THE MAN. Villain: wouldst tell me that my dark lady hath ever done
thus before? that she maketh occasions to meet other men?

THE BEEFEATER. Now the Lord bless your innocence, sir, do you think
you are the only pretty man in the world? A merry lady, sir: a warm
bit of stuff. Go to: I'll not see her pass a deceit on a gentleman
that hath given me the first piece of gold I ever handled.

THE MAN. Master Warder: is it not a strange thing that we, knowing
that all women are false, should be amazed to find our own particular
drab no better than the rest?

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."