You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

The weakest kind of fruit drops earliest to the ground.

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!

Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.