SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?
SIR ANDREW.
I’ faith, or I either?
SIR TOBY.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad.
MARIA.
Nay, but say true, does it work upon him?
SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
MARIA.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me.
SIR TOBY.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!
SIR ANDREW.
I’ll make one too.
[Exeunt.]