Mar. Get him to say his prayers, Sir Toby.
Mal. My prayers, minx?
Mar. No, I warrant you, he'll 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. Begone. Ha! ha! ha!
[Exit Malvolio.
Omnes. Ha! ha! ha!
Sir To. Is't possible?
Fab. If this were played 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.