actually lives.
echoes where love lives where love has its throne
Thou dost speak masterly.
My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves.
Hath it not, boy?
You speak with real wisdom. I'd bet my life on it - young as you are, your eye Has lingered on some face it loves. Hasn't it, boy?
You're really wise about this. I'd stake my life on it - even though you're young, your eyes Have definitely stayed on someone's face that you like. Right, boy?
you speak wisely i'd bet my life your eyes have stayed on someone you like right?
A little, by your favour.
A little bit, with your permission.
Yeah, a bit - if that's okay with you.
yeah a little bit if that's cool
What kind of woman is’t?
What kind of woman is she?
What's she like?
describe her to me
Orsino requests 'Come Away Death' because it matches his mood — a lover asking to die at the hands of a cruel beloved. It's the perfectly self-indulgent song for a man who is enjoying his melancholy as an aesthetic experience. But the song has a strange relationship to the scene's actual emotional content. The lover in the song wants to die unseen, unloved, without flowers on the coffin, with no true lover finding the grave — absolute erasure. Orsino is the opposite of this: he wants maximum recognition, maximum sympathy, maximum return. He doesn't want to be a forgotten sad lover. He wants Olivia to see how much he suffers and be moved. The song describes the complete surrender he can't actually make.
Of your complexion.
Of your complexion.
of your complexion.
Of your complexion.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith?
Then she's not worth you. How old is she?
Then she's not good enough for you. How old is she?
not worth it then how many years?
About your years, my lord.
About your age, my lord.
About your age, sir.
same age as you basically
Too old, by heaven! 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 worn,
Than women’s are.
Too old! A woman should always take A husband who is older than herself; in that way she ages to match him, And stays steady in her husband's heart. Because, boy, however much we men praise ourselves, Our desires are more restless and unstable, More eager, changeable, quicker to fade and deteriorate, Than women's are.
Way too old! Women should marry Someone older than them; that way she stays consistent with him, And keeps steady in her husband's love. Look, no matter what we men say about ourselves, Our desires are way more scattered and shaky, More desperate, flighty, quick to disappear and wear out, Than women's desires.
too old! women should marry older guys so they stay steady with them we men's desires are scattered more desperate and flighty than women's
I think it well, my lord.
I understand your point, my lord.
I hear you, sir.
makes sense yeah
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.
Then your love should be younger than you, Or your affection cannot remain constant: Because women are like roses - their beautiful bloom Once opened, falls away that very hour.
So your love should be younger than you, Or your feelings won't stay strong: Because women are like roses - once that beautiful flower Opens up, it falls off right away.
date someone younger or your feelings won't last women r like roses bloom opens then falls right away
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
And that's true: sadly, that's how it is; To wither, right when they reach their peak!
Yeah, that's right: it's sad how it works, They fade right when they're at their best!
yeah that's true it's so sad they die right when they're perfect
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love
Like the old age.
Come here, my friend, the song from last night. Pay attention, Cesario, it's old and simple; The women spinning and knitting in the sunshine, And the unmarried girls who weave thread with bone needles Usually sing it: it's sweet simple truth, And it plays gently with the innocence of love The way the old days do.
Hey, come here, let's do that song from last night. Listen to this, Cesario - it's old and straightforward; Women sitting in the sun spinning and knitting, And young unmarried girls weaving thread with bone needles Like to sing it: it's honest, simple truth, And it handles love's innocence gently Like the old times did.
come here mate let's do that song from last night listen cesario it's old and simple women spinning knitting in the sun young girls weaving with bone needles sing it too it's honest simple truth deals with love's innocence like the old days
Are you ready, sir?
Do you have everything prepared, sir?
You ready, sir?
all set?
Ay; prithee, sing.
Yes; please sing.
Yeah, go ahead and sing.
yeah go for it
The figure of Patience on a monument — carved stone, enduring, smiling through grief — is one of the most resonant images in English poetry. Viola uses it to describe 'her father's daughter' who loved in silence. It's her self-portrait. And the image is structurally perfect for her situation: Patience is carved in stone because it cannot move. That's exactly Viola's predicament. She cannot act, cannot speak, cannot advance. All she can do is remain. The smile at grief is crucial — she's not broken, not bitter. She performs contentment while the secret eats at her. When Orsino asks 'did your sister die of it?' and Viola says she doesn't know — the answer is: she's still in the process of finding out.
