and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it
more natural.
Sir To. [Sings] ['O], [the twelfth] day of December',—
Mar. For the love o' God, peace!
Enter Malvolio.
Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you?
Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like
tinkers at this time of night? Do [ye] make an alehouse of
my lady's house, that ye squeak out your [coziers'] catches
without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no