Olivia's Garden.
Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Fabian.
Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
Fab. Nay, I'll come; if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
Sir To. Would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here.
Sir To. To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue:—Shall we not, Sir Andrew?
Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.
Enter Maria, with a Letter.
Sir To. Here comes the little villain:—How now, my nettle of India?