He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.
Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday
Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !