At the last trump, among a flock of bleaters.
If I’ve my way, there’ll be stampeding hoofs
About me, startled at the crack of doom.

MICHAEL:
When you’ve done play-acting ...

BELL:
Play-acting? Ay: I’m through:
Exit the villain: ring the curtain down
On the happy ending--bride and bridegroom seated
On either side the poor, but pious, hearth.

MICHAEL:
I’d as soon argue with a weathercock
As with a woman ...

BELL:
Yet the weathervanes
Are always cocks, not hens.

MICHAEL:
You shall not go.

BELL:
Your naked hurdles cannot hold the wind.

MICHAEL:
Wind? Ay, I’m fairly tewed and hattered with words:
And yet, for all your wind, you shall not go.