Sir To.

What a plague means my neice, to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure, care's an enemy to life.

Mar.

By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier a-nights; your neice, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.

Sir To.

Why, let her except, before excepted.

Mar.

Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

Sir To.

Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than I am; these cloaths are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.

Mar.

That quaffing and drinking will undo you; I heard my lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish Knight that you brought in one night here, to be her wooer.

Sir To.

Who, Sir Andrew Ague-cheek?

Mar.

Ay, he.

Sir To.

He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

Mar.

What's that to th' purpose?

Sir To.

Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Mar.

Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats: he's a very fool and a prodigal.

Sir To.

Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o'th' violdegambo, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature.

Mar.

He hath, indeed,—almost natural; for besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

Sir To.

By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of him. Who are they?

Mar.

They that add moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.

Sir To.

With drinking healths to my neice: I'll drink to her as long as there's a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my neice 'till his brains turn o'th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench? ^{6 note}Castiliano Volto; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-cheek.