VIOLA.
Methinks his words do from such passion fly
That he believes himself; so do not I.
Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!
SIR TOBY.
Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian; we 'll whisper o'er a
couplet or two of most sage saws.
VIOLA.
He nam'd Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such and so
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare: his
dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity and
denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
FABIAN.
A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
SIR ANDREW.
'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.
SIR TOBY.
Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.
SIR ANDREW.
And I do not, —
[Exit.]
FABIAN.
Come, let's see the event.
SIR TOBY.
I dare lay any money 't will be nothing yet.
[Exeunt.]
