My wits begin to turn.
Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *Sheโs a stubborn little brat.*
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!
Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.