MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's coming down this walk. He has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there [throws down a letter], for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [Exit.] [Enter MALVOLIO.] MALVOLIO. 'T is but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should I think on 't? SIR TOBY. Here 's an overweening rogue! FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanc'd plumes! SIR ANDREW. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue! SIR TOBY. Peace, I say. MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio! SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue! SIR ANDREW. Pistol him, pistol him. SIR TOBY. Peace, peace! MALVOLIO. There is example for't: the lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. SIR ANDREW. Fie on him, Jezebel! FABIAN. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him. MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,-- SIR TOBY. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,-- SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone! FABIAN. O, peace, peace! MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour of state; and, after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place, as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby,-- SIR TOBY. Bolts and shackles! FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I frown the while; and perchance wind up my watch, or play with my-- some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me,-- SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live? FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control,-- SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips, then? MALVOLIO. Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech,'-- SIR TOBY. What, what? MALVOLIO. 'You must amend your drunkenness.'-- SIR TOBY. Out, scab! FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. MALVOLIO. 'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight,'-- SIR ANDREW. That's me, I warrant you. MALVOLIO. 'One Sir Andrew.' SIR ANDREW. I knew 't was I; for many do call me fool. MALVOLIO. What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter.] FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin. SIR TOBY. O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!