Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.

Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!

O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect The thoughts of others!

Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry. Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies. Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. Katherine: In his tongue. Petruchio: Whose tongue? Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell. Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.

And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.