| 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 |
| 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 deceivable. | But here the lady comes |
Sebastian Monologue (Twelfth Night)
July 29, 2019