MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by th' hand.
SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
MARIA.
Now, sir, 'thought is free.' I pray you, bring your hand to th'
buttery-bar and let it drink.
SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?
MARIA.
It's dry, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry.
But what's your jest?
MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?
MARIA.
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends; marry, now I let go
your hand, I am barren.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary; when did I see thee so
put down?
SIR ANDREW.
Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down.
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an
ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I
believe that does harm to my wit.
SIR TOBY.
No question.
