I left no ring with her. What means this lady? Fortune forbid my own sight had not shunned
her. She made good view of me. Indeed, so much that sure me thought her eyes had lost
her tongue, for she did speak and starts distractedly. She loves me. Sure, the cunning of her passion
invites me in this chervish messenger. None of them looks right. Why, he sent her none.
If it be so as it is. Poor lady. She would better love a dream. Disguised, I see the
art of wickedness. But what if I could use it, nonetheless, to his advantage? That is
worth a try. Now that I've seen her, I have to admit that she's a fitting consort for
a king. Orsino has the finest taste in women. He would not have as much as looked on me.
Would I to come to him as vile? By God, I now think I have a better chance of making
her at last accept his courtship than I have of enticing him myself. And if their love
indeed is in the stars, let it be me who brings the hearts together. I'll take my triumph
to an early grave, an odd glove to this perfect, priceless pair. I must. I have to try it
once again. The maker lent her ear to his pleading.
Good Ian, for cruelty. Forgive me, but this time I have no speech prepared in advance.
Even improvising is beyond my skill. Poor Cicero has never had as dull and dense a pupil
as he has in me, yet even he would be as lost for words as I if he beheld such rare beauty.
Well, I am a convert to return the ring, and ask you to be kinder to the duke and beg you
once again to reconsider. Look around you. Your garden thrives, and you but wither in
the prime of life. To strive for love is not just human nature, it's nature's way. And
love makes worlds turn. And you, as beautiful and clever as you are, do have a part to play
with. Why not my master? For with him I would lie right now myself. But he, alas, alack,
will never have me. His very name tells he was born for love. Just listen. Begins it
and with moans. Or senor. Listen once again. Or senor. And furthermore, the name holds
sin in it. Sin so delectable, so blissful, so welcome. It also has a no in it. Oh yes,
the kind of no as in, oh no, don't stop, oh no, don't go. Live hides in your name. So
live, for heaven's sake. I know quite well that you, so vain and selfish, are set to
rob the future of this beauty. You take no heed of what the world will lose. And so be
it. But think first upon yourself. Think what you lose and miss denying pleasures that could
be yours if you but gave a sign. Please, do not tell me that you never have. Caress yourself
under the veil of night. That you have never run your fingertips over your breasts, over
these perfect rose buds. That scarce pitchless of your own thoughts you've never ventured
there, farther down, between your thighs, into that sacred garden, the hidden temple
of your maiden head, awaiting sacred fires to be lit and aching for the rites to be performed.
The ring you sent me, I regret to say, I cannot keep it. Watch me take it off, and put it
on again. Once more. Look closer. Look how my finger slides into the ring. And I will
look at you, your lips, your bosom. Oh, if I were indeed your lover, drunk and pride,
I'd wear it for the entire world to see how tightly grips your priceless, quaintly gift
my flesh that serves for nothing but your pleasure. The ring would be the proof that
we did share at least one moment of the utmost bliss, at least one night, one sultry, luscious
dream that quenched our thirst, if only for the moment. Was that a moan? So how about
the taste of bliss it might have been? I'll make you see, I'll make you feel how wrong
you are, how blind. Give me your hand, and then give me your lips. Sink with me, down
beneath these roses, patterned sayings of lovers. Too long your wool is lifeless, morning
clothes. Let's make them rain on this grass, together. Skirts. They are this splendid velvet
curtain, and they must drop before the show starts. But now, my lady, there's no need
for that. It's a rehearsal, just a mere anger. The audience squirms in the seats, excited.
They have never seen this play performed, but heard of it too often, too much, and now
are craving to be moved to sobs, to moans, to tears. All the time reluctant, in disbelief,
the voice whiter. Don't fret, they need an odor from your own lips. My finger will recite
it word for word, so take it in your mouth, and I shall pray for strength, so that I won't
forget myself. See no sense, Cesario, do you? This is my Cesario, my finger. A humble messenger,
now in, now out of gates, now living desperate, now coming back again to knock on heartless
door that's locked and barred, to leave his message, impure threshold, in hope that when
he leaves, my lady will read and reread it with her own fingers. He moaned for me, with
him it would be better, just think about those lips, about that tongue, with the wonders
it would work upon your flesh. Forget me, and imagine it's his mouth, his eager mouth
is pressed against your neck, devouring, insatiable, voracious. In truth, this last
me that meets the eye, I should be where it's cursed, like you, not voracious. Compare it
to him, I mean, for what am I? A joke, a fool, a shadow of a man, and he's real, he'll give
you what you crave, ten thousandfold. Think again, my lady, you should have seen him fencing,
have you? No? Is it his best? His hold on shirt undone, his hair disheveled, chest half
bare and heaving, eyes shining bright, a grain upon his lips, his passion not in all he ever
does. I dare not think of what he's like in bed. And then, when he'd last put down his
sword, he asked his men to bring a pail of water and pour it over him. He would curse
and laugh and toss about his perfect hair, shirt clinging to him like a second skin.
I would have worn that shirt, I swear to God, and clinged to every vein and every muscle,
but then I'd be the dusty principal. And you are telling me you do not want him? How dare
you? My lady, think again. One doesn't just dismiss the likes of him, would witless waste.
Oh, think again, my lady. Say it with me, Osino, yes, Osino, Osino, that'll do. Osino,
once again, Osino, don't you dare stop. Osino, more and more I skip it, is my witness, you stop,
I stop, but do you want me to cry out, Osino, moaning to the case his name again? I'll catch
it with my lips and bring it back to him, a shred of hope to soothe his tortured soul and starving
body. Please, do not fret, as I'm a gentleman. I won't as much as breathe a word of this,
and roses intertwined above our heads have blessed our twist. They will keep the secret.
