Maria.
Sir To.
Which way is he, in the name of sanctity?
if all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and
legion himself possest him, yet I'll speak to him.
-- 360 --
Fab.
Here he is, here he is; how is't with you,
Sir? how is't with you, man?
Mal.
Go off, I discard you; let me enjoy my privacy:
go off.
Mar.
Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within
him; did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays
you to have a care of him.
Mal.
Ah, ha, does she so?
Sir To.
Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal
gently with him; let him alone. How do you, Malvolio?
how is't with you? what, man, defy the
devil; consider he's an enemy to mankind.
Mal.
Do you know what you say?
Mar.
La, you! if you speak ill of the devil, how
he takes it at heart. Pray heav'n, he be not bewitch'd.
Fab.
Carry his water to th' wise woman.§ note
Mar.
Marry, and it shall be done, to-morrow
morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him, for
more than I'll say.
Mal.
How now, mistress?
Mar.
O lord!
Sir To.
Pr'ythee hold thy peace, that is not the
way; do you not see you move him? let me alone
with him.
Fab.
No way but gentleness, gently, gently; the
fiend is rough, and will not be roughly us'd.
Sir To.
Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost
thou, chuck?
Mal.
Sir?
Sir To.
Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man!
'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with satan.
Hang him, foul collier.
Mar.
Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby;
get him to pray.
Mal.
My prayers, minx!
Mar.
No, I warrant you, he will not hear of
godliness.
-- 361 --
Mal.
Go hang yourselves all: you are idle shallow
things, I am not of your element; you shall know
more, hereafter.
[Exit.
Sir To.
Is't possible?
Fab.
If this were play'd upon a stage now, I should
condemn it as an improbable fiction.
Sir To.
His very genius hath taken the infection
of the device, man.
Mar.
Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take
air, and taint.
Fab.
Why, we shall make him mad, indeed.
Mar.
The house will be the quieter.
Sir To.
Come, we'll have him in a dark room,
and bound. My niece is already in the belief that
he's mad; but see, see.
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].
