MALVOLIO. O ho, do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me. This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants, let thy tongue tang with arguments of state, put thyself into the trick of singularity,’ and consequently, sets down the manner how: as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her, but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘Let this fellow be looked to;’ ‘Fellow!’ not ‘Malvolio’, nor after my degree, but ‘fellow’. Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance. What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. Enter Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria. SIR TOBY. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him. FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? How is’t with you, man? MALVOLIO. Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off. MARIA. 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. MALVOLIO. Ah, ha! does she so? SIR TOBY. 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! defy the devil! Consider, he’s an enemy to mankind. MALVOLIO. Do you know what you say? MARIA. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be not bewitched. FABIAN. Carry his water to th’ wise woman. MARIA. Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I’ll say. MALVOLIO. How now, mistress! MARIA. O Lord! SIR TOBY. Prithee hold thy peace, this is not the way. Do you not see you move him? Let me alone with him. FABIAN. No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. SIR TOBY. Why, how now, my bawcock? How dost thou, chuck? MALVOLIO. Sir! SIR TOBY. Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man, ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier! MARIA. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray. MALVOLIO. My prayers, minx? MARIA. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness. MALVOLIO. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Is’t possible? FABIAN. If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. SIR TOBY. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.