You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.

We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate; and bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate conformable as other household Kates.

Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age?

Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek: I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether (He's an oddity in that he enjoys having fun)

He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.