Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlors, wild-cats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk: You rise to play and go to bed to work.

What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?

O gentle lady, do not put me to’t; For I am nothing, if not critical.

I am not merry; but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise. Come, how wouldst thou praise me?