FABIAN.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!
SIR ANDREW.
’Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio.
SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!
SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.
SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace.
MALVOLIO.
There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.
SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
FABIAN.
O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him.