Fabian.  O, peace!  Contemplation makes a rare turkey-
     cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes!

   Sir Andrew.  ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue:—­

   Sir Toby.  Peace, I say.

   Malvolio.  To be Count Malvolio;—­

   Sir Toby.  Ah, rogue!

   Sir Andrew.  Pistol him, pistol him.

   Sir Toby.  Peace, peace!

   Malvolio.  There is example for’t; the lady of the Strachy
     married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

   Sir Andrew.  Fire on him, Jezebel!

   Fabian.  O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look, how
     imagination blows him.

   Malvolio.  Having been three months married to her,
     sitting in my chair of state,—­

   Sir Toby.  O for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye!

   Malvolio.  Calling my officers about me, in my branch’d
     velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have
     left Olivia sleeping.

   Sir Toby.  Fire and brimstone!

   Fabian.  O peace, peace!

   Malvolio.  And then to have the humour of state:  and
     after a demure travel of regard,—­telling them, I know my
     place, as I would they should do theirs,—­to ask for my
     kinsman Toby.—­

   Sir Toby.  Bolts and shackles!

   Fabian.  O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.

   Malvolio.  Seven of my people, with an obedient start,
     make out for him; I frown the while; and, perchance, wind
     up my watch, or play with some rich jewel.  Toby approaches;
     curtsies there to me.

   Sir Toby.  Shall this fellow live?

   Fabian.  Though our silence be drawn from us with
     cares, yet peace.

   Malvolio.  I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my
     familiar smile with an austere regard to control.

   Sir Toby.  And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips
     then?

   Malvolio.  Saying—­Cousin Toby, my fortunes having
     cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech;—­

   Sir Toby.  What, what?

   Malvolio.  You must amend your drunkenness.

   Fabian.  Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our
     plot.

   Malvolio.  Besides, you waste the treasure of your time
     with a foolish knight—­

   Sir Andrew.  That’s me, I warrant you.

   Malvolio.  One Sir Andrew—­

   Sir Andrew.  I knew,’twas I; for many do call me fool.

   Malvolio.  What employment have we here? [Taking up the letter.]

The letter and his comments on it are equally good.  If poor Malvolio’s treatment afterwards is a little hard, poetical justice is done in the uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of her mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her insensibility to the violence of the Duke’s passion is atoned for by the discovery of Viola’s concealed love of him.