all is done. Now, a song. Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song. There's a testril of me too: if one knight give a-- Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? A love-song, a love-song. Ay, ay: I care not for good life. O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. Excellent good, i' faith. Good, good. What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. A contagious breath. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith. 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? An you love me, let's do't: I am dog at a catch. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave.' 'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be constrained in't to call thee knave, knight. 'Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins 'Hold thy peace.' I shall never begin if I hold my peace. Good, i' faith. Come, begin. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tillyvally. Lady! 'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!' Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too: he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. 'O, the twelfth day of December,'-- For the love o' God, peace! My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have ye 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