Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson.
Clo. Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, That, that is, is; so I, being master parson, am master parson: For what is that, but that? and is, but is?
Sir To. To him, Sir Topas.
Clo. [Opens the door of an inner Room] What, hoa, I say,—Peace in this prison!
Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
Mal. [In the inner Room.] Who calls there?
Clo. Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.
Mal. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of ladies?
Sir To. Well said, master parson.