Singing. Sing willow, willow, willow;

Prithee, hie thee; he’ll come anon:⁠—

Singing. Sing all a green willow must be my garland. Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve⁠—

Nay, that’s not next.⁠—Hark! who is’t that knocks?

Singing. I call’d my love false love; but what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow: If I court moe women, you’ll couch with moe men! So, get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch; Doth that bode weeping?

I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think⁠—tell me, Emilia⁠— That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind?