SIR TOBY.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
MARIA.
What's that to th' purpose?
SIR TOBY.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
MARIA.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very
fool and a prodigal.
SIR TOBY.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, and
speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and
hath all the good gifts of nature.
MARIA.
He hath indeed, almost natural; for, besides that he's a fool,
he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a
coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought
among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
SIR TOBY.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of
him. Who are they?
MARIA.
They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
SIR TOBY.
With drinking healths to my niece. I'll drink to her as long as
there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria: he's a
coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.
[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK.]
SIR ANDREW.
Sir Toby Belch; how now, Sir Toby Belch!
