Viola

Orsino: For women are as roses, whose fair flower

Being one displayed, doth fall that very hour.

Viola: And so they are: alas, that they are so;

To die, when they to perfection grow.

My Lord,

I do protest —

I —

I never,

I'm not

No — ?

But —

'Tis poetical?

How can this be?

Madam, I —

My Lord would speak, my duty hushes me,

Shhh,

My woman's weeds, —

to confirm that —

I am Viola.

Now, can I

Speak — ?

(even FABIAN: Good madam, hear me speak,

even ANTONIO: Let me speak a little)

I can sing and speak in many sorts of music...

Cesario —

What's in a name?

For women are as roses,

Once displayed, they

Fall that very hour.

(Do not let them display you!)

(Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness) *winks*

As I am man, my state is

Desperate, vocal, verse.

As I am woman, — now alas the day!

What thriftless sighs!

What silence!