Thou then look’dst like a villain: now methinks,
Thy favour’s good enough. Some Jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,
And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls,
I must be ript; to pieces with me. Oh,
Men’s vows are women’s traitors. All good seeming
By thy revolt, oh husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy: not born where ‘t grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.