Enter Malvolio, with a Letter, and Fabian.
Duke. Is this the madman?
Oli. Ay, my lord, this same:
How now, Malvolio?
Mal. Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.
Oli. Have I, Malvolio? no.
Mal. Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter:
[Gives Olivia the Letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand;—
(Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase;)—
Or, say, 'tis not your seal, nor your invention.
Oli. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing;
Though, I confess, much like the character:
But, out of question, 'tis Maria's hand:—
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me, thou wast mad:—
Pr'ythee, be content:
This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee:
But, when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.
Fab. Good madam, hear me speak:
I do confess, Sir Toby, and myself,
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceived against him: Maria writ
The letter, at Sir Toby's great importance;
In recompense whereof, he hath married her:
How with a sportful malice it was follow'd,
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge;
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd,
That have on both sides pass'd.