SIR TOBY. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 't is 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 play'd 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.
MARIA.
Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.