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?
-- 518 --
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, 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.
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 your selves all: you are idle shallow things,
I am not of your element, you shall know more hereafter.
[Exit.
-- 519 --
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 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.
George Sewell [1723–5], The works of Shakespear in six [seven] volumes. Collated and Corrected by the former Editions, By Mr. Pope ([Vol. 7] Printed by J. Darby, for A. Bettesworth [and] F. Fayram [etc.], London) [word count] [S11101].