THE BEEFEATER. Not all, sir. Decent bodies, many of them.
THE MAN. [intolerantly] No. All false. All. If thou deny it, thou liest.
THE BEEFEATER. You judge too much by the Court, sir. There, indeed, you may say of frailty that its name is woman.
THE MAN. [pulling out his tablets again] Prithee say that again: that about frailty: the strain of music.
THE BEEFEATER. What strain of music, sir? I'm no musician, God knows.
THE MAN. There is music in your soul: many of your degree have it very notably. [Writing] "Frailty: thy name is woman!" [Repeating it affectionately] "Thy name is woman."
THE BEEFEATER. Well, sir, it is but four words. Are you a snapper-up of such unconsidered trifles?
THE MAN. [eagerly] Snapper-up of—[he gasps] Oh! Immortal phrase! [He writes it down]. This man is a greater than I.
THE BEEFEATER. You have my lord Pembroke's trick, sir.
THE MAN. Like enough: he is my near friend. But what call you his trick?