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. Peace, I say.
Malvolio. To be Count Malvolio;—
Sir Toby. Ah, rogue!
Sir Andrew. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir Toby. Peace, peace!
Malvolio. There is example
for’t; the lady of the Strachy
married the yeoman of
the wardrobe.
Sir Andrew. Fire 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 chair
of state,—
Sir Toby. O for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye!
Malvolio. Calling my officers
about me, in my branch’d
velvet gown; having
come from a day-bed, where I have
left Olivia sleeping.
Sir Toby. Fire and brimstone!
Fabian. O peace, peace!
Malvolio. And then to have
the humour of state: and
after a demure travel
of regard,—telling them, I know my
place, as I would they
should do theirs,—to ask for my
kinsman Toby.—
Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles!
Fabian. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
Malvolio. Seven of my people,
with an obedient start,
make out for him; I
frown the while; and, perchance, wind
up my watch, or play
with some rich jewel. Toby approaches;
curtsies there to me.
Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?
Fabian. Though our silence
be drawn from us with
cares, yet peace.
Malvolio. I extend my hand
to him thus, quenching my
familiar smile with
an austere regard to control.
Sir Toby. And does not Toby
take you a blow o’ the lips
then?
Malvolio. Saying—Cousin
Toby, my fortunes having
cast me on your niece,
give me this prerogative of speech;—
Sir Toby. What, what?
Malvolio. You must amend your drunkenness.
Fabian. Nay, patience, or we
break the sinews of our
plot.
Malvolio. Besides, you waste
the treasure of your time
with a foolish knight—
Sir Andrew. That’s me, I warrant you.
Malvolio. One Sir Andrew—
Sir Andrew. I knew,’twas I; for many do call me fool.
Malvolio. What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter.]
The letter and his comments on it are equally good. If poor Malvolio’s treatment afterwards is a little hard, poetical justice is done in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her insensibility to the violence of the Duke’s passion is atoned for by the discovery of Viola’s concealed love of him.