Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.
Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in, bear t that th' opposed may beware of thee.
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
What? do I love her, that I desire to hear her speak again, and feast upon her eyes
Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench; I love her ten times more than e'er I did: O, how I long to have some chat with her!