Oli.

By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, uncle?

Sir To.

A gentleman.

Oli.

A gentleman? what gentleman?

Sir To.

'Tis a gentleman here. A plague o'these pickle herring: how now, sot?

Clo.

Good Sir Toby.

Oli.

Uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy?

Sir To.

Letchery, I defie letchery: there's one at the gate.

Oli.

Ay marry, what is he?

Sir To.

Let him be the devil and he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it's all one.

Oli.

What's a drunken man like, fool?

Clo.

Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him.

Oli.

Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o'my uncle; for he's in the third degree of drink; he's drown'd; go look after him.

Clo.

He is but mad yet, Madona, and the fool shall look to the madman.

Mal.

Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick, he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep, he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial.

Oli.

Tell him he shall not speak with me.

Mal.

He has been told so; and he says he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak with you.

Oli.

What kind o'man is he?

Mal.

Why, of mankind.

Oli.

What manner of man?

Mal.

Of very ill manners; he'll speak with you, will you or no.

Oli.

Of what personage and years is he?

Mal.

Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a codling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.

Oli.

Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman.

Mal.

Gentlewoman, my lady calls.