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.
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