said aloud, "I will be sworn
he is; his tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit, plainly show
he is a gentleman." And then she wished Cesario was the duke; and
perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed
herself for her sudden love: but the gentle blame which people lay upon
their own faults has no deep root; and presently the noble Lady Olivia
so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of this
seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve which is the chief
ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to court the love of
young Cesario, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under
the pretence that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She
hoped by thus artfully making Cesario a present of the ring, she should
give him some intimation of her design; and truly it did make Viola
suspect; for knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to
recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of admiration,
and she presently guessed her master's mistress had fallen in love with
her. "Alas," said she, "the poor lady might as well love a dream.
Disguise I see is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as
fruitless sighs for me as I do for Orsino."

Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the ill
success of the negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia, that the
duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping
that the gentle Cesario would in time be able to persuade her to show
some pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to her again the next
day. In the meantime, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a
song which he loved to be sung; and he said, "My good Cesario, when I
heard that song last night, methought it did relieve my passion much.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters
when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread
with bone, chant this song. It is silly, yet I love it, for it tells of
the innocence of love in the 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 strewn:
Not a friend, not a frien