SIR TOBY.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they
come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.
MARIA.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
SIR ANDREW.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
MARIA.
Ass, I doubt not.
SIR ANDREW.
O, 't will be admirable!
MARIA.
Sport royal, I warrant you; I know my physic will work with him.
I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he
shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For
this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
Good night, Penthesilea.
SIR ANDREW.
Before me, she's a good wench.
SIR TOBY.
She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?
