MALVOLIO.
‘One Sir Andrew.’
SIR ANDREW.
I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool.
MALVOLIO.
[Taking up the letter.] What employment have we here?
FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
SIR TOBY.
O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him!
MALVOLIO.
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 ANDREW.
Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that?
MALVOLIO.
[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?
FABIAN.
This wins him, liver and all.
MALVOLIO.
[Reads.]
Jove knows I love,
But who?
Lips, do not move,
No man must know.