Monologue

Viola Monologue from Twelfth Night

From Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare

female · contemplative · 1:23 min

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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?

About this piece

Viola reflects on the pain of unexpressed love and the emotional turmoil that accompanies her hidden feelings, contemplating the nature of love and the contrast between outward expressions and inner truths.

20s · melancholy · love · identity · grief · concealment

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