"As one shall prize himself," quoth she, "so let him look to be valued by others."
And another: "You think yourself to be Minerva."
Whereupon she: "No, sir, not when I be at your elbow;" meaning he was no Ulysses.
And when one gentleman asked her of a book, if she had read it:
"The epistle," she said, "and no more."
"And wherefore no more," quoth he, "since that hath wit in it?"
"Because," she answered, "an author who sets all his wit in his epistle is like to make his book resemble a bankrupt's doublet."
"How so?" asked the gentleman.
"In this wise," saith she, "that he sets the velvet before, though the back be but of buckram."
"For my part," quoth a foppish young man, "I have thoughts in my mind should fill many volumes."