SIR TOBY BELCH
Here's an overweening rogue!
FABIAN
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock
of him: how he jets under his advanced plumes!
SIR ANDREW
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
SIR TOBY BELCH
Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO
To be Count Malvolio!
SIR TOBY BELCH
Ah, rogue!
SIR ANDREW
Pistol him, pistol him.
SIR TOBY BELCH
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 BELCH
O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
MALVOLIO
Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet
gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left
Olivia sleeping,–