“We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage.When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel downAnd ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live,And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laughAt gilded butterflies, and hear poor roguesTalk of court news, and we’ll talk with them too—Who loses and who wins, who’s in, who’s out—And take upon ’s the mystery of thingsAs if we were God’s spies.”

“So we'll live,And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laughAt gilded butterflies, and hear poor roguesTalk of court news; and we'll talk with them too--Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out--And take upon 's the mystery of thingsAs if we were God's spies...”

“No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laughAt gilded butterflies, and hear poor roguesTalk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;And take upon's the mystery of things,As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,That ebb and flow by the moon.”

“But Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me?"Catherine: "I cannot tell."Henry: "Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them.”

“And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office.Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand.Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back.Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kindFor which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.Through tattered clothes great vices do appear;Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks.Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it.None does offend—none, I say, none. I’ll able 'em.Take that of me, my friend, who have the powerTo seal th' accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes,And like a scurvy politician seemTo see the things thou dost not.”

“Tell me, sweet lord, what is ’t that takes from theeThy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep?Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earthAnd start so often when thou sit’st alone?Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeksAnd given my treasures and my rights of theeTo thick-eyed musing and curst melancholy?”

“We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.”