MARIA.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
SIR ANDREW.
O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog!
SIR TOBY.
What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
SIR ANDREW.
I have no exquisite reason for 't, but I have reason good enough.
MARIA.
The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a
time-pleaser; an affection'd ass, that cons state without book,
and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
cramm'd, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds
of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in
him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
SIR TOBY.
What wilt thou do?
MARIA.
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by
the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his
gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I
can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we
can hardly make distinction of our hands.
SIR TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device.
SIR ANDREW.
I have 't in my nose too.
