Sir To. He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
Mar. What's that to the purpose?
Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a-year.
Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal.
Sir To. Fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and hath all the good gifts of nature.
Mar. He hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
Sir To. By this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that say so of him. Who are they?
Mar. They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece; I'll drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria: He's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top—See, here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.
[Sir Andrew Ague-cheek, without.