SIR TOBY.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?

SIR ANDREW.
Or o' mine either?

SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?

SIR ANDREW.
I' faith, or I either?

SIR TOBY.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it
leaves him he must run mad.

MARIA.
Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?

SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.

MARIA.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first
approach before my lady. He will come to her in yellow stockings,
and 't is a colour she abhors; and cross-garter'd, a fashion she
detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so
unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as
she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If
you will see it, follow me.