If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
Memory, the warder of the brain.
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
Words spoken can not be recalled so think twice before you speak.