Your Benedict is fond of a coquette.
For tho’ he vows he’ll think no more about you,
He means to marry—he can’t live without you.
Kind faithful Imogenes are here, to charm us,
Mad Edgars, ancient Pistols to alarm us;
And Hotspurs, too, who seek the glorious boon,
“To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon.”
Besides, we have our Touchstones, Shylocks dire,
Iagos false, and many a shallow Squire:
Nay, there are ladies, who in their own houses,