Sir Toby. Here’s an over-weening 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. 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. Fie on him, Jezebel!