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,