The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.

She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own Discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action.

Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.

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.