SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _Sir Toby, there you lie._ MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go?_ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _What and if you do?_ SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go, and spare not?_ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _O, no, no, no, no, you dare not._ SIR TOBY. Out o’ tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too. SIR TOBY. Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria! MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand. [_Exit._] MARIA. Go shake your ears. SIR ANDREW. ’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him. SIR TOBY. Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s was today with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it. SIR TOBY. Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him. MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. SIR ANDREW. O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog. SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight? SIR ANDREW. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough. MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him. And on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. SIR TOBY. What wilt thou do? MARIA. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device. SIR ANDREW. I have’t in my nose too. SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him. MARIA. My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour. SIR ANDREW. And your horse now would make him an ass. MARIA. Ass, I doubt not. SIR ANDREW. O ’twill be admirable!