A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.