. The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass, that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. What wilt thou do? I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece: on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. Excellent! I smell a device. I have't in my nose too. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she's in love with him. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. And your horse now would make him an ass. Ass, I doubt not. O, 'twill be admirable! Sport royal, I warrant you: I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter: observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. Good night, Penthesilea. Before me, she's a good wench. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me: what o' that? I was adored once too. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. Send for money, knight: if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 'tis too late to go to bed now: come, knight; come, knight. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night: Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times: Come, but one verse. He is not here, so please your lordship that should sing it. Who was it? Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia's father took much delight in. He is