At this point, Malvolio spies the "love note." He reads it and is absolutely convinced that it was written by Olivia. The script and the phraseology are Olivia's, and the note also has her stamp that she uses for sealing letters. As he reads the poem of love, Malvolio ponders over its mystery. Olivia confesses that only "Jove knows" whom she truly loves; her lips cannot say and "no man must know." The first stanza is unclear, but Malvolio finds hope in the second stanza that it is indeed he whom Olivia loves, for she writes that she "may command where I adore." Surely she refers to him; he is her steward and is at her command. He reads on and finds that the author of the poem says that because she cannot speak the name of her beloved, that "silence, like a Lucrece knife / With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore." Such passion thrills Malvolio, but his emotions are stilled by the poem's puzzling last line: "M, O, A, I, doth sway my life." He reasons that "M" could stand for "Malvolio," but it should logically be followed by "A," and not by "O." And what of the "I" at the end? Yet the letters could feasibly be pieces of an anagram of his name because his name does contain all those letters, albeit in a different sequence.
Then enclosed with the poem, Malvolio discovers a prose letter, which he reads aloud. The author of the letter says that if this letter should, by accident, "fall into [her beloved's] hand," he should be aware that the woman who loves him is, because of the stars (fate) "above" him (meaning that she is socially superior to him), but she begs him not to fear her "greatness." She then states words that have been much-quoted ever since: ". . . some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em." Maria, despite being a mere maid, has done a masterful job of composing exquisite, apologetic modesty, coupled with the tenderness of a love that cannot speak its name.
The author of the love letter continues: Fate beckons to her beloved; he is urged to cast off his usual garments and, instead, he is "commended" to wear yellow stockings, cross-gartered. And, in addition, he should be more "surly with servants"; his tongue should have a "tang." If he does not do all of these things, he will be thought of as no more than a "steward still" and "not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers." The note is signed with a popular Elizabethan lover's device — an oxymoron: "The Fortunate Unhappy." The incongruity of combining one mood with its opposite was considered the epitome of epigrammatic wit.
