Passion makes the will lord of the reason.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

If thou art rich, thou art poor; for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.

Tam: What begg’st thou then? fond woman, let me go. Lav: ’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more That womanhood denies my tongue to tell. O! keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man’s eye may behold my body: Do this, and be a charitable murderer. Tam: So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee: No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. Dem: Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long. Lav: No grace! no womanhood! Ah, beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our general name. Confusion fall—

To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.