Mar. Get ye all three behind yon clump: Malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.—Close, in the name of jesting! [The men hide themselves.]—Lie thou there; [Throws down a letter.] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.
[Exit Maria.
Enter Malvolio.
Mal. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me, she did affect me: and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?
Sir To. Here's an over-weening rogue!
Fab. Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!
Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue:—
Mal. To be Count Malvolio;—
Sir To. Ah, rogue!
Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him.