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.
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 me alone. How do you, Malvolio?
how is't with you? what! man, defie 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 God, he be not bewitch'd.
Fab.
Carry his water to th' wise woman.
-- 175 --
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.
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 plaid upon a stage now, I could
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 neice is already in the belief that he's mad;
we may carry it thus for our pleasure and his penance,
'till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us
-- 176 --
to have mercy on him; at which time we will bring
the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of
madmen; but see, but see.
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
