to his love for Olivia.  Now though Viola had the utmost deference for the duke’s opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino’s had; and she said, “Ah, but I know, my lord.”—­“What do you know, Cesario?” said Orsino.  “Too well I know,” replied Viola, “what love women may owe to men.  They are as true of heart as we are.  My father had a daughter loved a man, as I perhaps, were I a woman, should love your lordship.”  “And what is her history?” said Orsino.  “A blank, my lord,” replied Viola:  “she never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, prey 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.”  The duke enquired if this lady died of her love, but to this question Viola returned an evasive answer; as probably she had feigned the story, to speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for Orsino.

While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, “So please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer:  Until seven years hence, the element itself shall not behold her face; but like a cloistress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother.”  On hearing this, the duke exclaimed, “O she that has a heart of this fine frame, to pay this debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft has touched her heart!” And then he said to Viola, “You know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets of my heart; therefore, good youth, go to Olivia’s house.  Be not denied access; stand at her doors, and tell her, there your fixed foot shall grow till you have audience.”  “And if I do speak to her, my lord, what then?” said Viola.  “O then,” replied Orsino, “unfold to her the passion of my love.  Make a long discourse to her of my dear faith.  It will well become you to act my woes, for she will attend more to you than to one of graver aspect.”

Away then went Viola; but not willingly did she undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wished to marry:  but having undertaken the affair, she performed it with fidelity; and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door who insisted upon being admitted to her presence.  “I told him,” said the servant, “that you were sick:  he said he knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with you.  I told him that you were asleep; he seemed to have a foreknowledge of that too, and said, that therefore he must speak with you.  What is to be said to him, lady? for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak with you, whether you will or no.”  Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might be admitted; and throwing her veil over her face, she said she would once more hear Orsino’s