e old times."

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 lover never find my grave, to weep there.

Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such
true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore
testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her
sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My life upon it,
Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face
that it loves; has it not, boy?" "A little, with your leave," replied
Viola. "And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?" said Orsino.
"Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola; which made
the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older
than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant
Orsino, and not a woman like him.

When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty
in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies
delight to converse with handsome young messengers; and the instant
Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page
was shewn into Olivia's apartment with great respect; and when Viola
told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf,
this lady said, "I desired you never to speak of him again; but if
you would undertake another suit, I had rather hear you solicit, than
music from the spheres." This was pretty plain speaking, but Olivia
soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her
love; and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in
Viola's face, she said, "O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the
contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by
maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so, that, in spite of your
pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion." But in
vain the lady wooed; Viola hastened from her presence, threatening
never more to come to plead Orsino's love; and all the reply she made
to Olivia's fond sol