VIOLA

Shipwrecked, believes her twin brother drowned, currently employed as a young man named Cesario.

1:24Dramatic-comic18–25Intermediate

The speech151 words · 5 beats

0:00 / 1:24

Off-book

She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! Why, he sent her none.

Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!

How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this?turn

O time, thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.

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Speaking to: Herself, working it out in real time.
What just happened: She was sent to woo Olivia on her master's behalf. Olivia's steward has just chased her down the street to return a ring she never gave.
Objective: To find any version of this where nobody gets hurt. There isn't one.
The turn: 'How will this fadge?' — she stops diagnosing Olivia and realises she's inside the trap too.
Watch out for: Excellent first classical piece: short lines, plain vocabulary, and a genuine puzzle to solve out loud.

Full work: Twelfth Night New to the vocabulary? What’s a beat? →

More from Twelfth Night1

VIOLA1:02A woman disguised as a man, in love with the master who cannot see her, tells him about her 'sister' who is really herself. She grieves and flirts in the same breath, hidden in plain sight.

VIOLA

Twelfth Night · William Shakespeare · 1:24 · 151 words

I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me, indeed so much That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord's ring! Why, he sent her none. Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women's waxen hearts to set their forms! How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? O time, thou must untangle this, not I; It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.

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