I Must Be Cruel, Only To Be

Why, There's A Wench! Come On, And Kiss Me, Kate.

God Defend Me From That Welsh Fairy, Lest He Transform Me To A Piece Of Cheese!

Or Are You Like The Painting Of A Sorrow, A Face Without A Heart?

And Writers Say, As The Most Forward Bud Is Eaten By The Canker Ere It Blow, Even So By Love The Young And Tender Wit Is Turn'd To Folly, Blasting In The Bud, Losing His Verdure Even In The Prime, And All The Fair Effects Of Future Hopes.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.