Good sir, be a man; Think every bearded fellow that’s but yoked May draw with you: there’s millions now alive That nightly lie in those unproper beds Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is better. O, ’tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock, To lip a wanton in a secure couch, And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know; And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.