Give me my sin again.

Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate; and bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate conformable as other household Kates.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.

Cursed be he that moves my bones.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.... [W]hat can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground?... [N]othing can we call our own, but death... [L]et us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings: - How some have been depos'd, some slain in war; Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd.