Mal. By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very C's, her U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It is, in contempt of question, her hand.
Sir And. Her C's, her U's, and her T's: Why that?
Mal. [Reads.] To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes: her very phrases!—By your leave, wax.—Soft!—and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady: To whom should this be? [Opens the letter.]
Fab. This wins him, liver and all.
Mal. [Reads.] Jove knows, I love:
But who?
Lips do not move,
No man must know.
No man must know.—If this should be thee, Malvolio?
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock!
Mal. [Reads.] I may command, where I adore:
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore;
M,O,A,I, doth sway my life.
Fab. A fustian riddle!
Sir To. Excellent wench, say I.
Mal. M,O,A,I, doth sway my life.—Nay, but first, let me see,—let me see,—let me see.