Could I with boot change for an idle plume,
Which the air beats [for vain. O place], O form,
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls
15 To thy false seeming! Blood, [thou art blood]:
Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn;
[’Tis not] the devil’s crest.
Enter a Servant.
How now! who’s there?
Serv. One Isabel, a sister, [desires] access to you.