Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.

LUCIO.
O, to him, to him, wench: he will relent;
He's coming; I perceive 't.

PROVOST.
Pray heaven she win him!

ISABELLA.
We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:
Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them;
But, in the less, foul profanation.

LUCIO.
Thou'rt i' the right, girl; more o' that.

ISABELLA.
That in the captain's but a choleric word
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

LUCIO.
Art advised o' that? more on't.

ANGELO.
Why do you put these sayings upon me?

ISABELLA.