Fab.

This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.

Sir To.

I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong or so.

Fab.

We shall have a rare letter from him; but you'll not deliver't.

Sir To.

Never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wain-ropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were open'd, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of th' anatomy.

Fab.

And his opposite the youth bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty.

Sir To.

Look where the youngest wren of mine comes.

Mar.

If you desire the spleen, and will laugh your selves into stitches, follow me; yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no christian that means to be sav'd by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He's in yellow stockings.

Sir To.

And cross-garter'd?

Mar.

Most villanously; like a pedant that keeps a school i'th' church: I have dogg'd him like his murtherer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropt to betray him; he does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies; you have not seen such a thing as 'tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I

know my lady will strike him; if she do, he'll smile, and take't for a great favour.

Sir To.

Come, bring us, bring us where he is.