Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow:
Let me be clear of thee.
Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor
I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come
speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario;
nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.
I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: Thou
know'st not me.
Vent my folly! he has heard that word of some
great man and now applies it to a fool. Vent my
folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world,
will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy
strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my
lady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming?
I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me: There's
money for thee: if you tarry longer, I shall give
worse payment.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men
that give fools money get themselves a good
report--after fourteen years' purchase.
Now, sir, have I met you again? there's for you.
Why, there's for thee, and there, and there. Are all
the people mad?
Hold, sir, or I'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
This will I tell my lady straight: I would not be
in some of your coats for two pence.
Come on, sir; hold.
Nay, let him alone: I'll go another way to work
with him; I'll have an action of battery against
him, if there be any law in Illyria: though I
struck him first, yet it's no matter for that.
Let go thy hand.
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young
soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.
I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If
thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.
What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two
of this malapert blood from you.
Hold, Toby; on thy life I charge thee, hold!
Madam!
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario.
Rudesby, be gone!
I prithee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and thou unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house,
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go:
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
Nay, come, I prithee; would thou'ldst be ruled by me!
Madam, I will.
O, say so, and so be!