_ Come away, come away, death.
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death no one so true
Did share it._
_ 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._
Come, death, come to me. Lay me in the sad cypress. Let my breath fly away; I am killed by a beautiful cruel woman. My white shroud, decorated with yew, O, prepare it! No one has experienced death more truly Than I have lived it. Not a single flower, not one sweet bloom, Should be scattered on my black coffin: Not a friend, not one, should greet My poor corpse where my bones will be thrown: Save all those thousand sighs, Lay me where No sad true lover finds my grave To mourn there.
Come to me, death. Lay me in the sad cypress. Let my breath escape; A beautiful cruel woman killed me. My white shroud, covered with yew, Go prepare it! No one's ever truly died The way I'm dying. No flowers, not even pretty ones, On my dark coffin: No friends, not even one, should see My sad body where my bones go: Keep all those sighs, Put me somewhere Where no heartbroken lover finds my grave To cry there.
death come to me lay me in cypress beautiful cruel woman killed me white shroud with yew no flowers no friends keep the sighs no lover finds my grave
There’s for thy pains.
Here's something for your effort.
That's for your trouble.
that's for your effort
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
No trouble at all, sir; I enjoy singing, sir.
No problem, sir; I actually love singing, sir.
singing's my thing not work
I’ll pay thy pleasure, then.
Then I'll pay you for your pleasure.
Then I'll pay you for enjoying yourself.
i'll pay you for the fun
Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.
Truly sir, pleasure will be repaid one way or another.
Yeah sir, eventually you always have to pay back good times you enjoy.
yeah sir pleasure always gets paid back eventually
Give me now leave to leave thee.
Let me go now.
Let me get going.
let me go
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. Farewell.
May the god of sadness protect you, and may the tailor make your coat from changeable silk, because your mind is like an opal. I would have men with Such scattered minds sent to sea, so their business might be everything, and their goals everywhere, because that's what always makes a successful journey out of nothing. Goodbye.
May sadness protect you, and may your tailor make your coat from that shimmery fabric, because your mind changes colors like an opal. I'd put men as scattered-minded as you on ships, where their work could be anything and their goals everywhere, because that's what makes a great voyage out of going nowhere. Goodbye.
may sadness protect you your coat's made of shimmery fabric cuz your mind's like an opal dudes like you should sail the seas changing your minds constantly that's how great voyages happen bye
Let all the rest give place.
Everyone else, leave the room.
Everyone else, get out of here.
everyone out
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty.
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.
Once more, Cesario, go to that cruel beauty. Tell her my love, more noble than the world, doesn't care about piles of land; the gifts that fortune gave her, I care about those casually as fortune does; but it's that miracle and queen of gems that nature dressed her in that attracts my soul.
Once more, Cesario, go to that beautiful, cruel woman. Tell her my love is too noble for worldly things—I don't care about land or possessions. Those gifts from fortune, I value them lightly. It's her inner beauty, her miraculous virtue, that nature gave her—that's what captures my soul.
go to her again cesario tell her my love is noble i don't want her land or fortune it's her inner beauty that captures me
The scene's irony accumulates in layers. Orsino tells Viola that women can't love as deeply as men — while Viola loves him. He tells her that men should love younger women — while she is younger than he is. He tells her to go to Olivia — while the person he's confiding in loves him. He hears the patience-on-a-monument speech as an interesting story. He asks if the sister died. He never asks: did the man ever find out? He never asks: did it end? He receives a complete account of devoted, patient, suffering love and uses it as context for sending her away on his errand. This is not stupidity. It's the blindness of a person who has organized the world around a central obsession and can only see incoming information in terms of it.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
But what if she finds it impossible to return your love, sir?
But what if she just can't love you, sir?
what if she won't love you tho?
I cannot be so answer’d.
I cannot accept that answer.
I can't accept that as an answer.
i can't accept that
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: you cannot love her;
You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d?
But the truth is, you must accept it. Say some lady, as there might be one, Has for your love as much heartache As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so. Must she not then get an answer too?
But honestly, you have to accept it. Say some woman, and maybe there is one, Has just as much heartache for you As you have for Olivia: you can't love her back; You tell her that. Doesn't she deserve an answer too?
but you gotta accept it say some lady has heartache for you like you have for olivia you can't love her you tell her that doesn't she deserve an answer?
