The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.
Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
Women's weapons, water-drops.
But Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me?" Catherine: "I cannot tell." Henry: "Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them.