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 controul.
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.