Twelfth Night; Or, What You Will

by William Shakespeare

SIR ANDREW.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?

SIR TOBY.
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff.

SIR ANDREW. Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby. Your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the count himself here hard by wooes her.

SIR TOBY. She'll none o' th' count. She'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear't. Tut, there's life in't, man.

SIR ANDREW. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' th' strangest mind i' th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.

SIR TOBY.
Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?

SIR ANDREW. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.

SIR TOBY.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I can cut a caper.

SIR TOBY.
And I can cut the mutton to't.