To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that?

SIR AND. And you love me, let's do't. I am dog at a catch.

CLO. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

SIR AND. Most certain. Let our catch be ›Thou knave.‹

CLO. »Hold thy peace, thou knave,« knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.

SIR AND. 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool. It begins, ›Hold thy peace.‹

CLO. I shall never begin if I hold my peace.

SIR AND. Good, i' faith. Come, begin.

 

Catch sung.

 

Enter Maria.

 

MAR. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not call'd up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

SIR TO. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [sings] »Three merry men be we.« Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! Lady! [Sings.] »There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady.«

CLO. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.

SIR AND. Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos'd, and so do I too. He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

SIR TO [Sings.] »O' the twelf day of December« –

MAR. For the love o' God, peace!

 

Enter Malvolio.

 

MAL. 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 TO. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!

MAL. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that though she harbors you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, 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 TO [Sings.]

»Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.«

MAR. Nay, good Sir Toby.

CLO [Sings.]

»His eyes do show his days are almost done.«

MAL. Is't even so?

SIR TO [Sings.]

»But I will never die.«

CLO. Sir Toby, there you lie.

MAL. This is much credit to you.

SIR TO [Sings.]

»Shall I bid him go?«

CLO [Sings.]

»What and if you do?«

SIR TO [Sings.]

»Shall I bid him go, and spare not?«

CLO [Sings.]

»O no, no, no, no, you dare not.«

SIR TO [To Clown.] Out o' tune, sir! ye lie.