Oli.
Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold.

Sir To.
Madam?

Oli.
Will it be ever thus? ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd: out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario:—
Rudesby, be gone! I pr'ythee, gentle friend, [Exeunt Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew.
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there, how many fruitless pranks
^{3 note}This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
May'st smile at this: thou shalt not chuse but go:
Do not deny; beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.

Seb.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep,
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep.

Oli.
Nay, come, I pray: 'would, thou'dst be rul'd by me.

Seb.
Madam, I will.

Oli.
O, say so, and so be! [Exeunt.

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