my-- some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me,--

SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?

FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.

MALVOLIO.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an
austere regard of 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.'--

SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!

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