No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and
will not be roughly us'd.

SIR TOBY.
Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck?

MALVOLIO.
Sir!

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?