FABIAN.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
SIR ANDREW.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
SIR TOBY.
Go, write it in a martial hand, be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention. Taunt him with the licence of ink. If thou ‘thou’st’ him some thrice, it shall not be amiss, and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down. Go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it.
SIR ANDREW.
Where shall I find you?
SIR TOBY.
We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
[Exit Sir Andrew.]
FABIAN.
This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY.
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.
FABIAN.
We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it.
SIR TOBY.
Never trust me then. And by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of th’ anatomy.