Twelfth Night. Act 4, Scene 3. Sebastian
(This text is featured in our interview with Deaon Griffin-Pressley)
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- This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
- This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t;
- And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus,
- Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then?
- I could not find him at the Elephant:
- Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
- That he did range the town to seek me out.
- His counsel now might do me golden service;
- For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
- That this may be some error, but no madness,
- Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
- So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
- That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
- And wrangle with my reason that persuades me
- To any other trust but that I am mad
- Or else the lady’s mad; yet, if ’twere so,
- She could not sway her house, command her followers,
- Take and give back affairs and their dispatch
- With such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing
- As I perceive she does: there’s something in’t
- That is deceiveable. But here the lady comes.