SIR ANDREW.
But it becomes me well enough, does’t not?
SIR TOBY.
Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off.
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I’ll home tomorrow, Sir Toby; your niece will not be seen, or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me; the Count himself here hard by woos her.
SIR TOBY.
She’ll none o’ the Count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t, man.
SIR ANDREW.
I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
SIR TOBY.
Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight?
SIR ANDREW.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
SIR TOBY.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I can cut a caper.
SIR TOBY.
And I can cut the mutton to’t.