_Sir To._ Here's an overweening rogue! _Fab._ O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes! _Sir And._ 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue! 30 _Sir To._ Peace, I say. _Mal._ To be Count Malvolio! _Sir To._ Ah, rogue! _Sir And._ Pistol him, pistol him. _Sir To._ Peace, peace! 35 _Mal._ There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. _Sir And._ Fie on him, Jezebel! _Fab._ O, peace! now he's deeply in: look how imagination blows him. 40 _Mal._ Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,-- _Sir To._ O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! _Mal._ Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have 45 left Olivia sleeping,-- _Sir To._ Fire and brimstone! _Fab._ O, peace, peace! _Mal._ And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I 50 would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby,-- _Sir To._ Bolts and shackles! _Fab._ O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. _Mal._ Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind 55 up my watch, or play with my--some rich jewel. Toby approaches; courtesies there to me,-- _Sir To._ Shall this fellow live? _Fab._ Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. 60 _Mal._ I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,-- _Sir To._ And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then? _Mal._ Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast 65 me on your niece give me this prerogative of speech,'-- _Sir To._ What, what? _Mal._ 'You must amend your drunkenness.' _Sir To._ Out, scab! _Fab._ Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. 70 _Mal._ 'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,'-- _Sir And._ That's me, I warrant you. _Mal._ 'One Sir Andrew,'-- _Sir And._ I knew 'twas I; for many do call me fool. 75 _Mal._ What employment have we here? [_Taking up the letter._ _Fab._ Now is the woodcock near the gin. _Sir To._ O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him! _Mal._ By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her 80 very C's, her U's and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand. _Sir And._ Her C's, her U's and her T's: why that?