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.
Alas, their love may be called appetite,
No motion of the liver, but the palate,
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.
No woman's body Can withstand the pounding of such a powerful passion As the love that fills my heart: no woman's heart Is big enough to hold so much; women lack the ability to hold love strong. Sadly, their love can only be called hunger, Not a deep feeling, just appetite, That can have too much, feel sick from it, and then reject it; But my love is as endless as the sea, And can consume as much more. Do not compare The love any woman could have for me To what I feel for Olivia.
No woman's body Can take the force of a passion this strong Like the love that fills me: no woman's heart Is big enough to hold this much; women can't keep love that strong. Sorry, but their love is just hunger, Not real feeling, just appetite, That gets too full, feels sick, and then rejects it; But my love is endless like the ocean, And can take so much more. Don't even try to compare How any woman could love me To how I love Olivia.
no woman's body can handle this passionate force no woman's heart is big enough women can't keep love this strong their love's just hunger just appetite goes too far feels sick rejects it but my love's endless like the ocean don't compare any woman's love for me to what i feel for olivia
Ay, but I know—
Yes, but I know—
Yeah, but I know—
hold up i got something
What dost thou know?
What understanding do you possess?
What makes you think you know something?
what u know?
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.
Too well what devotion women can give to men. In truth, they are as faithful in heart as we are. My father had a daughter who loved a man, And perhaps, if I were a woman, That man would be you, my lord.
I know too well how much love women give to men. Honestly, they're just as loyal-hearted as we are. My father had a daughter who loved a man, And if I were a woman, That man would probably be you, sir.
i know what love women give to men they're just as loyal as we are my father had a daughter she loved a man if i was a woman that man would be you
And what’s her history?
And what happened to her life?
And what's her story?
did she die? how'd it end?
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined 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.
Nothing, my lord. She never told him she loved him, But let her secret, like a worm in a rosebud, Feed on her pink cheek: she wasted away thinking, And with a sickly, pale melancholy She sat like a statue of patience, Smiling at her sadness. Wasn't that real love? We men may say more, swear more, but the truth is, Our displays mean more than our actual feelings; we still prove Much in our promises, but little in our actual love.
Nothing really, sir. She never told him how she felt, But let her secret eat away at her like a worm in a rose, Eating her up from inside: she just wasted away, And with this sickly pale sadness She just sat there like a statue showing patience, Smiling through her pain. Wasn't that real love? We men might talk more, swear more, but honestly, What we show matters more than what we actually feel; we prove A lot with our words, but very little with our actual love.
she never told him let her secret eat her up wasted away sickly and pale sat like a statue smiling at pain wasn't that real love? we men talk more swear more but show more than we feel prove a lot with words little with actual love
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
But did your sister die from her love, my boy?
But did your sister die from that love, boy?
did she die from that love?
I am all the daughters of my father’s house,
And all the brothers too: and yet I know not.
Sir, shall I to this lady?
I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers as well: and yet I don't know. Sir, should I go to this lady now?
I'm the only child my father had - both the daughters and the sons: And I still don't know the answer. Sir, should I go talk to this lady now?
i'm all my father's children daughters and brothers and i don't know what happened should i go to this lady now sir?
Ay, that’s the theme.
To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
Yes, that's what I want. Go to her quickly. Give her this jewel; tell her My love will not accept rejection, will not tolerate no.
Yeah, that's the plan. Go to her right away. Give her this jewel and tell her My love can't make room for anyone else, won't accept a no.
yes that's it go to her now give her this jewel tell her my love won't accept no
The Reckoning
This is the play's great romantic scene — and Orsino spends most of it being wrong in interesting ways. He tells Viola that women can't sustain passionate love the way men can. He tells her men should marry younger women because love needs to be sustained. Then Viola tells him a story about a woman who loved so completely that she never said a word, and just 'sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief.' He doesn't hear it as what it is. The audience does. The scene ends with Orsino sending Cesario back to Olivia, and neither of them saying what they actually mean.
If this happened today…
You're having lunch with the person you're in love with. They're talking about how much they love someone else. You listen. They say women can't love as intensely as men. You don't correct them. Instead you tell them about a friend of yours — 'your father's daughter' — who loved someone so completely that she just waited in silence until it either resolved or killed her. They find it touching. They go back to talking about the person they love. They ask you to go speak to that person for them.