SIR TOBY.
What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
SIR ANDREW.
I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough.
MARIA.
The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him. And on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
SIR TOBY.
What wilt thou do?
MARIA.
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands.
SIR TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device.
SIR ANDREW.
I have’t in my nose too.
SIR TOBY.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him.
MARIA.
My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour.
SIR ANDREW.
And your horse now would make him an ass.