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What, to perverseness? You, uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull’st off'rings have breathed out
That e'er devotion tendered—what shall I do?
What, faithful to being mean and nasty? You’re not polite! I breathed from my soul the most faithful offerings to your ungrateful altars that any devoted person has ever offered—what more am I supposed to do?

Even what it please my lord that shall become him.
You can do whatever you want as long as it’s socially appropriate.




Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love?—A savage jealousy
That sometimes savors nobly. But hear me this:
Since you to nonregardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favor,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still.
But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye
Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.
Come, boy, with me. My thoughts are ripe in mischief:
I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.
Maybe I should act like the Egyptian thief who kills the woman he loves before he dies? That kind of savage jealousy sometimes seems noble. But listen to me. Since you keep denying the love I feel for you, and since I know who’s stealing my place in your heart, you can go on being cold-hearted, but I’m going to take this boy from you. He knows his master loves you. I’m doing this, even though he’s dear to me, because I know you love him. Come with me, boy. I’m ready to do something extreme. I’ll sacrifice this boy I care for, just to spite a beautiful woman with a heart of stone.

And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
And I would die a thousand deaths cheerfully, if it made your life easier.

Where goes Cesario?
Where’s Cesario going?

   After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e'er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above,
Punish my life for tainting of my love!
Following the one I love more than my eyes or my life. More than I will ever love a wife. That’s the truth. The angels in heaven are my witnesses, and can see how pure my love is.

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Twelfth Night (No Fear Shakespeare)