For So Work The Honey Bees, Creatures

Look What Thy Soul Holds Dear, Imagine It To Lie That Way Thou Goest, Not Whence Thou Com'st. Suppose The Singing Birds Musicians, The Grass Whereon Thou Tread'st The Presence Strewed, The Flowers Fair Ladies, And Thy Steps No More Than A Delight Measure Or A Dance; For Gnarling Sorrow Hath Less Power To Bite The Man That Mocks At It And Sets It Light.

Now Get You To My Lady's Chamber, And Tell Her, Let Her Paint An Inch Thick, To This Favour She Must Come; Make Her Laugh At That.

Petruchio: Come, Come, You Wasp; I' Faith, You Are Too Angry. Katherine: If I Be Waspish, Best Beware My Sting. Petruchio: My Remedy Is Then, To Pluck It Out. Katherine: Ay, If The Fool Could Find Where It Lies. Petruchio: Who Knows Not Where A Wasp Does Wear His Sting? In His Tail. Katherine: In His Tongue. Petruchio: Whose Tongue? Katherine: Yours, If You Talk Of Tails: And So Farewell. Petruchio: What, With My Tongue In Your Tail? Nay, Come Again, Good Kate; I Am A Gentleman.

Is She Kind As She Is Fair?

But Since The Affairs Of Men Rests Still Incertain, Let's Reason With The Worst That May Befall.