?" said
Olivia. "No," replied Viola; "and yet I am not that which I play;"
meaning, that she being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And
again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said
she was; and then Viola, having more curiosity to see her rival's
features than haste to deliver her master's message, said, "Good
madam, let me see your face." With this bold request Olivia was not
averse to comply; for this haughty beauty, whom the Duke Orsino had
loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the
supposed page, the humble Cesario.

When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, "Have you any
commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face?" And
then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years,
she drew aside her veil, saying, "But I will draw the curtain and shew
the picture. Is it not well done?" Viola replied, "It is beauty truly
mixed; the red and white upon your cheeks is by Nature's own cunning
hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you will lead
these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy." "O sir,"
replied Olivia, "I will not be so cruel. The world may have an
inventory of my beauty. As, _item_, two lips, indifferent red; _item_,
two grey eyes, with lids to them; one neck; one chin, and so forth.
Were you sent here to praise me?" Viola replied, "I see you what you
are: you are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves
you. O such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned
the queen of beauty: for Orsino loves you with adoration and with
tears, with groans that thunder love, and sighs of fire." "Your lord,"
said Olivia, "knows well my mind. I cannot love him; yet I doubt not
he is virtuous; I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh
and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and
valiant; yet I cannot love him, he might have taken his answer long
ago." "If I did love you as my master does," said Viola, "I would make
me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would
write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the
night; your name should sound among the hills, and I would make Echo,
the babbling gossip of the air, cry out _Olivia_. O you should not
rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me."
"You might do much," said Olivia: "what is your parentage?" Viola
replied, "Above my fortunes, yet my state i