āA little more than kin, and less than kind.ā
āGet thee to a nunnery.ā
āWolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.ā
āWhat, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.ā
āI am not bound to please thee with my answer.ā
āAway, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!ā
āHow sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!ā
āIt is a wise father that knows his own child.ā
āIf it be you that stirs these daughters' heartsAgainst their father, fool me not so muchTo bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,And let not women's weapons, water drops,Stain my man's cheeks.ā