OLIVIA.
Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well;
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.
[Exit.]
Enter Sir Toby and Fabian.
SIR TOBY.
Gentleman, God save thee.
VIOLA.
And you, sir.
SIR TOBY.
That defence thou hast, betake thee to’t. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not, but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly.
VIOLA.
You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me. My remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man.
SIR TOBY.
You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard, for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal.
VIOLA.
I pray you, sir, what is he?
SIR TOBY.
He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier, and on carpet consideration, but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and his incensement at this moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob is his word; give’t or take’t.