And sweare your face is Angel-like, and lye
Most grosly. No, I will not do’t.
But when I come, it shall be in a storme,
To terrifie you all, that you shall quake
To heare my name resounding in your eares:
And Fortune, if thou be’st a deitie,
Giue me but opportunitie, that I
May all the follies of your Sex declare,
That henceforth Men of Women may beware.
Enter a Herald, with a Proclamation, a Trumpet before him, a great rabble of men following him.