Blame not this haste of mine:  if you mean well,
     Now go with me and with this holy man
     Into the chantry by:  there before him,
     And underneath that consecrated roof,
     Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
     that my most jealous and too doubtful soul
     may live at peace.

We have already said something of Shakespeare’s songs.  One of the most beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his own to it.

   Duke.  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 chaunt it; it is silly sooth,
     And dallies with the innocence of love,
     Like the old age.

Song

  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-love never find my grave,
    To weep there.

Who after this will say that Shakespeare’s genius was only fitted for comedy?  Yet after reading other parts of this play, and particularly the garden-scene where Malvolio picks up the letter, if we were to say that his genius for comedy was less than his genius for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in such matters is more saturnine than mercurial.

   Enter Maria

   Sir Toby.  Here comes the little villain:—­How now, my
     Nettle 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 behaviour 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; for here comes the trout that
     must be caught with tickling.

   [They hide themselves.  Maria throws down a letter, and exit.]

   Enter Malvolio

   Malvolio.  ’Tis but fortune; all is fortune.  Maria once told
     me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus
     near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. 
     Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect
     than any one else that follows her.  What should I think on’t?

   Sir Toby.  Here’s an over-weening rogue!