Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.

Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.

Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.

Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.

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.

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own