Viola Monologue from Twelfth Night

From Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

female · contemplative · 1:14 min

Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. (DUKE: And what’s her history?) A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. (DUKE: But died thy sister of her love, my boy?) I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady?

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