| He held me last night at least nine hours | |
| In reckoning up the several devils' names | |
| That were his lackeys: I cried 'hum,' and 'well, go to,' | |
| But mark'd him not a word. O, he is as tedious | |
| As a tired horse, a railing wife; | |
| Worse than a smoky house: I had rather live | |
| With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far, | |
| Than feed on cates and have him talk to me | |
| In any summer-house in Christendom. | |
| MORTIMER In faith, he is a worthy gentleman, | |
| Exceedingly well read, and profited | |
| In strange concealments, valiant as a lion | |
| And as wondrous affable and as bountiful | |
| As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? | |
| He holds your temper in a high respect | |
| And curbs himself even of his natural scope | |
| When you come 'cross his humour; faith, he does: | |
| I warrant you, that man is not alive | |
| Might so have tempted him as you have done, | |