Sir To. Out, scab!
Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
Mal. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight;—
Sir And. That's me, I warrant you.
Mal. One Sir Andrew:—
Sir And. I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
Mal. What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter.
Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin.
Sir To. O peace! an the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him,—