'O, the twelfth day of December,'--

MARIA.
For the love o' God, peace!

[Enter MALVOLIO.]

MALVOLIO.
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit,
manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of
night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak
out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of
voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

SIR TOBY.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MALVOLIO.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you
that, though she harbours you as her kins-man, she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would
please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
farewell.

SIR TOBY.
'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'

MARIA.
Nay, good Sir Toby.