Who after this will say that Shakespeare's genius was only fitted
for comedy? Yet after reading other parts of this play, and
particularly the garden-scene where Malvolio picks up the letter, if
we were to say that his genius for comedy was less than his genius
for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in such
matters is more saturnine than mercurial.
Enter Maria
Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain:--How now, my
Nettle of India?
Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's
coming down this walk: he has been yonder i' the sun,
practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour;
observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter
will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name
of jesting! Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that
must be caught with tickling.
[They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and exit.]
Enter Malvolio
Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told
me, she did affect me; and I have heard herself come thus
near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion.
Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect
than any one else that follows her. What should I think on't?
Sir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue!
Fabian.
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