TALBOYS.
Every one's impulse is to throw off pain; and if no pity, no awe, no love be there to stay him, he pulls down of course.
NORTH.
My dear Talboys, believe me, that, for a moment, every man has motives fit for a fiend. Perhaps he obeys—perhaps rejects them. The true fiend is constant.
TALBOYS.
Every man has motives fit for a fiend! I beg you to speak for yourself, my dear sir.
NORTH.
I speak of myself, of you, and of Iago. What is the popular apprehension or theory of the malice disclosed in "mine Ancient"—not the Old One, but the Standard-bearer?
TALBOYS.
Why, the prompt, apt, and natural answer will be, he is a Devil.